Kate Jacobs (7 page)

* * *

Of course, Georgia couldn't deny that she'd had
many a young actress come in to learn how to knit, desperate to while away the
waiting time during auditions. And she had several local celebs pop into the
store now and then. In fact, two of her regulars included the six o'clock
anchor on channel 4—who was a first-rate knitter to boot—and that sweet girl
from the soaps who won the Emmy for Outstanding Younger Actress last year. But
Julia Roberts? It may have been a long time since Georgia had seen a movie that
wasn't rated PG, but even Georgia would have recognized a megawatt movie star
like Julia Roberts. And no matter what the
Post
was reporting, there'd
been no A-
listers
in Walker and Daughter for some
time now. Well, ever, to be honest.
"So then she liked the cookies? She didn't find them too rich? Too…
peanutty
?" Dakota was nothing if not focused. She
pulled out a notebook from the backpack that she'd slung over the chair back
instead of putting it away after school on Friday, opened it up to-the middle,
and began to write in glitter ink. Georgia leaned over to see the title—PEANUT
BUTTER COOKIES WITH CRUMBLES, RECIPE #2—and a line drawn down the middle of the
page. On one side of the sheet was the word "comments"; Dakota
hesitated, then wrote: "Took cookies home—positive sign." On the
other side was the word "name." Darwin Chiu and Lucie. Dakota looked
up at her mom.
"Mom, what's
Lucie's
last name?"
"Brennan. She was more than a little exasperated with that film student
crashing club last night. Said she came to the store to get away from her
type." She tugged on one of Dakota's braids. "Turns out she's a
freelance TV producer. She's so quiet I'd never really talked about what she
did outside of knitting. It's like
Peri
with her
handbags—women do amazing, creative, wonderful things."
"Like us, Mommy." Dakota was nodding. Georgia winked.
"Yup. Now I've got to hurry and get dressed for work. Finish up and rinse
out your bowl in the sink,
muffingirl
."
"Hey, Mom, would you ever do it?"
"Do what?"
"A commercial, like that girl said!" Dakota had turned to a new page
in her notebook. "I could write a script for you, even go on-camera."
"I'll tell you a funny thing," answered Georgia. "The last thing
that Lucie said before packing up was that the meeting crasher may have given
the store a jolt in the right direction. A commercial probably doesn't make
sense, she said, but
Lucie's
asked me to think about
creating a series of how-to videos, said she'd help with making it happen if we
were interested. I mean, I don't know, those things could take a lot of time
and money." She shrugged. "But we've started on everyone doing one
sweater pattern. So we could track everyone's progress with that and make a
how-to sweater video."
"We could do a cell-phone sock," Dakota pointed out. "It's easy,
a little decreasing, a buttonhole. And then maybe I could get a cell for my
birthday."
"Aha, now the reason comes out." Georgia pretended to swat Dakota's
butt. "Your birthday isn't until the summer. So we'll see. Got to run,
hon. I've got an appointment downstairs."

