by Kate Jacobs
She felt guilty that she hadn’t spent as much time with Lucie Brennan’s daughter, Ginger, since she started culinary school, and that she’d broken four lunch dates with KC Silverman in as many weeks. She had planned to finish a pair of matching fisherman’s sweaters for Darwin Chiu’s twins, Cady and Stanton, when they turned one; of course, they were already over eighteen months and the sweaters were now too small. She’d have to save them for a decade until someone else she knew had a baby.
Not to mention that she fretted whether Anita and Marty Popper would finally say “I do” at the wedding they rescheduled for New Year’s Day instead of submitting to yet another manufactured delay caused by Anita’s son Nathan Lowenstein. (How many almost heart attacks could one very fit fiftysomething man invent, she wondered? And when would Anita stop getting suckered?) And as much as she wanted the wedding to be a go, she felt surprisingly nervous about seeing her friend Roberto Toscano since their summer romance in Italy more than a year ago. His grandmother, Sarah, was Anita’s sister, and he was definitely coming to the wedding with his entire family: He’d already e-mailed to plan some time together, in fact. She felt awkward about seeing him again. About the we-almost-did-but-didn’t-so-have-you-done-it-with-someone-else-ness of things.
Plus she suspected—half hoping and half dreading—that her father was getting serious with a new, not-yet-introduced-to-Dakota secret lady friend. Not that she spent too much energy reflecting on that aspect of his life, and not that she relished the idea of having to share his affections. But she knew enough to recognize that—like Anita—her dad deserved another shot at love.
The holidays, it seemed, were all about celebrating love. Dakota wasn’t sure how she felt about that emotion these days. And all her worries came back to the immediate moment in this kitchen, because Dakota was responsible for prepping a turkey dinner that Peri could use to impress her boyfriend’s parents. It was her part of the bargain. In exchange, Peri would watch the shop during the week of Christmas so Dakota could do the thing she was truly looking forward to: a full-time internship at the V hotel kitchen over Christmas break. Sure, she’d miss out on a holiday dinner or two, but she was confident her dad would actually be relieved not to have to truck out to Pennsylvania as they did every year and eat a quiet holiday meal. Although her mother’s younger brother, Uncle Donny, was congenial enough, her mother’s parents were not big talkers. They were pleasant but taciturn. And her mother’s absence at the holiday meal was palpable. Christmas had been a challenging holiday for everyone to get through since Georgia died.
So Dakota was quite delighted by her own initiative, having set up the internship on her own, even though it wasn’t required at school. But she wanted to squeeze out every opportunity she could in order to reach success. She could hardly wait to tell her father about the internship, her gift to him this low-maintenance Christmas. She was even going to cook extra at Thanksgiving and freeze him a perfect holiday plate, with a generous helping of cranberry and mashed potatoes, an option if he chose not to go either to Pennsylvania or to see his parents on December 25. Dakota would, of course, delightedly be at the chef’s beck and call in the V kitchen. Truly, she reflected with pride, she’d thought of everything.
Dakota stretched her arms, tired from carrying the groceries up the stairs, and then reused the tote bags to gather up the yarn, careful to sort by manufacturer. She scrubbed the counters and cupboards with a mix of warm water and white vinegar, and started a list of what else she might need for Peri’s “home-cooked” Thanksgiving. Dishes, she thought, peeking back into the now-empty cupboard, hearing anew the same old creak she heard whenever her mom had rummaged around to find supper for the two of them. Dakota opened and shut the door several times in a row, mesmerized by the sound, before picking up her backpack and her handbag and readying to pop down one flight of stairs to the yarn shop.
She pulled out a compact for a quick look, peering intensely at the same self she met in her bathroom mirror every morning, her brown eyes, her café-au-lait skin, her hair in long curls. Did she half expect to see something else? Her younger self, her mother somewhere behind her? Dakota’s body tingled whenever she entered the old apartment that had been her home until she was a teen, feeling the past and present rub against each other.
And yet her thoughts didn’t feel as raw as they once did.
