by Kate Jacobs
After Catherine came back to New York, she initially insisted on communicating with Marco only through e-mail. It was some kind of test, she supposed, a means to ferret out if he was interested in her heart or just her body. And Catherine, not one to be shy about putting her toned hips to good use, wanted something she hadn’t had before. She wanted a relationship that was real. Of course, sometimes she gave in to the urge to hear Marco’s voice, but mostly she held firm to her commitment to build a friendship. Through the e-mail letters she learned about Marco’s late wife, Cecilia, how they’d met when he was in his twenties and rushing a wine delivery, accidentally bumping her with his slow-moving Vespa. He shared his deep concern for his mother-in-law, Sarah, as she and her husband, Enzo, aged, and he revealed the difficulties he felt raising his children alone.
“Every hour they grow older,” he wrote to her, “and I question myself constantly. Have I said enough? Done enough?”
In droplets of details, she revealed—slowly—how she’d hurt her best friend and taken her placement at their dream college, how she’d made a bad marriage and stayed rather than try to make a go on her own. She spared the specifics but told him about the important flings, though she hadn’t quite brought herself to admitting her tryst with Anita’s son Nathan. Not yet. (It was ooky enough to consider that Nathan was actually first cousins with Marco’s late wife. Not that she’d known that when she screwed him. No. But she’d known he was married, had believed he was going to leave his wife for her.) Coming off that bad business had left her wary of Marco as well. All of it was strange, building a romance in the absence of her two old friends, sex and drink. But somehow it became a more effective approach. Laying a foundation.
Though a woman who wears leopard-print panties doesn’t change her spots. On her initial two-week trip back to Italy, Catherine expected nothing but making up for lost time, packing the sheerest and tiniest of baby-doll nightgowns. Instead, she found Marco battling a crop-destroying group of bugs in the vineyard and spent candlelight dinners practicing her Italian with young Allegra, who patiently repeated words and then giggled as Catherine said them incorrectly. There were caresses and furtive kisses, but Marco was beyond exhausted and she left Italy as untouched as when she arrived. And she didn’t mind. Well, okay, she minded. But just enough to make her want to go back. To a visit that made it clear that Marco was worth the wait.
Catherine hadn’t even packed her slinky nighties on that journey. She expected it to be similar to the previous visits, with Allegra, on break from boarding school, awakening with a fever in the night or another emergency in the vineyard. Catherine was frustrated, but she was still patting cool cloths on heads and borrowing a pair of boots to tramp down to the vines and nod sagely as Marco talked through his problems.
Her affairs, she realized, had never taken place with kids, dogs, and workplaces in the scene. She was used to being whisked away to cozy bed-and-breakfasts, to luxury hotels with crisp sheets, even just to the bedroom of her charming bungalow.
“What is this between us, anyway?” she’d grumbled to Marco one afternoon.
“It’s a love match,” he said. “Butting heads with the real world.” He kissed her deeply on the mouth and then said the words she was longing to hear.
“There’s a trip to Rome coming up,” he said.
“When?”
“As soon as Allegra’s grandmother arrives,” said Marco, a half-grin on his lips. “They’re going. We’re staying. In all weekend.”
They skipped dinner, waving at the door as Allegra departed, and then, racing up to Catherine’s third-floor guest bedroom, found themselves laughing and kissing and making love on the stairs. During a picnic. In the wine cellar. On the kitchen floor.
How powerful, afterward, when Marco told her he loved her. How natural it seemed to tug on those boots and tramp through the vines.
She assumed she’d feel disappointed when Allegra returned. But instead, she felt a giddy joy rising up as the car pulled forward, and the most magical melting feeling in the pit of her stomach as Marco’s beautiful young daughter hugged her first.
And that was when she really, really knew. She was in love. With all of them.
Catherine wrapped her arms around herself as she slowly followed everyone out to the street, lost in thought as Dakota was called ahead to chat with a cousin.
Lillian fell back from the group to wait for Catherine, who continued to absentmindedly pull up the rear.
