Kate Jacobs (10 page)

* * *

Or maybe she was. The evening had gone downhill
after the canapés. She pressed a five-dollar bill into the coat-check girl's
hand, made awkward small talk in the elevator, hit the street with James hot on
her heels. C'mon, James had said, let's have one quick stop at a coffee shop
before going home. It'll be a chance to discuss the bike and visits with
Dakota—and all the other guests. Remember how we always loved to gossip about
people? Believe me, there were some real caricatures there. Georgia had put up
token resistance—got to get home so Anita can get some sleep—but the wine made
her feel tired. And she didn't really want to argue. And, well, she was
enjoying being with James just enough to spend a little more time together.
Okay, she said, one coffee. And then a cab home.
Two coffees later—even though she'd switched to decaf—Georgia felt energized,
sitting there with James, talking architecture. Doing a breakdown of the
evening's conversations. Just…chitchatting. It was deeply satisfying to feel
that they were on the same side for once.
"Cat's an all right sort—she's better than many of them," ventured
James.
"What do you mean?"
"The bored housewife. Or, in the case of those with money, the bored
trophy wife." James laughed. "She's not stupid, Georgia. Girls may
grow up dreaming about marrying a rich man, but when their whole life becomes
about being an appendage, the appeal tends to diminish. Look, you knew her when
she was a kid. Was she intelligent?"
"As brainy as they come."
"Then you tell me: Is she satisfied throwing parties and being afraid to
eat the food she serves lest it go to her hips? You wouldn't be." James
took a sip of coffee. "I've seen her kind many times before—worked with
more than a few, too." And bedded them, no doubt, thought Georgia, with
the full-on charm-and-roses treatment. She doubted that wedding bands ever
stood in the way of James's conquests.
"She seems perfectly content to me," Georgia insisted. "And more
than happy to be chilly toward me."
"Oh, that. She's jealous—you're independent, you live by your own rules,
you have a great life and a handsome man who hangs around your shop vying for
your attention." James winked; Georgia shot him a dirty look. "Those
comments?" he said. "She's just getting a little Botox for the
ego."
Georgia rolled her eyes, thinking back to the party. She had held her own at
first, emboldened that some of the guests had read the article about the shop.
Still, she felt jittery—and the feeling began to take over. It was as though
she had stepped into an alternate world. The party was one thing—how often did
she eat risotto with truffle oil—but that was just set-decoration. No, it was
as if by some miracle she was given the chance to see a future that might have
been. With James. If he hadn't slept with his boss all those years ago. If they
had stayed together, even married. He was so attentive in the early evening
that it hurt, and she shooed him off. Mingle, make connections, she'd said
after finishing her great chat about knitwear. I want to check in with Anita on
the cell.
Instead, she walked to the bathroom and blotted a little cold water on her
face. The truth was that acting as James's "date" at Cat's loft had
left her with a racing pulse and a grip in her stomach—and not in the cute
butterfly way. She felt there and not there. As the night progressed, she could
sense the pressure building behind her eyes, wanting to cry as she watched
James work the room. A few times she even heard the word "Dakota" and
saw him making gestures to her and smiling. She smiled back and raised her
glass. She was too practiced at stuffing it down to actually worry that she'd
blubber in public; she'd shed years of tears already. What surprised her was
how she felt devastated all over again. Sure, she could always remember,
intellectually, how difficult it had been to get over him, but it had been a
long, long time since she'd actually physically experienced those feelings. The
anxiety, the nausea, the hope. But that wasn't the problem. What sent her
reeling is that she remembered just how much she had liked James. Just how much
she did like his wit and intelligence and handsome looks. Even if she hated
him, too.
Georgia had returned from the bathroom, nursed a glass of white wine at the
party until it got so warm from her grip that it wasn't even enjoyable anymore,
and then got another. Just so she'd have something to do with her hands. She
was grateful, too: One of the quieter guests, a woman who was a plastic
surgeon, seemed content to stand off to the side and didn't seem to mind that
Georgia stood next to her. The two
wallflowered
the
loft, occasionally commenting to each other on the decor or some oddball human
interest story that had just been in the Sunday
Times.
Dinner hadn't
been much better, across the table from James and sandwiched between two guys
more interested in arguing about the Harvard-Yale game the previous fall.

* * *

And Cat did not speak to her at all.