She saw more in her mind’s eye than her mother lying tired on the sofa, than the moving men carrying her bed and boxes to her father’s apartment after Georgia’s death. Instead, she heard in the creaky old cupboard the sound of her mother, needles click-clacking as she knitted in the living room, pretending not to hear Dakota sneaking cookies. Or the two of them, exhausted after a tickle-and-laugh session, rolling in to grab snacks and watch TV movies, lying together under an old afghan Dakota’s great-grandmother had sent in the mail from Scotland. Or surprising Dakota with a bowl of popcorn to turn into a garland as the pair set about decorating a very small Christmas tree with multicolored strands of leftover yarn. She heard all these things in the screech and whine of the old cupboard. The noise was loud, insistent. But then such is the sound of memory.
“Turn around,” ordered Catherine, motioning with her hands. “Let’s see the back.”
Obligingly, Anita moved in a slow circle, her arms held out. She modeled the latest incarnation of her hand-knit wedding coat, an ankle-length ivory affair with a shawl collar that was as fine as lace.
“What is this? The third version?” asked KC. “I want you to know I bought one darn dress for your wedding and I plan on wearing it next month. You hear me?”
Anita cracked a tiny smile. She and her fiancé, Marty, had postponed their nuptials repeatedly—and each time she felt it bad luck to simply put her wedding outfit back in the closet. Instead, she took Catherine on a shopping expedition for a new dress and meticulously pulled out the stitches of the coat to start again with an updated pattern. Her sister, Sarah, who was doing part of the knitting, had gone along with the changes the first time. But this new coat was simpler and all of her own making. After all, Catherine had pushed her toward a dress that was dramatically more sparkly, and her coat—which she wanted for modesty and simply to express a bit of personal style—had a certain clean elegance to the drape of the open-closure front. No bulk. Just light, beautiful stitches.
“I adore the sheer effect,” commented Lucie, fingering the sleeve.
“This coat is your best one yet,” added Darwin, breaking into a wide grin upon seeing Dakota enter the shop from upstairs.
“It’s beautiful,” said Dakota, suspecting that Darwin’s enthusiasm for her arrival hinged on a hope of treats. She closed the door of the shop behind her, subtly catching Peri’s attention and letting her know with a raise of her eyebrow what she thought of the kitchen upstairs. Peri motioned toward the shop she had sweetly decorated for the holidays, with baskets and cornucopias of yarn on the table and at the register. Skein after skein—in harvest colors of amber and chocolate and rust—were threaded on strong cord to make garlands that swooped across the tops of the windows facing onto Broadway. Soon enough, Peri would replace the skeins with deep blue and brightest white, and then rich red and dark evergreen, the decor as lively and bright and interfaith as the members of the club itself.
As many Fridays as they could manage, this group of seven women pulled up chairs at the heavy oak table in the center of the room, a loan of furniture from Catherine’s upstate antiques shop. The post-flood, pre-reno transitional knitting store was all about simplicity—wire shelves that were easy to put together and move around, a small desk (also from Catherine) for the cash register, and painted taupe walls to warm up the place. The business was lucky to have a loyal clientele, and the club responded by offering more classes during the week. Anita taught some days, and even Lucie offered to teach in the spring. But Friday night remained sacred, and the shop was open only by invitation to the women who had banded around the late Georgia Walker, the shop’s original owner
.
It was the place where each one of the women knew it was safe to share struggles and dreams. There were always questions; they tried to avoid judgments. After all, they’d all made mistakes. And, of course, there was always time to knit. Especially with the holidays closing in, having a time-out for a little creativity and relaxation was a necessity.
Dakota tugged her new—old—find from her knitting bag and onto the table. It was not her usual type of project, and she paused to see if anyone would pay attention, or comment that she’d somehow managed to finish half a sweater since the week before.
KC sidled up to the table, leaving the rest of the women to covet Anita’s wedding coat.
“Hey, kiddo,” she said, picking up the half-sweater and examining it closely. She brought the yarn near her face.
“What do ya think?” asked Dakota, grinning, gleeful at the idea of finishing her mother’s project. It made her feel as though she was doing important business, a private task she was finally mature enough to complete.
