Kate Jacobs (9 page)

* * *

Anita pushed the door open with her back, her
arms filled with garment bags. Georgia rushed over to help her.
"I've brought you a few simple choices, nothing too fussy. Good thing I
always wore my skirts long or you'd be in a miniskirt!" Anita laughed.
"Did you call and make that hair appointment like I told you?"
Georgia nodded as she carried the outfits to the office and hung them on the
door;
Peri
had come in for her regular shift and
waved to Anita as they scurried to the back, where Dakota was playing computer
games. Her face lit up at the sight of Anita, ready to head to the musical. And
to tell her the latest Big News.
"My mom and dad are going out tonight," she blurted out.
"Together! I think it's a date."
"It's not a date, muffin. We're just going to the same event,"
Georgia corrected her. It wasn't a date, was it? True, they'd agreed that James
would pick her up and bring her home. But that was just about logistics. Too
much had gone on for them ever to pick up that thread from long ago. In fact,
she dreaded the party more than anything else. Felt quite wary of it all. It
had been years since she'd been "out" for something other than a
movie with Anita or
Peri
and longer still since she
and James had spent any amount of time together. If they weren't careful,
they'd have to move on from discussing Dakota and no-you-can't-yes-I-can and have
an actual conversation with each other. (So, James, been screwing around on
anyone lately?) And talking to James was pretty far down on her to-do list.
Cat had been right—this wee soiree really wasn't going to be her kind of party.
But,
dammit
, she wasn't about to have anyone—let
alone Cathy Anderson—suggest that she wasn't quite up to standard. And thanks
to Anita, she was going to look the part. Let James see what he threw away; let
Cat see that she wasn't the only thing going.
Georgia zipped open a garment bag and pulled a beautiful dress off a hanger,
admiring the light beading at the hem and neckline. Anita had brought quite a
selection from her own closet, all sumptuous fabrics and designs.
"Everything old is new again—and besides, most of these outfits were worn
twenty pounds ago." Anita, who still looked trim, chuckled. Georgia had
called her as soon as James and Cat had left, knew that Anita would understand,
would be on her side. How did she get herself into these messes?
"Pride," Anita said. That was good old Mrs. Lowenstein. Just out with
it.
"I just didn't want them to think they were better than I am."
"There's money, and then there's class," Anita told her. "The
two are often separated. You, my dear, have a ton of class. Money, not so much.
So whatever you do, don't blow off this client. You need to build on your
exposure from that article. Besides, it's high time you got out of the
house."
While she knew she could count on a sympathetic ear, she hadn't expected Anita
to come over and dress her. Georgia had just planned to wear the one suit she
kept for important events, a classic Chanel style that had been waiting,
covered in plastic from the dry cleaners, since the last time she'd needed it,
several years before. "Are you planning on wearing the red blouse or the
gray?" was all Anita had asked. And now she was here, with several choices
of outfits.
"I brought you something else." Anita was pushing a box toward her.
"Just a loan, but it will look so nice when you're dressed up."
Georgia opened the lid, saw the long strand of pearls, and pulled Anita into a
tight squeeze.
"What would I do without you? You're the kind of mom I always
wanted."
Anita gave a modest shrug, though Dakota, unable to miss out on the action,
jumped out of her chair and threw her arms around Georgia. "And you're the
mom I always wanted, too, Mom."
The three set to work, watching Georgia jump in and out of clothes, holding up
earrings and trying on lipsticks before dashing out to get the once-over from
fashionable
Peri
. Yes to the pearls, no to the
orangey lipstick. Too many sequins. Not enough skirt. And lose those old pumps!
Finally they narrowed the choice to the black sheath dress and silver silk
wrap—knitted, of course, by Walker. And about time: Dakota was zipping up her
coat and following Anita out the door as the two dashed off to make the curtain
of their matinee. Anita turned and whispered in Georgia's ear: "Stick with
the black and the long pearls and wear a push-up bra. Hike it up to your
eyeballs!" And with that, Anita patted her cheek, took Dakota by the hand,
and strolled out the door.

