Kate Jacobs (8 page)

* * *

Georgia felt exhausted even though it wasn't
yet ten A.M. She left the apartment with some vague mention of discussing the
bike when she was finished with work, then walked slowly down the stairs. She
unlocked the door to the shop, still able to hear, ever so faintly, the sound
of cartoons from her apartment above. She waited a moment, then tilted her head
slightly as the din grew quieter. Yes, she could just make out the change in
tempo. It was MTV, definitely. Dakota was watching music videos. But why did
she feel she had to sneak? It wasn't as if Georgia censored her music—though
she'd made it a habit to secretly read lyrics—or even that Dakota had been that
interested in all those midriff-baring teen queens singing about love (and
sex!) before a few months ago. Was Georgia that secretive when she was in
middle school? She couldn't remember, and it wasn't as if she could just call
up her mom in Pennsylvania and ask. Theirs wasn't that kind of relationship,
hadn't been since she'd announced she was single and pregnant and then, when
her parents finally felt ready to welcome her home, told them she was staying
put to support herself by knitting. Even though she and Dakota took the train
home to Harrisburg every Christmas, her mother and father had never really
quite gotten over the hurt.
"My goodness, the baby appears to look very much like her father,"
her mother had said curtly that first holiday. "She's beautiful enough,
but I imagine we'll get stares at church." Dakota was four months old then
and Georgia, working in Marty's deli and taking knitting commissions on the
side, had to dig deep to afford the train fare to Pennsylvania. But blood can
trump all, it would seem. Georgia caught her mother singing late-night
lullabies to the gurgling baby girl. And she was buoyed when her parents
surprised her with a handmade crib that her father had built out in the barn,
painting the wood white and dotting it with soft, pink flowers. He'd always had
a bit of an ability that way. But as her parents went out of their way to make
an effort, Georgia suspected they were overcompensating for their apprehension
over meeting their new biracial grandchild. (All these years later, she could
honestly say she'd been wrong on that front.) Not to mention that she was
frustrated by her mother's criticisms that first Christmas, from how she bathed
Dakota to choosing disposable diapers over cloth to the endless repetition that
she had made a poor choice by sleeping with James.
"First comes marriage," said Bess. "Then the baby carriage,
Georgia."
So when her parents made the great reveal at the end of her short stay—the
attic done over into a nursery/playroom—they were shocked and hurt that Georgia
met them with resistance. She couldn't give up on herself. Not yet. But they
saw only rejection when Georgia had felt mostly the potential for independence.
For setting an example for her daughter.
And to show James that she didn't need him anyway. There was that, too.

