Kate Jacobs (32 page)

* * *

"She's got spirit, that's for sure.
Spunk." Lillian Foster looked out at her grassy backyard, surveying the
plantings, the sun starting to go down. She'd convinced them all to stay for
another meal, but they'd soon be catching the train—and she wasn't going to
miss her chance to talk to her son. Alone.
She'd asked James to help her outside, leaving the rest of the company in the
house.
"How old are you now, James?"
"You know how old I am, Mom."
"I
know
I know! But I want to hear you say it. Out loud."
"I'm going to be forty in September."
"So you are, son." Lillian reached out to stroke James's hand.
"I remember when you were a tiny baby, those little hands and feet. James,
I would have liked to have known Dakota as a baby."
"Yeah."
"No, it's not all 'Yeah' and 'Sorry.' Is that what a forty-year-old man
says to explain why he's kept his family apart for over a decade? James Aaron
Foster, there's a twelve-year-old girl in my living room who is my own flesh
and blood and I just met her this morning. This morning!"
Lillian gave James a hard look; her voice was rising. "Your father is so
upset he doesn't know what to do with himself. He hasn't slept a wink since you
called last night."
"Mom, I'm sorry, it's just that you always told me, 'Don't bring a white
woman to this house!'"
"So now it's my fault? Because it isn't, son." Lillian stepped off
the deck stairs, motioned to James that he should follow. "Let's go check
out my roses," she said. A few seconds later they came to the prized red
blooms growing up the back fence on a white trellis. She started pulling off
the flowers past their bloom.
"I'd like to deadhead you, if you really want to know," she spat out,
not glancing in James's direction. "You're damn right we told you not to
marry a white woman. We also told you to marry a Baptist, and as far as I can
tell, you've never even dated a true Christian."
A large sigh came from James. He wasn't in the mood for a lecture.
"Oh, you'll listen to me now. Being married is hard. Period. And it can be
even harder when you come from different worlds—race, religion, nationality. It
wouldn't have been so easy if you'd married a black woman over there in France.
Our advice wasn't just about color, James, though there's a lot of history
there. Especially in this country. But this isn't a school lesson. I'm trying
to teach you a life lesson and please let it not be too late."
"I know what you're going to say, Mom."
"Oh, you do, do you? Then good, you'll catch on the first time. Do you see
how I've got to tend these roses? Always something to do. Prune, feed, water,
get them started on this trellis so they grow up straight and true, reaching
for the sky." Lillian cut off one bloom that was just opening, not yet in
full flower, and handed it to James. "That's what parenting is—you throw
out a lot of rules and good advice and you hope something good blooms. Even
when your baby is almost forty years old. Your father and I have always been
proud of you. Worried, too, that you never married or seemed to settle down.
Now we know why."
"I love Georgia." James was glum. Feeling guilty.
"Well, now we're getting somewhere."
"I just didn't want to disappoint you."
"No, James, you cherry-picked what you wanted from everything we ever told
you and then left the rest. What you found was a convenient excuse to run when
you were scared."
James looked at the flower in his hand.
"I've been over all of this with Georgia and she's okay with it,
Mom."
"Well, I'm not so sure I am, mister," said Lillian, her clippers in
one hand, wagging her finger with the other. "Because the minute the two
of you conceived a child, it stopped being about what your father and I always
told you. That's when it became about your family—that beautiful child and that
long-suffering woman who somehow found it in her heart to forgive you. Black or
white, that is some remarkable woman you have in that Georgia Walker."
"She's pretty special," admitted James. "Georgia is smart and
funny and she just rolls with it, takes life in stride. She makes me want to be
a better man."
Lillian was shaking her head.
"I'm glad of that, but I want you to understand. It's not what I would
have chosen for you. But your father and I would never shut our door to you. Or
to that little girl. In this family, we don't turn our backs on each other, no
matter what."
James held the bud to his nose and inhaled the light scent. He could hear
laughter coming from inside the house and he smiled in the direction of the
living-room window.
"I know that now, Mom, more than I ever did," he said, taking her by
the arm and guiding her back inside. "And I'm not running anywhere ever
again."