* * *

Now, in the coffee shop, Georgia took a sip of
her drink. It was bitter. "So, James, you were a real hit with that old
guy, Edgar Edward What's-his-name. He couldn't stop talking about everything
you've done." Georgia stirred more sugar into her decaf.
"'You must be quite exceptional?' Oh, Walker, you spend too much time in
the shop—and to think you're raising a black daughter." James made a wry
face and leaned forward, dropping his usual light manner. "'Exceptional'
is the modern version of 'You must be a credit to your race.' It's a code.
Doubletalk." James looked deep into Georgia's eyes. "I know people. I
know they say things to you."
Georgia looked away, embarrassed, even feeling slightly guilty. It was true.
Too often she'd seen the look of surprise flash in a stranger's eyes before
being replaced by a PC neutrality when she introduced Dakota as her daughter.
And how many times had new customers looked at
Peri
and assumed that she must be Dakota's mother? She'd lost count. Georgia
faltered, looked at James. "I do the best I can," she said softly.
"It's not my fault people act the way they do."
He sighed. "It's not about fault, Georgia. It's about teaching her how to
deal with that crap. Can you honestly do that?"
"Don't be angry with me! You're the one who wasn't around." Georgia
didn't know where the conversation was going, but she knew they were back on
opposing sides. Again.
"I'm not angry—I'm just saying that I'm here now and I need more time with
my little girl. I have things to teach her that you'll never be able to—"
James's voice was rising, but he caught himself. "Do you think tonight was
the first time I was the only black person in the room? And how do you think
that feels?"
"So what do you want? Do you think I've just wandered about in a vacuum?
I've read books about being black, about being half-black, about mothers whose
daughters look different than they do. Just so I could understand."
Georgia was riled. "She's smart, healthy, happy. A beautiful little girl.
You know, I didn't grow up learning how to style black hair. But I learned, Mr.
Foster. I learned. I learned because I was here, at home, working hard and
doing my best. Being Dakota's mom isn't about being black or white. It's about
being here. Which I was. Am. Not like you, slinking your way through Paris and
fucking every woman you met!" So this is what he'd wanted to talk about
all along? The reason he'd come back? To save the daughter he abandoned from
her inept white mother? The familiar comfortableness of sharing a coffee the
moment before might not have been real, she thought. James was just
manipulating her again. Again. Why was she always so stupid? She stood up
quickly, both hands flat on the table.
"If your daughter needed a black mother then maybe you should have screwed
a black woman!" Georgia was out the door and in a cab before she realized
she'd forgotten her silver wrap on the coffee-shop chair, her bag in one hand
and her cloth coat over her arm, getting goose bumps from the chilly March
night. "Broadway and Seventy-seventh," she blurted to the taxi
driver. Georgia felt blindsided. Was he going to make some sort of power play?
She wanted to get home to Dakota and hold her. There is never such a thing as
being too ready for the bad, she thought. But why does it never work? Georgia
knew how impossible it was to recognize the moment that everything changes;
it's only with hindsight that the hidden clues are
sussed
out: A night of intense lovemaking is revealed to be the last night of being
together; a casual conversation about how many towels to pack can be the last
words shared for over twenty years. And suddenly her carefully created world
was invaded, her little shop hosting her two greatest enemies on the same
morning. James was back and he was everywhere—in the shop, out with Dakota, in
her thoughts. And now there was Cathy, Cat, too.
The bright yellow car screeched away from the curb, picking up speed, as her
tears finally started to fall in ugly hulking sobs.