* * *

Saturday mornings at the store were always
slow; most of New York was sitting on their respective sofas downing
fresh-squeezed juice and bagels and lox while they tried to make a dent in the
early edition of the Sunday
New York Times
.
Peri
was probably doing the same—she wouldn't be in until noon. Anita supposedly
took the weekends off, but she was frequently in and out, what with coming by
to spend time with Dakota or making up reasons to stop by the deli to see
Marty. But even though the shop was closed on Mondays and
Peri
sometimes took Tuesdays off, Georgia never really felt she worked too much.
Sure, the hours were long and often busy (though there were days when the store
was far too quiet and she fretted about the lease, held by the
institutional-sounding
Masam
Management Co.). But
most of the time Georgia felt a tremendous excitement each and every morning
she opened the door. And she felt most excited when she was going to meet a new
client for the first time. Dakota and the bike situation were pushed into some
back corner of her mind.
So she felt fairly giddy when Mrs. Phillips walked through the door, just as
thin and glamorous as
Peri
had said. Hey, if someone
could impress
Peri
, she had to be well put together.
And this woman was like a perfect piece of art. The hair was blond and sleek
and fell in a crisp blunt cut; she was dressed casually in a pair of wool
slacks and a creamy wide-necked blouse that probably cost more than the sum of
Georgia's entire wardrobe. Her ears were adorned with simple diamond studs that
Georgia suspected were very much the real thing, and her leather boots looked
as though they never really braved the elements. If she looked outside the
window, Georgia was pretty sure she'd see a car waiting.
"Oh, Georgia, it's you!" The woman stretched out both of her hands,
ready to grab hold and air-kiss a cheek.
"Mrs. Phillips, so nice to meet you. I'm very much looking forward to
designing this gown for you." Georgia came out from behind the counter,
went to shake the woman's hand. As she came closer, she could see the smooth
skin; the timbre of the woman's voice said thirty-five, but her face and figure
said twenty-five and holding. She was in her own shop, yet somehow Georgia
immediately felt as though she was the new kid on the first day of school.
"Sweetie, what's with all the formality? It's so great to see you! Oh,
this is too much, isn't it?" Georgia was smiling and nodding, but inside
she felt tingly and confused. Did she know this woman? College? Churchill
Publishing? That summer she'd had a share with some friends in Southampton? She
heard a strange sound coming out of her, something like "Yeah hah
hah
," which conveyed, she hoped, some sort of
recognition. Not that it mattered much. The blonde kept talking and talking.
"I just wondered if it was you when I saw that article in
New York
—and
you have a daughter now! Is your little precious here now?"
"No, no, she's at home."
"Oh, so you have a nanny then? That's smart, got to keep up with your
work. You are the little
mompreneur
, now, aren't you?
Georgia the
mompreneur
. And I hear you do fabulous
designs.
Fab-u-lous
." She smiled but no warmth
reached her eyes. Her pearl teeth glinted white and shiny.
"I want my husband's eyes to pop when he sees his friends eyeing me up and
down in this dress. Know what I mean, sweetie?" She snapped open her tiny
purse and handed Georgia a piece of paper neatly cut out from a magazine,
folded once. It was a photo of some young model in a pair of cutoffs.
"See how the girl looks in that snap? Her attitude is all 'try and stop
me' and that's what I want to say with this dress. Know what I mean?"
"But this is a woman in a pair of jeans." Georgia had the feeling she
was treading water in a fast river. "I thought you wanted me to design a
knitted outfit for a Very Important Fund-raising Dinner."
"Exactly. Now you're getting it. I want to look like that model. Only in a
gown. A tight gown." The blonde leaned over to whisper in Georgia's ear.
"And we won't hesitate to play up my décolletage, will we? Show it off a
bit."
She walked around the store, arms outstretched. "Oh, it's so precious,
Georgia. I love how you stay small to keep that homey feel."
Who was this woman? Georgia felt inadequate and stupid, as though she had a
mysterious hangover but couldn't remember drinking.
"Think you can have a design by next week? I do like things to get done
quickly. Then I'll fix up what you've worked on and we can get started, can't
we?" The woman walked over to Georgia and put a hand on her shoulder.
"It's so special, reconnecting like this. I can't wait to see what you
come up with." And the moment, if one could call it that, was broken by
the shrill ring of Mrs. Phillips's cell phone. "Oh, dear, it's my chef,
checking on tonight's dinner menu. I'm having a small gathering. You know how
it is. Hello? Yes, yes…" The blond woman walked away from Georgia, into