“I haven’t seen this for a long time,” said KC. “I might not have recognized it except for that terrible turquoise. A remnant from the 1980s, no doubt. From a sale bin.”
“You know this sweater?” Dakota was excited. “My mom was working it. I just found it again, and I’ve done several rows. There’s not enough yarn left, though. I’ll need to try and locate a match, guess the manufacturer.”
Anita came over, her antenna ever alert to new and interesting knitting projects.
“My goodness,” she exclaimed, looking to Dakota every inch the fairy godmother she always seemed to be, practically glowing in a cream coatdress and her ivory wedding coat. Silver hair framed her face, and her bangs stopped just above her eyes, which were narrowed with concern. “Your mother was doing up this sweater. That very fall.”
“I know,” Dakota said triumphantly, gesturing in the air with a rosewood needle. “And I’m going to finish it for her! I can handle it.”
Anita nodded, relief flooding her face. “Good,” she said. “I think that’s very good.”
“Even I know this sweater,” said KC. “It’s from before you were born. Your mother used to knit this at the office.”
Dakota well knew that KC worked at the publishing house where Georgia had started her career, that Georgia had initially turned to KC as a mentor, and that the two had remained friends after Georgia left her job, became a mother, and transitioned to her career as a knitting mompreneur. Dakota remembered all these facts and yet was shocked that KC could find a connection to the piece. To get an inkling that the sweater was a UFO from before Dakota was born. Why would her mother pick it up again the summer before she died?
“You saw her making it?”
“Oh, hon, she loved to work it at lunch, always going on about her boyfriend. Blah, blah, blah.” KC leaned forward so both elbows rested on the table and flashed a wicked grin. “You know. Your father?”
Dakota instinctively dropped the sweater as though singed. Even though she loved her dad. Lived with him part-time. Even still. This sweater was from . . . before. Before he left her mom pregnant and alone, before he came back and was forgiven, reunited with his family.
She wasn’t so sure that she wanted to finish it anymore. There was much more history in these stitches than Dakota had anticipated.
“Let’s get this meeting under way officially, ladies,” shouted Lucie, breaking Dakota’s thoughts. “Dialing Miss Ginger . . . now.”
She hit the speakerphone function on her cell phone and winked at Dakota. Once, what seemed like not too long ago, it had been up to tweenage Dakota to call the evening to order. Now Georgia’s daughter was a gorgeous woman of twenty, and Lucie’s spirited seven-year-old daughter, Ginger, stayed up a little bit late to do the honors via telephone.
“Mommy!” bellowed Ginger, before launching into an up-to-the-minute description of her evening. “Uncle Dan made ice-cream cones, and Stanton spilled his on Grandma and then the cat tried to eat it off her sleeve and Cady farted into her diaper.”
“So, it’s a good night, Ging?”
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Ginger. The sounds of Velcro could be heard. “Are you ready for attendance? I have my pencils out.”
“Shoot,” said Dakota.
“Okay,” said Ginger, shuffling a paper. She cleared her throat dramatically. “Attention, please. Dakota Walker?”
“Here,” said Dakota, still close enough in age to remember the excitement of being allowed that special privilege of spending time with the ladies.
From her earliest days, she’d been at home in Walker and Daughter, her namesake shop. The long evenings spent hanging out, learning to knit or doing her homework, while her mother totaled up the day’s sales. Georgia had been a single mother focused solely on her daughter and her business, until she finally connected with the women who now sat around the table. Since her death, they formed a tight unit around Dakota, overseeing her through her challenges with her father, James, her summer looking after Ginger while Lucie worked in Italy, her two years at NYU, and her recent switch to pursue her passion for baking at pastry school.
“Anita Lowenstein,” chimed Ginger. “Are you there?”