“You’re in love,” said James’s mother straightforwardly. “It’s all over your face. Kind of a goofy grin going on there.”
“Yeah,” admitted Catherine, reflexively reaching up to touch her face.
“I don’t know why I’m always the last to know,” said James’s mother, crossing her arms. “Not like I want to go through that again. The surprise girlfriend. So just tell me: Are you and my son an item?”
Catherine looked at her sideways before laughing. She opened her mouth to speak, but only giggles came out.
“Well, come on, he’s not that bad,” said Lillian. “He’s quite good-looking.”
“Oh, I know that,” chuckled Catherine. “And it’s been suggested by more than a few people that we would make a good-looking couple.”
“So, then you’re together?”
“Whoa, no,” said Catherine. The light changed, leaving them stranded across the street corner as the rest of the crew waited on the other side. She turned to face James’s mother.
“James and I are not—never have been—romantically involved,” said Catherine.
“I see,” said Lillian, not looking entirely convinced.
“Sometimes it makes sense to fill in that gap with someone you know. But for us, we’re more like family,” said Catherine. “Good friends who have always known there’s a line we ought not to cross.”
Lillian nodded. “You mean Georgia, don’t you?”
“It’s always been Georgia for him,” admitted Catherine. “And I think I’ve found my guy. Finally. Maybe. I don’t know. But probably. Though it depends.”
“Of course.”
“Because I’m not ready to make things permanent,” she said. “Not that we’ve talked about it in so many words, because we haven’t, but his mind is probably there. And I’m here.”
“Right.”
“So, when he asks—and he will ask—I’m going to say ‘not yet,’ ” Catherine said emphatically. “I’ve thought about this a lot. Don’t worry.”
“Not worried,” said Lillian, though not unkindly.
“He has a little girl, Allegra. She’s always away at school, but I like spending time with her.”
“And I’m sure she likes you,” said Lillian, offering a string of neutral comments.
“I’m not,” confessed Catherine. “It’s hard to know. You can’t really ask. Don’t want to seem needy. Or weird. Or have Marco think I’m weird. His first wife was practically a saint, and I’m more of a sinner, if you know what I mean.”
Lillian had met Catherine only a few times over the years and wasn’t quite sure she needed to hear the ins and outs of Catherine’s love life if it didn’t involve her son. Still, she nodded politely as Catherine rambled on about grapes and jet lag and sipping prosecco overlooking the fields. Then Lillian steered the conversation back to what was on her mind.
“I worry about my son. He wears his grief like a shield. Oh, and I remember well every second of that day I met Georgia,” said Lillian. “When these two strangers walked through my front door and suddenly I had a new granddaughter. I was so angry with my son and so tickled by Dakota. But Georgia surprised me with her strength. I told James she had spunk, but it was more like grace.”
“Funny, isn’t it,” said Catherine, “how you think about height and looks as what is passed down. And the most important gift Dakota got from her mother was that mysterious bit of something. A powerful sense of self.”
“Dakota is lovely and doing well,” agreed Lillian. “But with her growin
g up, it’s James I am concerned about. He can’t go on like this forever. Comparing other women to her mother.”
“He may be getting more serious,” said Catherine. “Dakota thinks he has someone interesting this time around.”
“She hasn’t mentioned that to me.” Lillian did not like to be left out of whatever was going on.
“She hasn’t actually met her yet,” said Catherine. “But she’s dropping hints to James that she suspects.”
“Then he’s not serious enough,” said Lillian. “The holidays won’t make it easier. All about marking time and where you were last year and how long since Georgia. All the ‘remember whens.’ It’s tough.”
“Of course, it’s also happy, like today.” Catherine smiled, indicating the entire group on their way up the street. But she was really thinking about Marco. About a Thanksgiving in some fantasy future when she wouldn’t be the stray guest—albeit a welcome one—but an integral part of a family.