the center of the room, talking loudly.
And then James nudged open the door, pushing a shiny, green mountain bike. For
the first time in oh, about twelve and a half years, Georgia was very happy to
see the man who stole her heart and then smashed it all to hell, if only
because it gave her an excuse to wrap things up with her new client. Her new
obnoxious client. She was less pleased, however, to see the bicycle. It was
clearly an expensive model. Too expensive.
"What do you think? Pretty spiffy, right?" James was positively
strutting with his purchase. "Dakota told me about how she wanted a bike
and how it was maybe a little pricey and I thought, hey, here's something I can
do."
"It wasn't too expensive for me. I just thought it wasn't worth it for the
amount of use she'd get out of it." Georgia was speaking softly and
calmly, but her voice was firm. "How much do I owe you? I can write a
check in just a moment…"
In her mind she was calculating the cost of the bike and the fee she could
charge Mrs. Phillips for the dress. She waved in the blond woman's direction,
didn't want her to think she'd forgotten about her. The woman, still on the
phone, gave a curt nod and turned her back to address the clearly more
important details of fish forks and butter balls. Georgia returned to James.
"I don't need money," he said.
"I can pay, I will pay, and no, you can't just go around buying things for
Dakota without asking me, mister," she hissed. "Do you know she
thinks that you are going to take her for rides?"
"I am—and so are you." Why couldn't James talk in a whisper, as she
was doing? The regular stream of Saturday customers was starting to come in and
she didn't want to be the entertainment.
"I don't have a bike, James!" Why couldn't he understand that when
she had disposable income, she stuck that extra money into Dakota's college
fund along with what she put in there every month. Georgia wasn't poor, but she
watched her funds carefully and she had no damn money for bikes, that was for
sure.
"That's why I bought you one, too. It's on the landing—Marty brought it up
with me." And with an elaborate bow to her, he opened the door of the
store to reveal a women's mountain bike. For a half-second, Georgia had that
feeling of joy everyone feels when they get a new bike. The expectation of
rolling down a hill as the wind ruffled her hair, of being able to do and see
anything, anywhere. Then she remembered to be mad.
"I can't take a bike from you! What are you thinking?" Damn Mrs.
Phillips and that expensive dress order, Georgia had had just about enough of
people making her feel small. And it was time that James understood just how
this getting-to-know-Dakota situation was going to work. Because she was going
to call the shots.
"And who is this now?" Georgia was ready to let it rip when the blond
Mrs. Phillips glided smoothly across the room, her voice deep and honeyed.
"This is my…someone I know." Georgia was curt. She was so done with
people.
"James Foster. How do you do?" James reached over to shake the
woman's hand; the blond woman's eyes flashed.
"Not the same James Foster who designed the V hotel in
Orsay
?
Oh, that place is so darling."
"One and the same. I'm back in the U.S. creating a series of boutique
hotels for Charles
Vickerson
." James was
obviously enjoying the recognition and was going into great detail about his
latest project in Brooklyn. Georgia felt conflicted and mentally dizzy. Aha!
See, Mrs. Phillips, she thought, I do know a person or two. Then again, it's
not like James was really any friend of hers. Just a guy who had shared her bed
and left her with a baby. She watched the two of them gush and coo over
buildings she hadn't seen and people she didn't know, watched the two of them
lean over the two gleaming and beautifully seductive bikes, felt herself
smiling awkwardly and making little noises of agreement. Oh, yes, it was
fantastic. Fan-
tas
-tic.
"It's a scream, isn't it, Georgia?" The woman lightly touched James
on the hand. "I mean, meeting up after all these years and getting Georgia
to design a little something for me. It's just really special." The woman
tucked her arm into Georgia's but smiled only at James. "I don't think
I've properly introduced myself to you, Mr. James Foster. I'm Cat Phillips. And
it…is…such…a…pleasure…to…meet…you." She spoke with exquisite slowness,
then brushed back a hair that wasn't out of place. She didn't break her gaze
from James while she continued to speak.
"And can you believe that Georgia and I went to high school
together?" She gave Georgia's arm a squeeze as Georgia took a frank look
at this blond woman she'd never laid eyes on in her life. And then she saw it.
The eyes. The hair, the nose, the lips—those were all unfamiliar and probably
cost a pretty penny. But the eyes. Georgia knew those dark brown eyes. And yes,
she knew this woman. Oh, God, did she know her.
"We were the best of friends, weren't we, sweetie? Until Georgia dumped
me, that is."