* * *

Georgia went to her small bedroom and changed,
pulling out underwear from the chipped white dresser that she used as a
nightstand, her full-sized bed right up against the walls that she had recently
painted sky-blue. She'd been lucky to afford a two-bedroom all those years ago,
had put Dakota into the bigger bedroom from the beginning, figuring she'd need
room for baby things, then toys, then sleepovers. (At least one of them got to
have sleepovers, right?)
Now Dakota had a large desk in one corner for homework or art projects; in the
early years, it had been the home of a Barbie
McMansion
and her fleet of tiny pink convertibles. All provided by Anita who, as the
mother to three grown sons, was simply thrilled by everything girl. She'd
showered Dakota with
Barbies
of every hue, and
Dakota, in turn, had named her favorite doll in her honor. Watching Dakota play
with the white and blond Mommy doll and the dark-skinned African-American
Barbie named Anita had prompted a line of gentle questioning from Georgia.
"Why did you name that one after Anita?" she'd asked her daughter,
then four years old.
"Because it looks like her," Dakota had answered, not looking up from
the engrossing task of sliding plastic Barbie shoes on those tiny curved feet.
"How does the doll look like Anita?" Georgia prodded.
"It's pretty," said Dakota, then handed Georgia a Skipper. "You
can drive the convertible or the
Barbies
are all
going to be late for a news conference. They're opening a knitting shop."
Who could argue with that?
Though, of course, they'd had talks, especially as Dakota grew older. About how
she and her mom looked different from each other. Each beautiful in her own
way. About being prepared for people whose prejudices might lead them to say
stupid things. And about how Georgia loved Dakota more than anything in the
world. That was the constant. Though it helped, too, that at her Upper West
Side public school there were other kids whose parents didn't look the same.
Some were foreign adoptees, and others had parents from different backgrounds,
like Dakota.
Sometimes they talked about it a lot. And then long stretches would go by and
it didn't come up. Dakota would be preoccupied with a new recipe, or arranging
a massive sleepover party ("Can I just add two more people?"), or
getting her mom to lend her a favorite sweater from her prized collection of
handknits
.
None of which she planned to wear today. Georgia's closet was cramped, her main
storage space for more than just clothes, and it took some effort to begin to
sort through her dressier outfits. First, she stepped into gray crepe pants and
a silk blouse, then into a black skirt. Finally, she settled on a simple navy
shift with a camel-colored cashmere cardigan, one she'd knit over the winter
and had yet to wear. She liked to look as elegant as possible when meeting a
new client, with just a piece here or there that she had knitted herself.
Though she had grumbled to Anita about meeting this Mrs. Phillips, designing
and creating clothes was the part that Georgia secretly loved most of all. She
kept a small red-leather journal in her office, in which she jotted down
pattern ideas for all sorts of pieces she planned to make someday. Sure, she
loved the shop and she was thrilled to be her own boss and she enjoyed teaching
classes, but there was something so significant about being able to make a gorgeous
item of clothing from almost raw materials. It gave her a feeling of her own
power, to make something practical and beautiful just by using her own skill
and creativity. It inspired her.
Many nights, before drifting off to sleep, Georgia imagined an alternative
life, in which she would be a reverse immigrant and head to Scotland, back to
the house where her father had been born and her grandmother still lived. She
and Dakota would buy the farm next door and raise their own sheep. They would
make Walker Sweaters, using only their own wool and never anyone else's. Their
creations would be unique and they'd be coveted by Madonna and Sean Connery and
Gwyneth
Paltrow
, and she and Dakota and Granny would
live together, happily and never getting any older, forever. And even her
parents would come to visit and Bess would say that she'd never have thought
that Georgia could make a go of it, but boy had she proved them wrong. And then
they'd all laugh and eat shortbread that Dakota had doctored up with bits of fruit
and drink cup after cup of sweet tea. Anita would come to visit, of course;
James would disappear from the scene. She didn't exactly wish him dead, mind
you, just missing in action.

