Knit the Season

  “We’re agreeing to disagree,” said James. “She seems to believe becoming an adult means always choosing work.”

  “I’ve never quite had that mind-set,” admitted Catherine. “But Georgia did.”

  “And so did I,” said James, the frustration evident in his voice. “But sometimes you have to realize there are more important things, dammit.” He was frustrated.

  “Dakota thinks you have a girlfriend,” Catherine blurted, trying to change the topic. “A serious one. But I told her I didn’t think so.”

  “Umm, she does?” asked James. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Do you have someone serious, James? Are you in love or something? Why haven’t you said anything? I tell you about Marco.”

  “And where that’s concerned, Catherine, you’ll be fabulous,” said James, talking quickly. “Take a deep breath and don’t give Marco a sloppy, wet kiss in front of his kids and you’ll be fine. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  Catherine let her hand that was holding the phone drop to her side. Apparently, Dakota was correct in her assumption about her father. It felt final even to consider the idea that he might fall in love—real love—with someone other than Georgia. Would he marry her? What would Dakota call her? What would Georgia think?

  If this is how I feel about James finding a girlfriend, she thought, I can only imagine how strange this holiday will be for Marco’s children. Hanging out with her when they’d rather be with their mother, if only she were still alive. Maybe this had all been a bad idea?

  “I’m the girlfriend,” she said aloud. “The girlfriend,” she repeated to a stranger walking in the corridor. I’m the person standing where their mother ought to be, she realized. Catherine put on her coat, firm in her decision to go home and wait for Marco to let her know when he’d arrived. If he wanted to. If she wanted him to.

  Unexpectedly, a person stood up and left a seat empty in the waiting area.

  “That’s mine!” shouted Catherine, practically hopping over the legs of random people to snag the available chair, sighing with relief at the sheer joy of resting her sore feet. These boots are made for taking taxicabs, she reflected, looking at her five-inch heels. She’d stood for hours, and now she squirmed as her feet tingled, the blood rushing back to her toes.

  Never is when Catherine had waited to pick up someone from the airport. It hadn’t struck her as something necessary. Her cheating ex-husband made it home on his terms, and she learned to accept that sometimes he took trips without her. Oh, she’d seethed, but she survived.

  Now she wished she’d brought flowers. Catherine could barely sit still. She wanted to see Marco the minute he walked off that plane. But thanks to the rules and regs of the new world, she had to content herself with toughing it out with the rest of the waiting hordes in baggage claim.

  The arrivals board updated again; another forty-five minutes were tacked on.

  “Hello,” said Catherine, raising a hand above her head but careful not to stand lest someone dive for her seat. “Anyone here want a bagel? Seems like we could be here all night . . .”

  Catherine had barely slept since the Toscano family arrived in New York, showing off her beloved city. Sarah’s husband, Enzo, had been grateful to settle into a bed and recover from the stress of travel. The rest of the crew took on Manhattan, seventysomething Sarah included. An entire day at Central Park, beginning with carriage rides, skating at Wollman Rink, and finally warming up over dinner at Tavern on the Green, the restaurant decked out in garlands and Christmas trees, as they watched through the wall of windows the snow dusting the treetops. That was followed up with stops at the ballet, the theater, the museums, shopping, The Rockettes.

  “Catherine, Catherine,” said Marco, pulling her aside after a long day of sightseeing. “The schedule is very active. But didn’t you plan any time for us to be alone?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to take you away from your family . . .” She didn’t want to tell him she was nervous, worried about how the children would feel to spend a holiday in New York. And that she was nervous, certain he was going to want to make things official, and that she was equally certain she wasn’t ready for such a move. “I thought it would be better this way,” she continued.

  “It’s good, yes,” he said, bringing his lips close to her ear. “But Roberto is a young man now, with not so much interest in tagging along with his papa. And Allegra just needs a good night’s sleep. She could go spend an evening with her nona Sarah and her aunt Anita while Marty and Enzo keep each other company. Then you and I could be together. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “Yes,” agreed Catherine, feeling torn. “But then Allegra would miss the lunch I planned at the Russian Tea Room. Doesn’t she want to have tea?”

  “Oh, bella,” said Marco. “You have all of tomorrow to plan another perfect day. Let’s turn the children over to Sarah and take a walk, just the two of us.” She agreed.

  Hand in hand, they strolled down Central Park South, not even speaking for several minutes as they savored each other’s company. Catherine didn’t know what she wanted more: to take Marco aside and kiss him deeply or to pepper him with questions. But he seemed to be in no rush, content simply to be together on a crisp winter night.

  Eventually they ducked into a hotel, stepping out of coats and scarves to enjoy a couple of dry martinis at the bar.

  Marco looked over the wine list. “I wish they had Cara Mia,” he noted.

  “I know a great little shop upstate that carries it,” Catherine purred. Marco smiled; Catherine’s interest in his wine is what had initially brought them together.

  “This issue has been on my mind often,” he said. Catherine held her breath, certain what was coming next. She’d have to turn him down, of course, but that didn’t mean the romance was over. Not in any way. She loved him. She hoped he knew that. She paused.

  Marco cleared his throat.