* * *

The bikes.
Ack
, they
were still on the landing. Georgia had been so flustered over the change in
plans—
er
, make that the actual having of any social
plan for an evening—that she'd completely forgotten about them. James! It was
his fault for bringing them up and he didn't even ask. He was just such a
bulldozer. When he wasn't charming everyone. A charming bulldozer. Georgia
caught sight of her squinty face in the little mirror on the office wall. Did
she always frown like that? She took her hands and smoothed them over her
cheeks, practiced smiling at her reflection.
"Hello, I'm Georgia Walker. Perhaps you read about me in
New York
?"
"How do you do, I'm Georgia Walker. Oh, Cat and I are old friends.
Recently reconnected."
"Oh, pleasure. I do love what they've done with the place—very mod. What,
you're her decorator? Well, I'm her designer. Knitwear." She lowered her
voice to a stage whisper. "Isn't she a crank to work with?"
Georgia sighed. Hello, you, she said to the mirror. We'll get through it all
and we'll look damn smashing. She hefted up the clothes and walked out of the
office through the shop, told
Peri
she'd come back to
deal with the bikes later, and marched up the stairs to her apartment. Did she
even own a push-up bra?
As Georgia carefully hung the dress in her closet, a tattered cardboard box on
the upper shelf caught her eye. Her memory box. Some crazy idea she'd seen on a
talk show, to sift out all the little odds and ends and keep only the most
precious items. Well, it had saved on storage space, a precious commodity in a
New York apartment. But the truth was that she hadn't looked at the items
inside in a long time. Even though she knew exactly what was in there. She
quickly dragged a chair into the room, stood up, reaching, reaching, to the top
shelf until she was able to tap
tap
tap
the box forward. She let a corner fall off the shelf
onto her body, then eased the container onto the chair as gravity worked its
magic. Georgia coughed; the top was covered with dust. A deep breath. And then
she took off the lid.
Dakota's baby blanket. Her first pair of shoes. Lots of photos—loose and in
envelopes. Random holiday cards from her granny in Scotland: "When are you
coming to visit?" written in
Gran's
scratchy
hand every year. A family photo taken in front of the fireplace circa 1970, her
hair in pigtails, her brother making a V behind her head. Her parents. Young
and looking happy. Then, clipped together, the two thin letters that James had
sent her, with the Paris postmarks. She'd never opened either. The original
business card Anita had given her. And there it was. The high school yearbook.
Georgia opened it, knew that she'd find the entire inside cover taken up with
just one person's inscription:
Crazypants
!
I'll always remember: our heart-to-hearts sitting on the bench at
Smithie's
, getting chewing gum stuck in my hair at the game
(thank you, peanut butter!) and sneaking in from Homecoming at 4 A.M.!!!!!!
(No, Mom, I just got up to go to the bathroom!) Seriously, G., you're the
funniest, smartest girl I know—and the best friend I'll ever have. Where would
I be without you?!!! Who else will listen to me cry about Barry F. all night
long and then double date with us the night after???? You're the best. It
wasn't easy coming into this town and being new. (Insert a certain gesture to
you-know-who and her minions here.) Okay, okay, being serious. Georgia, the day
you invited me to join the paper changed my life! One day I'm going to write a
Pulitzer Prize–winning story and you'll be my editor. We're always a team,
right? The two of us together! So even if things change or don't come out
exactly as planned, we'll always stick together and be there for each other.
Because it's where our hearts are that matters.

You're my sister in spirit forever.
C.

Funny how she could read so much into Cathy's
note that she'd missed the first time. So clearly Cathy knew in June? Too bad
she didn't find out about Cathy's treachery until September. Theirs had been a
stupid plan—foolish, she realized now. Their pledge to only go to a college if
they both got in. So Georgia ignored her parents' and teachers' pleas and turned
down a partial scholarship to Dartmouth because Cathy didn't get in. Instead,
they agreed to go to the University of Michigan. A fine school, indeed, but it
wasn't an Ivy. But who cared? They'd be together, meeting guys and taking
classes, signing on with the college paper. And eventually in their junior year
they'd move off-campus so they could get a taste of apartment-living before
they moved to New York after college. To begin those great careers they were
going to have. And they'd be together forever! Why did teenage girls use so
many damn exclamation marks? There ought to be a tax on unnecessary
punctuation, thought Georgia. Especially when the writer is lying to you.