The group clambered along the park side of Fifth Avenue, past the Plaza and FAO Schwarz, to stop in front of one of Catherine’s favorite haunts. The rest of the gang wasn’t as pleased.
“You brought us to Bergdorf’s?” Joe asked his granddaughter.
“No,” said Dakota. “I brought you on my architectural tour of New York. We’re going to imagine this building as it was over a hundred years ago, when it was a Vanderbilt mansion. In fact, the entire city was different. This wasn’t the heart of the retail district but of stately homes.”
“Just like your father,” said one of Dakota’s aunts. “Always dragging us around to see buildings and tell stories.”
“No,” whispered James under his breath, marveling at how Dakota had taken command (with Lillian’s tacit permission) of all of them. He’d once taken her on this very same walk, poking into art deco lobbies of corporate buildings and telling her anecdotes about the newer construction in midtown Manhattan. No, he felt she was so much more like her mother, the way she moved so gracefully when she pointed out a detail, or how she opened her mouth too wide when she laughed, showing teeth and tongue. She had her mother’s build, slim and athletic, and her seemingly endless zeal for work. What Dakota needed was a vacation.
The city itself had already made the transition from workaday to holiday, the Christmas season emerging in the form of garlands and bows on store windows. No doubt Dakota was leading them to Rockefeller Center to eat chocolate and watch skaters circling the ice rink. He checked quickly to see if his mother was flagging, but she and Catherine were utterly enchanted by each other’s company. He considered making small talk with one of his older sisters but, in the end, allowed himself to get lost in the joy of simply watching his daughter entertain the family. Telling jokes and slipping her arm through her grandfather’s. Although she was the youngest, she was clearly a leader.
He’d never known her as a truly little girl, but it remained stunning how she’d quietly, thoroughly, turned into a woman. Just last year she’d seemed unreasonable and immature at moments. Now she focused on school, on the shop, on taking that binder of her mother’s patterns and creating a book that captured her mother’s talent. He felt pride but also something more: a growing respect for his daughter and the manner in which she approached her life. She seemed to be relaxing into herself. Confident in her choices. As much as he’d fought her decision to leave a traditional college, he could see that it had been the right move.
“Dad?” she’d asked last night, as he sat on the floor, wiped out from moving a good chunk of the living-room furniture, the stainless tables and the oversized leather chairs. She offered him a warm slice of apple-and-cinnamon pie.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks, you know. For just, you know, being cool with stuff.”
“Don’t work too hard,” he noted. “You look like your mother, but I wouldn’t want you to make your father’s mistakes. You need to make time to live. To spend time with your family. Your old man!”
“That’s worked out, too. Right?” Dakota bit her lip, then caught herself and stopped. James understood. What had always been most difficult were the big events, the birthdays and holidays. For years they had focused on re-creating the traditional Christmas in Pennsylvania, and each year emotions ran high. “Christmas can be a lot.”
“True,” he agreed. “Holidays make you remember, but that’s okay. Everyone feels this way. It’s normal. It’s good, even.”
“We don’t always have to do the same traditions,” she said. “We can do new things, shake it up a bit.”
“Absolutely,” he said.
That’s when he knew his plan for a different kind of Christmas had been the right choice. Even in the current economic climate, even since he’d left his comfortable position at the hotel to begin his own architectural firm, he was glad to splurge for surprise plane tickets for Dakota and her maternal grandparents and even her uncle Donny, who maintained the family farm in Pennsylvania. Because watching her tonight, concentrating wholeheartedly on playing hostess, he could see how much she needed a break. Also how much she seemed lighter being around her family. And how, in the not-too-distant future, life would be different. She would be more than his little girl, she would want to do her own thing, marry, maybe even move away. Now was the moment to do something special, to bring all of Georgia’s family together for Christmas, just as he brought his entire family to Thanksgiving. For her.
“I think I’m hungry again,” shouted Joe from the back of the group.