  “It’s time to invest, you know,” he began. “In something new.”

  Catherine nodded vigorously, taking a large gulp from her glass. Oh, this might be difficult. He looked so eager.

  “So, I’ve made a decision, and I hope you agree,” said Marco, stretching forward and placing his fingers lightly on her knee. “I hope you’re as thrilled as I am.”

  “Oh, Marco, I know . . .” Her voice trailed off as Marco stared intently at her, politely waiting. He was such a gentleman. She did love him. Maybe she’d been too hasty after all, to dismiss outright the idea of marrying again. Yes, she could do it. She could be ready. No, she was ready. She was definitely going to say yes. Catherine swallowed. C’mon, Anderson, she thought. Admit it. You’ve wanted this all along—the man, the kids, the marriage. They’d sort out the details later. Oh, she hoped they had a very extravagant bottle of bubbly at this bar.

  “Catherine, did you want to tell me something?” asked Marco. “You look like the cat that ate the canary bird.”

  “No!” Catherine practically shouted. “You first. Go on. Go!” Marco’s eyes widened with excitement. “Okay,” he said, as loud as she was. “I am going to buy a vineyard in America.”

  “You’re what?” Catherine began coughing, having swallowed her drink the wrong way. She began flailing her arms a bit as Marco patted her enthusiastically on her back.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “It’s scary. But it means I can rationalize more trips here—and, above all, break into the American market in a big way.”

  “Anything else?” Her voice was still froggy from coughing. But she had to know.

  “Yes,” boomed Marco, as Catherine held her breath expectantly. “I’m going to try a new grape.”

  She managed a tiny smile. “I think it’s a great idea. Just stupendous,” she muttered, peeking into her glass in case there were any diamonds floating on the bottom. Perhaps she just missed the big moment? All she could see were two overstuffed green olives bobbing in gin, and neither of those would look very good on her finger.

&nbs
p; Sometimes a walk is just a walk, Catherine, she reminded herself. Sometimes a drink is just to discuss an exciting new business development. She felt embarrassed and foolish.

  “What?” Marco brought his face closer to hers. “I thought you’d be so happy. Enough with this going slow business! I did it your way for over a year, and now we do it my way.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “We spend lots of time together. We take picnics. We have big, roaring fights, and we don’t worry that it will be a big deal because we won’t see each other for months,” he said. “We get to love each other.”

  “But you’ll still have Cara Mia in Italy?” said Catherine. Besides, she thought they loved each other already.

  “Of course,” said Marco. “Though I have another reason to want to be here as well. Roberto has been accepted at a school in Florida. He’s going to get a degree in flying. He tried the wine business, and now he wants to do his own passion. He honored his end of our bargain, now I honor his. Don’t let on that I said anything. He wants to tell Dakota first of all.”

  “Okay,” said Catherine, though she suspected Dakota had moved on. “And what does your daughter think of your world-domination plan?”

  “Allegra has gone to boarding school for so long that she looks at it as a second home,” said Marco. “I’m always a jet away, no matter where I am.”

  “Sounds like you have it all figured out,” said Catherine. “You know, maybe we should call it an early night. I think I’m as tired as your kids.” She’d been referring to Roberto and Allegra as “the” kids for days now, but it didn’t seem as though Marco noticed the difference.

  “I’d like to go to bed also,” said Marco, caressing her cheek. His touch felt very, very good, and as much as Catherine wanted to nurse her crushed hopes, she wanted to enjoy some private time with Marco much more.

  “Okay,” said Catherine, leaning her head to the right, an invitation for him to caress her neck.

  “Bartender!” he said, gesturing animatedly. “Bring the check, and pronto!”

  “Isn’t it wonderful, Marty?” Anita beamed at her gray-haired fiancé, standing several steps back to take in the view.

  She loved it when her living room was full of family, when the cushions were thrown off her neatly arranged cream sofa and piled on the floor so the kids could lean forward on their elbows and chat. It reminded her of when her boys were young, when she was young.

  Allegra turned and yawned widely, her hand covering her mouth. Even though she’d visited with Sarah and her grandchildren in Italy over the past year, it was clear—from the long pauses in conversations and the formal way the children spoke to her—that they were still figuring out their way around one another. What was particularly special about tonight, however, was that there was no occasion, no party. The fact that Sarah called and asked if they could come by that very evening demonstrated to Anita how far they’d advanced. They were acting like what they were: a real family. And it was amazing.

  Two days from now would be the last night of Hanukkah, and she had organized a catered buffet and a selection of wines from Marco’s Cara Mia vineyard for that event. But this evening was a different type of celebration, a chance to light candles with Sarah as they had once done in their youth. Certainly, she knew that Sarah’s life had diverged from how they were raised, but a family-only ritual was something she very much wanted to share with Allegra and Roberto. To show them their heritage and teach them to be as proud of their Jewishness as their identification as Italian.

  Roberto and his younger sister listened politely to the prayers and watched with interest as Anita used the center candle to light six more flames on the menorah. But they smiled most broadly when Anita invited them into the kitchen to watch her fry homemade latkes.