* * *

Because Cathy had been wait-listed at Dartmouth
all along. And when a spot opened up—the placement that had been Georgia's,
maybe—she leaped at it. Never breathing a word of it to Georgia all summer. The
moment when she went over to Cathy's house to coordinate whose parents would
drive them to the University of Michigan. Cathy wasn't home. Oh, dear, her
mother had said. Didn't she tell you? Her father drove her to New Hampshire
this morning. Oh, Georgia, she said. I thought you knew.
Georgia could still recall standing stock-still in the doorway of Cathy's
house, the rush of hot-cold shivers going up and down her spine, the twist in
her stomach, the gasping realization that she'd picked staying true to her best
friend over leaping at her big chance to go to an Ivy. And then Cathy had
simply ditched her. Gone off to Dartmouth without a word.
That was the last time—before this morning—that Georgia had ever been in
contact with her best friend. She had waited for the guilty phone call,
hovering in her Michigan dorm room, debating how long she'd make Cathy grovel.
But the call never came. And the long-awaited, much-dreaded run-in over the
December holidays—how much time had she wasted that first semester imagining
what she would say to Cathy?—never took place. Mr. Anderson was promoted at the
bank and she heard from some classmates that the family had moved to a big old
house just outside of Pittsburgh. And that's where Cathy must have gone for
holidays and summers until she eventually landed in New York. Because Georgia
never heard from her again, moping around the Ann Arbor campus and not making
much of an effort to get to know anybody. It was her junior year before she
even darkened the door of the newspaper. It wasn't until she got a summer
internship at a publishing house that she began to perk up, wasn't until she
fell in love with James Foster that she really felt complete again. To have a
friend who really cared, who really got her. And we know how that story goes,
she thought. A walk-up on the Upper West Side and single motherhood. Or a
gorgeous daughter and work she loved. It all depended on how you looked at it,
Georgia told herself. Were there things she'd change? Yes. Did she truly
believe her life would have been better if she'd gone to Dartmouth? That she'd
missed out on some secret world of connections and money? Only every other day.
But would she change her life if it meant there wouldn't be Dakota? Never.
Never ever.