“Well, Grandpa, then my plan has worked,” announced Dakota, tugging onto her hands a pair of purple fingerless gloves that she’d made during her commutes on the Metro-North train to the city from culinary school in Hyde Park. “Because I made five kinds of pies yesterday and I expect you to try a piece from every one of them!”
Everyone laughed and started making their way back to the apartment.
“Dakota,” said James, falling in step with his daughter and Catherine, “I have something to tell you.”
Dakota tossed Catherine a now-he-is-going-to-tell-me-about-his-girlfriend look.
“A Thanksgiving surprise,” exclaimed Catherine. “Is it an ice-cream maker?”
“No, no,” said James, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, I have great news, too,” said Dakota. “About my budding career. But you first. What’s her name?”
“Umm,” James said, thinking deeply. “Glenda, of course. I always forget because I just think of her as Gran,” he explained to Catherine.
“Huh? That’s really weird, Dad. TMI!”
James shrugged. “I thought about keeping it a surprise but knew you’d want to tell everyone in the club.”
A look of comprehension dawned on Catherine’s face. “I hate surprises,” she said. “They always interfere with plans. People ought to just talk about things. Out in the open. Maybe you two could have communicated about your ideas for the holiday season. Hmmm?”
“Oh, no,” said James. “It ruins the thrill of telling you that we’re going to Scotland for Christmas. I know how much you’ve wanted to go visit, and we’ve been so busy. So I booked!”
“This Christmas?”
“Of course,” said James, a quizzical expression on his face. “When else? We’re bringing all the Walkers together at Gran’s.”
“Dad! Why now?” wailed Dakota, thinking all at once about her internship and seeing Roberto and how much she missed her ninety-seven-year-old Scottish great-grandmother, practically one hundred but as sprightly and no-nonsense as ever. Her mother had always talked about how much she wanted to go to Scotland, as she’d done when she was a girl, but Georgia was able to take Dakota only the summer before she died. She’d always had to put work before fun. And now Dakota truly understood how hard some of her mother’s decisions must have been. Because here she was, facing her own dilemma.
But James, taking her high pitch and general confusion for excitement, gave her a big hug. “It’s extravagant, for sure, but I knew you’d love it,�
� he said, walking with his arm around his daughter. “I won’t let anything take away from our special trip. And we’ll be back for Anita and Marty’s wedding, of course.”
Dakota swallowed, looking at Catherine in panic. What about her internship? What about Gran?
If only she knew what she should do.
chapter three
Peri had always suffered a love-hate relationship with storewide sales. Thanksgiving night was the worst: She was unable to sleep, sneaking down to the shop in her sweatpants and tee to get things ready for the massive Black Friday hordes of committed knitters. Sure, it cleared old inventory and got some new foot traffic in the door, but all the same it was exhausting. She’d be spent when it was all over. For now, she was just trying to dash ahead of the fray.
“Do you have more of this light cotton?” Somewhere in my kitchen, thought Peri.
“Is this the only yarn you have in this roasted-squash color?” Yes, and I’m thankful for that.
“Can I return the final-sale items?” Where does that ever happen?
And on and on. Questions that Peri typically answered with patience grated on her nerves.
All she could see today were the difficulties of running a shop— the long hours, the challenge to take days away, the ever-present fears of cash and flow that permeated her thoughts.
She’d been caught off guard by the woman who came into Walker and Daughter two nights before as Dakota toiled in the kitchen upstairs over pies. Peri had been closing up.
“So, this is the famous place,” said the woman, who was extremely thin and had a shock of platinum hair over one eye. She was exquisitely dressed in a nubbly figure-skimming tweed jacket, wide-leg trousers, and tall leather boots. Peri knew her Vogue well enough to calculate the many thousands of dollars spent on this one single outfit.
“Welcome,” said Peri. Word had spread among area knitters that Dakota had recently rediscovered a pattern book of her mother’s original designs, and more than once, people had come asking for a look. Especially since the issue of Italian Vogue, with the singer Isabella (whose music video Lucie had directed) posed on the cover in the pink gown that Georgia had made for Catherine long ago.