  As the night grew late, Allegra snoozed in the guest bedroom while Roberto sat at the dining table and texted his friends. Marty turned in early, with the intention of giving Anita and her sister the opportunity to talk. They sat, silver heads close together, murmuring in the living room.

  “The children are happy to be in New York,” said Sarah. “It seems so glamorous to them.”

  “Aren’t you enjoying the trip?” asked Anita.

  Sarah shrugged. “It’s difficult to be back, in some ways,” she explained. “A lot of what-ifs are still floating about in the air.”

  Anita placed her hand over her sister’s and held on tightly. Sarah patted her lightly.

  “We’re long over feeling bad, Anita,” she said. “But it’s peculiar how a scent—the nuts roasting on the streets, for example—takes me back to another time. Remember how I used to watch Nathan all the time? I can’t wait to see him at the wedding. He was such a special boy.”

  “Well, he’s developed into quite a difficult man, I can assure you,” said Anita.

  Sarah listened as Anita ran through a litany of complaints about her eldest.

  “Do you ever wonder,” she asked Anita, “why it’s so easy to see how someone else makes mistakes and so hard to see our own?”

  “If you think I’m doing something wrong, then just tell me,” she insisted.

  “Who am I to say?” said Sarah. “But I do know how difficult it is to see another person where someone you love ought to be.”

  Anita felt a twist in her heart. How painful it must be for Sarah to see her son-in-law, Marco, courting Catherine. How difficult to be gracious while suffering inwardly because the new romance was a constant reminder that your own daughter had died, leaving her family behind. Reflexively, Anita thought of Georgia and Dakota and James.

  “The holidays can make those things more difficult,” she said.

  Sarah shook her head. “It’s not just Hanukkah or Christmas or New Year’s,” she said. “It’s the birthday parties, the anniversaries, the Tuesdays you often got together for a glass of wine. It’s all the small minutes you shared, the inconsequential stuff, that makes its absence felt most powerfully.”

  “Catherine is a good person,” said Anita. “She’s not without flaws, I’d be the first to say so, but she is very caring. She loves your grandchildren.”

  “This I know,” said Sarah. “Otherwise, I would have chased her away a long time ago. But it doesn’t change my loss. That’s a constant.”

  “I understand,” said Anita, wanting to share a story about an afternoon she and Georgia mislabeled all the skeins of yarn and stayed up half the night to get things in order for the grand opening of Walker and Daughter. But she held back, knowing that tonight was for Sarah and her memories.

  “What will you do if things get serious with Catherine and Marco?” she inquired.

  “Well, I’ll do what any good grandmother would do,” said Sarah. “I’ll teach her how to cook properly. And who knows? Maybe I’ll even find a way to love her like you do.”

  chapter eight

  There was a sari shop on the corner, its windows filled with mannequins enrobed in fuchsias and golds, in place of what had once been a butcher shop. More than forty years ago.

  “It’s so much to take in,” said Sarah, a hand on Anita’s arm. The two sisters had often talked about taking a trip to see the old neighborhood during their previous visits in the past year but one way or another had managed to fill up their days looking at old photographs, knitting on Anita’s wedding coat, or simply swapping stories of all the events they’d missed in their decades of separation. “Next time we’ll see the old home,” they would say, “next time.” And now it was next time. Anita had arranged for a car service to drive them around the area in Queens where their parents had lived and where they had grown up, weaving in and out of the streets where they played as little girls and were walked home on dates as young women. They rode in the backseat of the car for half an hour before Sarah was ready to dry her eyes, button up her coat, and stroll around.

  “I can see it all in my mind as it was,” continued Sarah. “And it’s just . . . disappeared. Of course it has, why wouldn’t it
? That would have happened whether I was in New York or in Rome. And yet I rather expected to see what I left behind.”

  “You just held on to it as it used to be,” whispered Anita, as she led her sister down the street. “I avoided this area all through the seventies and eighties, because every time a store-front would change I’d know that meant somebody died or moved away.”

  “I wanted to show my husband,” said Sarah. “But there’s nothing here to show. The homes have other families. The synagogue is a community center. The only thing left is the old public high school. But I doubt the girls are in bobby socks and circle skirts.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Anita. “My actions . . . I . . . That’s what took it away. Your home. Your birthright.”

  Sarah leaned in close to her older sister; two silver-haired beauties huddled against the chill of old pains.

  “There’s no use to come of that,” she said finally. “So, I was away. And now I’m back. This is our strange journey together. But even if our neighborhood is now for another generation, at least we are together.”

  “Do you believe Mother and Father know?” asked Anita.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Sarah. “And I don’t think they’d think much of the sari shop.”

  She squeezed Anita’s hand as they ambled past street vendors selling books on tables or putting together food from carts, and a guitarist playing classic rock songs in front of an open guitar case. Sarah threw in five dollars, then five more.

  “Who knows?” she said. “Maybe he’s just raising money to get home for the holidays.”

  Ginger was intrigued, Anita could tell, by the display of dreidels on the coffee table. She reached out to touch them, was reprimanded by her mother, and then tried to spin again when Lucie wasn’t looking. Darwin was having a similar issue with the twins, who were more interested in tasting the colorful spinning tops than playing with them.