“I am indeed,” said Anita. “And delighted to be here.” Uncharacteristically preoccupied with her wedding plans, Anita—who looked a good twenty years younger than her close to eight decades—was accustomed to the club members coming to her for advice. Although she still had trouble with her own three sons, who couldn’t bear the idea of their widowed mother marrying again, she made no secret of her maternal feelings for Georgia and, therefore, for Dakota. Her recent reunion with her estranged younger sister, Sarah, had renewed her energy. Combined with her invigorating romance with Marty, who owned the building and ran the deli below the shop, Anita was more content than she’d been since the loss of her surrogate daughter Georgia.
“Pretty Catherine Anderson,” called out Ginger, her mouth so close to the phone that her every breath could be heard. “I’m drawing a picture of you in your gold dress right now. Say hello!”
“Hello,” said Catherine. She liked Lucie’s daughter, had offered to babysit now and again in preparation for her upcoming visit with her friend Marco, who was bringing along his grown son, Roberto, and his twelve-year-old daughter, Allegra. In her forties and still learning to be happily single after a tumultuous divorce years before, Catherine often fell into relationships that didn’t quite satisfy emotionally—including a secretive heady fling last year with Anita’s almost-but-not-quite-separated son Nathan (who promptly returned to his wife post-consummation, naturally). These days, she focused primarily on her antiques shop and wine bar business in Cold Spring, while also making herself indispensable as Anita’s ersatz wedding planner. Late at night, she tapped out pages of a novel loosely based on her teenage years in rural Pennsylvania, when she and her best friend, Georgia Walker, had worked part-time gigs at the Dairy Queen.
“Peri Gayle is next on my list. I’m copying from last week’s,” Ginger explained. “I’m putting you down in green pencil today, plus a butterfly.”
“Good choice,” said Peri. “My new bags are all about being green.” What was supposed to be a temporary spot at the shop before heading to law school developed, over time, into joint ownership with Georgia (and now Dakota). Plus, she devoted herself to the creation of a line of knitted purses, backpacks, and messenger bags, which, thanks to an Italian Vogue photo shoot, had transformed her business from a homegrown concern within the last year into a phenomenon. Peri Pocketbook, the company, was enormously popular—though Peri had trouble keeping up with demand.
And Peri Pocketbook, the person, was still taking baby steps as she remembered to leave time for a personal life; her yearlong online-dating experiment had yielded many dates and one very witty lawyer who might really have potential. Who knows what could happen if she managed to pull off this Thanksgiving-dinner thing? Which was why she’d let Dakota into the kitchen in the first p
lace! And even though her best friend KC would be no help in the cooking department, she was relieved that she wouldn’t have to face her boyfriend’s parents on her own.
“KC Sliverman,” said Ginger, tapping her pencil into the phone. “Please report in.”
“Silverman, Sil-ver-man,” cried out KC in mock astonishment. “I’m always telling you, kiddo, it’s Silverman.”
Ginger giggled. She liked KC. She found her kooky.
KC, a petite fiftysomething, had turned an unexpected layoff in her past into a successful exploration of a second act. While Peri gave up the idea of a law career for herself, she tutored KC, and the two women become close pals as KC completed law school in her late forties and, ultimately, ended up working back at the same publishing company where she’d once been an editor. She’d tried marriage—twice, in fact—but announced (loudly and regularly) that she just wasn’t the committed kind. Brash, child-free, and bursting with energy, KC always shared whatever was on her mind. Though she’d promised Peri she would go easy with her boyfriend’s family on Turkey Day.
“Auntie Darwin Chiu, whose name is different than Uncle Dan Leung,” singsonged Ginger.
Darwin was the mother of twins Cady and Stanton, who lived next door to Ginger (and her mother, Lucie), all under the care of her physician husband tonight. (“It’s not babysitting,” Dan often said. “I’m parenting.”) Once a grad student who ambled into Walker and Daughter to do a research project about the dangers posed to feminism by knitting, Darwin was now a champion of the power of craft and a full-time professor of women’s studies—though, much to her frustration, still without tenure. She juggled research, writing, mothering, and following through on a concept she and Lucie had about creating intelligent, appropriate television for girls. Though the change in the world around them had resulted in some problems gathering funding. Not everything had gone as fluidly as they’d hoped, though Lucie had scaled back on her outside work in the hopes of making progress.