five

The hall light was on as James turned his key
in the lock
with his left hand, Georgia's wrap folded neatly in his right. Forty-year-old
men don't leave a light on when they go out at night, he knew.
Except, of course, that he did. Always had. James could never stand to come
home alone. To an empty house. An empty bed.
He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge door to survey the contents.
Several bottles of water stared back at him. Grabbing one, he twisted off the
cap and sat down, in the half-dark, on his black leather sofa, surprised to
discover just how uncomfortable his minimalist furniture really was. James
didn't lounge around his place too often. Well, ever, really. He got up,
pacing. The wrap was still in his hand; he brought it up to his nose and took a
deep sniff, felt the softness of the yarn, ran his finger over the perfect
stitches. She had talent, all right.
He breathed into the wrap again. It was weird, being this close to something of
Georgia's. It felt illicit, exciting, unbelievable. Arousing. Even after more
than a decade, he marveled at how she still smelled the same. Floral and fresh.
His pillows would carry her scent for hours, days even, after an evening (or
morning or afternoon) of nibbling and tasting and touching. James knew it: He'd
shared a good thing with Georgia.
But new sex is hard to turn down.
Back then he hadn't realized the challenge of clicking with a woman. Of
actually liking her. That a beautiful woman can turn out to be boring, and a
quirky-looking chick can keep you guessing a lot longer than you anticipated.
Like Sabrina, with the gap between her teeth, who had settled into his pricey
Paris digs shortly after he first arrived, who behaved in the French way and
turned a blind eye to his indiscretions.
They had been happy together. Happy enough. Only it wasn't, he hated to admit
to himself, as good as when he was with Georgia.
James tossed the wrap onto the couch. A man can't turn the clock back, he said
aloud, get it through your head. Still. He'd expected Georgia's anger, prepared
reasons and justifications for why Georgia should let him back in his
daughter's life, anticipated Dakota's confusion (which, thankfully, there
hadn't been too much of—he was beginning to suspect that Georgia hadn't spoken
ill of him over the years, judging from his daughter's willingness to get to
know him). But then to meet Georgia again, see the girl he knew grown up into a
woman. The sarcasm given way to a wry humor, the cleverness deepened into a
savvy business mind. And the way she held herself at the party last night! It
was a revelation. He hadn't expected to find Georgia so capable. So confident.
So…alluring.
So much his equal.

* * *

If it was morning, it had to be coffee. And
lots of it. With just a few sprinkles of local sweetener. And maybe a piece of
fruit. A tiny piece. To celebrate. The party had gone quite well; James Foster
was a real find. The guests had loved him. Even Adam was smiling today.
"That was an interesting evening, Cat. I think Stephen and I worked out
the details of our latest deal." Adam Phillips was tucking into a plate of
eggs and bacon. He gave her a satisfied grin, a tiny bit of yolk slopped on his
chin.
"And I think you were the third-prettiest woman in the room."
Cat looked out a window as Adam continued to eat. "Don't you agree? I
mean, Madison Fleischman always had just that edge on you. And that
curly-haired woman just looked ripe. Where did you find her?"
"She's an old friend from high school. I just ran into her again."
"Well, she's certainly come a long way from
Bumpkinland
,
I'll give her that much. Nice ass, too." Cat was used to Adam's behavior
after fifteen years of marriage, accustomed to the way he assessed women's
bodies in the same reasonable tones as he talked about the stock market. As if
they were on view precisely for his evaluation. There was no leering with Adam,
just a calm expectation that he could choose to have whatever appeared before
him. He didn't care that much how Cat felt about how he acted, having long ago
stopped thinking about her as something separate from him.
"I'm going in to the office to finalize this thing with good old
Steve-o."
"It's Sunday," answered Cat, still staring out the window, secretly
hoping he would go.
"Right," he said, picking up the front page and the business section
of the
New York Times
and walking to the elevator, grabbing his coat
along the way. He left without saying good-bye.
Cat slowly let out her breath, easing back into her chair. She took in the
room, all put back together by the catering and cleaning crew, no sign of the
event the previous evening. Nothing to tidy. Not that she was eager to clean.
Far from it. But it's just that there was nothing to do. There never was.
Oh, she could fit in an exercise class. Review her social diary. The
fund-raisers. The dinners. The lunches. Go shopping. Plan yet another party.
But what she wanted to do was go into her own office. Have a business card—not
a calling card—to hand to friends and colleagues. To sit in on meetings and
make decisions that mattered.
When she was seventeen, she wanted to be a journalist. When she was nineteen,
she wanted to be an artist. And by the time she was twenty-one, art history
degree in hand, she had a vague notion about
curating
at a museum. But she'd gotten sidetracked, in lust and love with Adam and the
life he offered.
"Be a docent," he had said when she revealed her desire to go back to
school, to get a PhD in art history. "We'll have kids soon enough and
they'll keep you busy." But there weren't any children. Adam shot blanks
thanks to a childhood accident, though he adamantly refused to accept it,
instead sending Cat for every manner of invasive procedure.
She flipped on the TV, caught the last moment of a PSA. "Don't be a
fool—stay in school!" bellowed some sitcom actor.
No kidding, thought Cat, no kidding.