* * *

Because that's what he'd been—absent. So what
was he doing back in the city? Perplexed. That's how she felt. Oh, there was
always that core of anger, the little nub that she polished with resentment
when she felt overtired and exhausted but still had to dash to yet another PTA
meeting or run down for milk even though she was already in her pajamas, there
being no one else to go but her. But the acuteness of her pain had cooled over
the years, more simmering than seething. Now, all those dormant emotions were
stirring again, even as she remained utterly confused as to why James had
popped up again, with some vague mumblings about how he regretted he hadn't
been around more often. (More often? Try at all, buddy!) Georgia prided herself
on learning how to be a shrewd judge of character, thanks to the smarting
betrayals she'd received in the past, James being the most notable. The problem
was that she just couldn't seem to figure out his angle this time.
Obviously, in the early days, it had been about sex for him, right? (Georgia
could barely remember sex with a partner. There had never been anyone
significant at all after James, just a string of blind dates during an
optimistic '97.) Maybe because the memory of James loomed large. It had been
impossible, immediately after he dumped her, to reconcile the man she had
loved—her smart, funny, gorgeous best friend who loved to do crossword puzzles
and go Rollerblading in the park—with the same person who had bailed on their
relationship. There was James…and then there was
James
. The real James.
It wasn't a question of if he was coming back—it was when. That's what she had
expected, back when her body was growing too large for her clothes. Georgia
remembered long-ago lunch breaks from the office with K.C., during which she
insisted, with confidence, that the two were just on a short-term break. It's a
misunderstanding, she'd told her colleague. K.C., for all her brashness, was
too kind to insist on the opposite. Because Georgia sincerely believed all
would work out, had sold herself some bullshit theory about James needing to
sow his wild oats. He'd definitely return to the woman having his baby.
Or not.
Then she went into labor—twenty painful hours on her own—and a new little face
stole her heart. And energy. Twelve years of being a single mom can make anyone
tired. Or cash-strapped. That was the thing about being a success in New York:
you could still feel the pinch. There were always too many bills to pay. Even
though she'd done the impossible for Manhattan and lucked out into a great
space for her home and her business, even though her lease had held steady for
years. Everything—utilities, equipment, inventory,
Peri's
wages, the cost of personal items such as food and clothes and extracurricular
fun for Dakota—was just too damned expensive. (Twelve and a half years old and
nearly five-five, Dakota seemed poised to grow her way through several pairs of
shoes and pants this year alone.) There was never any time to slow down if you
wanted to do more than merely survive. If you wanted to save for your kid's
college, get life insurance, squirrel away for your own retirement. Pay for
your own health care,
dammit
. That was the beauty of
being self-employed and being a solo parent: it was all on you.
Sure, James had often wired money into that custodial account he had set up for
Dakota, and Georgia had access to it at any time, but it wasn't a huge amount
in the preschool years. A couple hundred bucks every month or so. Later on, he
began sending more substantial sums with regularity, especially in the last few
years. (Georgia figured he'd either had a big promotion or he'd finally
developed a guilty conscience.) Her pride kept her from dipping into the funds
unless it was really necessary, and besides, she liked to think of Dakota using
the money for school. Either way, the fact of the matter was that the two of
them had never really settled on a dollar figure. That was another reason his
return made her nervous—they'd never discussed, let alone worked out, a legal
arrangement when it came to Dakota. Oh, Anita had told her she should, even offered
to pay for a lawyer, but Georgia just wanted to have nothing to do with that
damn man.
And now he was back.
Georgia smoothed down her dress, chose a pair of open-toed shoes that wouldn't
work on a March day in New York except that she only had to exit her squeezed
little apartment and take the stairs down to her similarly cozy second-floor
shop. It had to be the shortest commute in town.
She opened a tube of lipstick. Too red. Chose an almost nude sheer, put on a
light coat of brown mascara, a dusting of powder. Done. Good-bye, tired momma.
Hello, savvy businesswoman.
The opposite of love, she'd always heard, is hate. Certainly that was what she
felt for James. Well, more like hatred
lite
, seeing
as it wasn't quite so intense as it used to be. But James? He'd moved straight
from love to indifference. Not exactly evil—he'd always made a contribution
financially—but he'd never actually wanted to pursue any sort of role in
Dakota's life. Until now. Georgia gave her cheeks a pinch to bring up a bit of
color and turned to pick up the cardigan.
"Mom! I've been calling you! For, like, ever." Dakota hung in the
doorway of her bedroom.
"Uh-huh. Well, what do you need?" Georgia knew Dakota was excited
that later in the afternoon, Anita was taking her to see a matinee on Broadway.
The two of them always went out for a special outing on the second Saturday of
every month. And she even enjoyed hearing Dakota warble the songs all day
Sunday. She waited, expecting to hear the pros and cons of possible outfits.
"I just wanted to show you my new helmet."
"Helmet? For what?"
"Daddy took me to look at bikes." Georgia felt her whole body grow
hot, then cold, then hot again. "I just remembered that I forgot to tell
you about it." And Dakota was a terrible liar, she noticed.
"And did your father make any other grand gestures?"
"Just that he'd teach me how to ride once the weather warmed up. I said
you wouldn't mind."