casting on

The only way to get going is to just grasp that
yarn between your fingers and twist. Just start. It's the same with life. Of
course, every beginning won't be the same: There are dozens of ways to cast on
and they vary based on skill or design or even just relying on the tried and
true. My point? Sometimes what works for one piece isn't the right way next
time. You have to experiment to see what works. But there's a similarity no
matter the method: you either try or you don't. So form a slipknot; make a
series of twisted loops on one needle and then use its partner to reach through
and make a stitch. Casting on is as much leap of faith as technique.

four

Georgia felt a hard knot in her stomach. She
looked
straight through Mrs. Phillips's carefully applied mascara—were those fake
eyelashes?—and saw into the eyes of Cathy Anderson, saw reflected long-ago
evenings of sleepovers and munching on untoasted Pop-Tarts and dancing all
night to the music from
Flashdance
.
Thriller
. The Thompson Twins. Madonna in her
Like a Virgin
era.
Could this be the same girl who'd bleached her light brown hair with Sun-In
until it turned orange, who once tried to cut Georgia's hair short in an
attempt at high style (say hello to Orphan Annie!), and who had spent long
evenings chatting about boys and periods and the meaning of life while locked
in the bathroom with Georgia, desperate as they were to get away from Georgia's
little brother, Donny?
She hadn't seen the woman in nearly twenty years. And there she was: a
sophisticated, sleeker, slimmer version of Cathy Anderson. The girl who had
once been her right hand at the Harrisburg High
Gazette
. Her
comrade-in-arms. Her best friend forever. Now Mrs. la-
di-da
Phillips. With more than enough disposable cash to commission an expensive,
hand-knit dress.
Georgia felt her cheeks turn red, embarrassed by her inexpensive shift and her
inappropriate shoes; was her hair sticking up again? Still, she squared her
shoulders and prepared to do battle. Don't lose focus, she whispered to
herself, caught off-guard to see someone she had never expected to see again.
Someone who had hurt her, too. And yet some secret part of her wanted to wrap
her arms around Cathy and fly back to the past so they could sit around
dreaming about a future that involved buddy trips to Europe, endless closets of
shoes, and a great big corner office for a Big Fat Career. Raising a child by
herself while running a yarn shop? Knitting outfits for well-heeled customers?
Or even just knitting at all. Her seventeen-year-old self would have rolled her
eyes given a glimpse of this life, muttered a curt "I don't think so"
before turning back to her fashion magazine to pick out a red power suit with
Dynasty
-style
shoulder pads. No doubt Mrs. Phillips could buy all the shoes and shoulder pads
she had ever desired.
"Cathy?" Georgia was pleased to hear how neutral her voice seemed. Good
girl, she told herself. Cucumber cool. Keep at it. "This is such a
surprise."
"It's Cat, now, darling, I don't think anyone's called me Cathy in nearly
twenty years!" The woman unhooked her arm from Georgia's as she spoke,
looking over to James as though she and he were sharing a joke. Ha
ha
, our life is so much different since high school, her
look seemed to convey. Better. While Georgia's life…well! And there was James,
clearly taking it all in. He'd always had a thing for beautiful women. In fact,
he'd cheated on her with a blonde. Though Georgia knew well enough that Cathy
had a stylist to thank for her shimmering golden locks.
"I can't believe you two went to school together!" He was right in on
the action, of course. Georgia flashed him a secret telepathic message: Shut.
Up. Now. And. Go. Away. Oh. And. Take. The. Bike. With. You.
"Have you really not seen each other since then?" Clearly James was
on another frequency. Just as he had been for the past twelve years.
"Not a word. Right, Georgia?" Cathy's—make that Cat's—voice was
light, but Georgia was wary. She'd been surprised by this girl before.
"No, I haven't heard from you in a very long time, Cathy." She tilted
her head. "Cat."
There was a long pause as the two women regarded each other, half-smiles on
their lips, eyes cool. Then James, clearly uncomfortable, broke the deadlock.
"Well, you know, I have several buddies I haven't seen since those days.
We all do get busy. Speaking of…" He smiled at Georgia, made a motion to
the door.
"Don't tell me you're leaving already?" Cat's focus was right back on
James; Georgia bristled.
"I don't normally do this so last-minute, but I'm having a wee soiree
tonight and I'm expecting the architect who designed the latest Trump
building." Cat leaned in to James. "Have you ever met her?"
"No, but I've always wanted to," he said, impressed.
"Why don't you come then? To the dinner?" Cat turned to Georgia.
"It's not really your kind of thing, Georgia, but you're welcome to come
along. James, if you'll walk me to my car, I can give you all the
particulars."
"Can you give me a sec? I'd just like to finish up here." He gestured
toward the bike. As if on cue, Dakota—all dolled up in a plaid jumper and a
glittery black scarf she'd made herself—floated through the doorway.
"Daddy! You brought the bike! Awesome!"
"Is this your little girl? Oh, James, she's absolutely darling,"
cooed Cat, reaching out toward Dakota. "Do you like to knit, sweetie? Are
you having a big shopping day? Here to pick out something fun with your daddy?
Georgia over here can help you choose some yarn. She's a knitting expert."
Cat spoke very slowly, a bit too loudly, her voice lingering on the word
"expert."
"
Hiya
," Dakota looked past Cat to her mom,
raising her eyebrows in the universal sign for "What's going on around
here?" Georgia was too mad to speak.
Cat beamed at James. "What a cutie pie! Why don't you two do your shopping
while I just finish up with Georgia? Then we'll all walk out together?"
Dakota had had enough of listening to the loony lady. Whatever. She had serious
business at hand. "Mommy?" She walked over to Georgia for a big hug.
"Can I keep the bike? Pretty please?"
"Of course,
babycakes
," said Georgia with
warmth, enjoying the pleased look of surprise on James's face—she suspected
he'd just been planning to seem generous by offering the overpriced bike and
then make her the fall guy when Dakota couldn't keep it—and really savoring the
shock on dear old Cat's. Yes, honey, this handsome man (bastard!) is the father
of my gorgeous daughter. She wasn't about to air her private issues with James
in front of this bitch. Holding her little girl in her arms gave her all the
strength she needed. Even the strength to take a gift from the man who broke
her heart, and a job from her former
best-friend-turned-obnoxious-lady-who-lunches.
"I didn't realize the two of you were…that she was…" Cat started and
stopped, started and stopped, as she looked from James to Georgia to Dakota,
who was giving her dad the thumbs-up sign: We won her over! Suddenly, the
feeling in the room had shifted, and Cat, who was used to holding sway, felt
that awkward sensation of being just an extra in a scene that didn't need her.
She gathered her things and made to go.
"Georgia, let's talk later in the week to discuss the designs."
"Oh, Cat, I'll still take you to your car—and I don't have your
address." James seemed oblivious. Or just eager to make connections.
Georgia couldn't get a full read on his enthusiasm. Cat quickly proffered her
card, told him to arrive at eight o'clock. "And it will be the two of you,
of course," she said hollowly.
James hesitated.
"Of course," Georgia assured her. "We'll be there."