twenty-four

After that last trip to see Nathan nearly two
months ago,
she was more than ready to just stay put, Anita told Georgia, inspecting the
latest shipment of cotton rag.
"My age is catching up with me," she said. "I am just drained
all the time. The kids are telling me I'm working too hard. But you and I know
I've hardly done anything the last few months but knit or take naps in the
office."
"You have seemed really tired—have you thought of seeing a doctor? Or
maybe it's just too much going out with Marty?"
Anita snorted. "Now you sound like my mother, God rest her soul. That
woman never wanted me to have a boyfriend. Just wait until you're married, she
would say—though I had no idea how that was going to happen since I wasn't
allowed to go out with anybody until I was over eighteen!"
"So, adjusting for inflation, that's a modern age of what?
Thirty-five?"
"Very funny," said the silver-haired woman, using her hand to brush
her layered bob behind her ears. "Though, when I'm with Marty, I do feel
almost eighteen again. I'm enjoying it much more this time around."
"Anita? Are you—you and he—you know…" Georgia let her voice trail off
with suggestion.
A flush came up on Anita's face.
"Goodness!" she said. "There are days I'm glad you're not really
my daughter, and this is one of them."
"Am I supposed to feel good about that?" Laughing, Georgia grabbed
her clipboard and marked down some inventory details.
"And it's not really any of your business, but no, not yet." Anita
dumped her group of cottons onto the table, relieved that the store was free of
customers and that
Peri
had gone off for a class at
FIT. Thank God no one was around to hear a discussion about her sex life! Then
again, it was pretty exciting to have something worth talking about in that
regard, wasn't it?
"But we have been talking about going away for a romantic weekend,"
she offered. "With two rooms, I'd like to point out."
"I wouldn't assume otherwise."
"It's not like your situation, Georgia—I've just met Marty, really."
Anita was exasperated. Young people today did a lot of hopping in the sack—too
soon, in her opinion.
"Anita, you've known him for years."
"But we've just started dating officially."
"So is this about propriety? Or restraint?" Georgia decided to press
her mentor. "Or fear?"
"I'm not the type of woman who just jumps into bed with the first man she
talks to!" The older woman's voice squeaked.
"I know you're not, Anita, and I'm not really suggesting you have sex with
Marty." Georgia began loading up the merchandise for display. "To be
honest, this whole conversation is
kinda
freaky."
"So now it's crazy, the idea of me and Marty?"
"Not crazy as in insane. Just kind of weird. Like thinking about my
parents." Georgia shuddered.
"Well, it's not weird. It's normal. And I have no one else to talk
to." Anita bristled at the idea that she was too old to have sex, and
launched promptly into a speech about how she was a single woman—a grown
woman—and what she did on her own time was no one's business.
"Right-o," said Georgia, focusing on the task at hand. Then she
sighed. "Though it sounds like you're giving
yourself
a pep
talk."
"Georgia, this is very difficult for me, and now that you've brought up
the topic, I'm going to be direct." Anita opened up her purse and took out
a small notebook and a pen. "Marty and I might, or we might not, take our
relationship to the next level. But I'm out of my element here. I think I need
the name of a good gynecologist. Or a psychiatrist to have my head
examined."
"You're out of luck on the psychiatrist front, but I do know the name of a
great
gyno
," said Georgia, going to her office
and returning with a tattered red address book. "I haven't gone in for a
long time, but I used to see Carrie Spelling over on Park Avenue."
Her hand shaking just a little, Anita wrote down the phone number.
"Hey, it's nothing to be nervous about," said Georgia. "I mean,
I'd rather go to the movies, but it's not totally awful."
"No, I know, dear," replied Anita, capping her pen. "It's just
that after Stan died, I figured I'd gone through the menopause, so why bother?
Now I wonder if it's too late for me to, well, you know."
"
Aaaah
," cried Georgia, putting her hands
over her ears. "Okay, okay, I have a great idea: I'll go to your
appointment with you and sit in the waiting room—a little moral support. In
return, we'll never talk about our sex lives ever again."
"It's a deal," said Anita, snapping the clasp on her purse. "I
think I'd prefer it that way too."