* * *

The dress she could handle. The doorman, no
sweat. But the dinner? Now that was another question. Georgia secretly tried to
rub her clammy hands on the wrap she held in her arms, still wearing her good
cloth coat.
"Don't be nervous," James said, sotto voce, as they stepped into the
elevator.
"I'm not!" Her voice had a squeaky edge.
It had been one hell of a cab ride, sitting next to him, discussing the weather.
Sort of.
"How long do you think things are going to stay chilly?" he'd asked,
his tone ever so slightly challenging.
She'd been quite prepared to ignore him when his cell phone rang, and she sat
there, pretending to be uninterested.
"
Lisette
!
Lisette
,
il
est
après
minuit
,"
he was saying.
"
Avez-vous
l'insomnie
encore?"
Lisette
? Poor
Lisette
can't sleep? Georgia rolled her eyes as the car sped down Broadway. Some things
never change.
"
Oui
,
oui
,"
said James.
"Ma
fille
est
belle. Et
aussi
intelligente
."
They pulled up to Cat's building as James made his good-byes.
"I'll come around and help you out," he said to Georgia, who ignored
him and made her own way out of the taxi, marching through the front door.
Now they stood side by side inside the elevator.
"Don't be fidgety," he repeated.
She coughed. "I'm not—I'm just not used to leaving Dakota…on a
Saturday." Oh, that was lame. She knew Anita and Dakota had made it back
from the show and were busy eating popcorn and gossiping on her sofa. Probably talking
about her going out with James! No, not going out. Not like that. Attending the
same party together. Still, she was glad Dakota had someone to share secrets
with, was glad that Anita often spilled the beans later, revealing her baby's
crushes and feuds and worries. Especially since the closed-door policy meant
she and Dakota weren't talking quite as easily as they once did.
"She's fine with Anita, I'm sure," said James. "She's a pretty
amazing woman."
Georgia gave him a sidelong glance. Not like he knew Anita; he'd only met her a
few times in the store. "Yes, Anita is the kind of person you feel special
to know—" Georgia stopped short as the elevator opened. Directly into the
apartment. A beautiful, huge loft apartment. She could easily fit her shop—and
her apartment—into this space several times over.
"May I take your coat?" A thin young woman in a white blouse extended
her hands.
"Hello, it's nice to meet you. Do you know Cat? I'm Georgia Walker,
I'm…" Georgia, juggling her handbag and wrap from hand to hand, faltered
as the girl eased off her long coat.
"Thank you," said James, then turned toward Georgia, briefly touching
her back to steer her into the room. Of course, that was the coat check. Who
threw parties that required a special coat-check girl? Who had elevators that
opened up into their apartment? Cat, apparently. Georgia quickly slipped her
wrap around her shoulders as she scanned the room and the backs of several
well-dressed individuals, huddled in conversations.
A long exposed-brick wall faced the elevator; across the room and to her right
was an entire wall of windows, and the ceiling was twice the normal height.
She'd read about the conversion of
SoHo
warehouses
and factories to prized—and pricey—lofts, but Georgia had never been in one of
these apartments. It was simply stunning. From the gleaming stainless steel
appliances in the open kitchen to open pipes along the walls and ceiling to the
modern
objets
d'art on smooth white pedestals to the
fireplace surrounded by a matching set of sleek leather chairs to the long
marble dining table in the middle of the room, set with silver and crystal…the
loft was huge. And richly decorated with sumptuous upholstery, gigantic vases
filled with fresh calla lilies, and paintings large and small on the wall. The
look was modern, sophisticated, intimidating. The loft was a showpiece.
"This architecture is fantastic," said James, reaching out to take a
mushroom tartlet from another white-bloused server. "I have been away for
a long time, but clearly the gentrification of
SoHo
is complete." He smiled at Georgia. She glared back.
"And here is our hostess," said James as Cat walked over to greet
them, in a slinky, shimmery, off-the-shoulder crimson dress. She motioned to a
tall man by the fireplace, talking intently with another man, made a small wave
as if to get his attention.
"That's my husband, Adam. Doing a little business. We'll meet him
later," said Cat, looking ever so slightly over Georgia's head to James.
"This is a fantastic loft. You celebrated its warehouse past while making
it elegant. It's a true tour de force," said James, his focus still on the
building. Georgia noticed that he didn't look over to Cat at all.
"I'll have to give you the tour after dinner—I think you'll like how we've
managed to keep the loft feeling while setting off some private bedrooms at the
back. We had a wonderful architect—I should connect the two of you sometime.
And now, come, let me make introductions." Cat's face lit up as she smiled
warmly at James before bringing her gaze to her old friend.
"Welcome, Georgia," she said evenly, her eyes scanning Georgia up and
down. Her hands motioned in the direction of the knit wrap as she made a soft
murmur of approval and then she looked at James. "Come in, you two."
They followed her as she made introductions; James got the big buildup, filled
with his illustrious career details (had Cat
Googled
James? She certainly knew more about him than she had this morning) and then it
was finished off with "and this is Georgia." A pause. Cat smiled and
mentioned checking on the other guests, then walked away, leaving James and
Georgia to mingle. Everyone looked the same, men and women alike: well coiffed,
well dressed, well manicured, well mannered.
"That's quite an impressive résumé, James."
"Clearly you've done well."
"It must have been difficult for you, facing all the challenges out there
for someone like you."
"You must be quite exceptional." James acknowledged the comments
without actually saying anything.
"And Georgia, what do you do?"
"Ms. Georgia Walker is an independent businesswoman; she runs a knitting
boutique on the Upper West Side." James spoke before she even opened her
mouth. This was good because her mouth felt a little dry. Georgia took a sip of
wine. Okay, more of a gulp.
"And I design knitwear for independent clients," she added. Her voice
was soft but at least it didn't squeak this time. "The Upper West Side
store is where I display new creations." Her voice grew stronger.
"There's a place in fashion for unique knitwear—everyone wants to own a
garment of beauty without worrying that it's also owned by a jillion other
people who went to the same store. There is power in reclaiming
tradition…" No one laughed. In fact, they seemed to be listening to her
every word. Maybe she wasn't so out of her league after all.