* * *

It's funny how a friendship can grow with very little
encouragement. Just kind of springs up, a little weed of an acquaintance, and
then it just doesn't go away. Becomes hard to imagine a day without the other
person around. And, slowly, you begin to like it.
That's how Lucie felt about Darwin. Sure, she had all her old friends, off
married in the '
burbs
and filled with all sorts of
boisterous encouragement about how she could pull off the single-mom thing. And
she had no doubt they'd all call after the birth and send a ton of gifts. But
would they show up beyond the initial "Let me see the baby!" visit?
No, they'd all be too busy with their own lives, no doubt. And who could blame
them, right?
But Darwin was different. She had her own life, too, had school and the thesis
that never ended, had a husband far away. Still, she never seemed to find
Lucie's
calls an intrusion. No request was too demanding.
Would you come with me to look at a daycare? Had she ever heard of baby sign
language? Did she think the more expensive baby gear was really that much better?
As she was getting bigger and more tired, Lucie found that she really wanted
that support, the kind of backup she guessed other women got from their baby's
father.
Maybe it hadn't been such a well-thought-out plan, anyway, the idea of becoming
a single mom at forty-two. But it would have been harder if she hadn't made a
new friend in Darwin, who, underneath all her sharp-tongued edges, was really
just about the most generous, thoughtful pal she'd ever had. First the ginger,
then a baby book, then an address for a single-moms group. Not
Lucie's
style, but still. Thoughtful.
And now she wanted to ask her the biggest favor of all.
They were meeting at their usual spot—the Starbucks near the shop—and Darwin
was early, as usual, downing her second cup before Lucie arrived.
"I'm glad you called this morning," said Darwin, a little wired on
caffeine.
"Yeah," agreed Lucie. "Me, too. I was wondering…"
Darwin took a gulp of coffee, waiting.
"Would you be my labor coach? I mean, maybe that's too much to ask, but I
don't really have anyone else and—"
"Ah, the old I-don't-have-anyone-else-so-Darwin-will-have-to-do
routine," said Darwin, no trace of emotion on her face.
Lucie made a gasp of horror. "Oh, no, I didn't mean it to come out that
way."
Darwin's face broke into a goofy grin. "No worries, Luce, I'm just working
on my deadpan," she said, picking up muffin crumbs with her fingers.
"I'd be happy to do it. But first I have to tell you something. And this
is really important. No joke."
She took a deep breath, reflexively pulled at her long dark hair. "I'm
really glad I've gotten to know you and I just want to be honest. I think I
wanted to be your friend because you're pregnant."
"What?"
"I am really…enthused…about your baby. It makes me feel good." She could
see the way
Lucie's
face had scrunched up, perplexed.
Darwin crumpled up her muffin wrapper and napkin, continued speaking.
"I had a miscarriage, about a year ago. And I couldn't do anything
afterward. Couldn't talk about it with Dan, couldn't complete my research for
school, nothing. Every time I saw a pregnant woman I'd end up crying in the
bathroom."
"Oh, Darwin, I didn't know." Lucie felt close to tears herself; it
was the hormones.
"No, hardly anybody did. And then my cousin told me to get a hobby,
suggested knitting. Me! Knitting!"
Lucie laughed as they both recalled Darwin's early days at Georgia's shop and
her recent attempts at making stitches. Both disasters, really.
"Well, you know how that worked out."
"I think it's worked out pretty well." Lucie wagged a finger.
"I just, I'm telling you about the miscarriage because I don't want to
overstep with you," Darwin said. "I don't know how or why, but being
around you and this baby is making me feel so much better about mine. I miss
her—I don't even know if it was a her!—but I miss her all the same."
"Of course you do."
"I really want to make sure your baby is okay and I'm really glad you
asked me to be your coach," said Darwin. "I'd like to do it."
Lucie reached out to give Darwin a gentle punch in the arm.
"Good enough, then," she said. "So how would you feel about
coming for a sonogram appointment in the next hour?"
Darwin looked startled, but then her face relaxed and she let out a long
breath.
"You know, Luce, I'd really like that," she said, before standing up
and coming around to pull
Lucie's
chair back.
"Coming through, folks, make way, pregnant lady on the way to the
doctor."
Yup, thought Lucie, feeling stupid and special all at the same time, she'd
picked a good one in Darwin. A really good one.