Knit Two

  “Oh, not a real real crisis,” said Lucie, making a face. “An I’m-about-to-lose-my-job kind of crisis.”

  “Well then,” said Catherine. “I’m sure I’ll be of great help. Need an extra camera person?”

  “No,” said Lucie. “It’s Isabella. She’s become besotted with this damn wine you had to bring over.”

  “I thought you arranged to get the stock from several of the local stores to put together a case for her?”

  “I did,” said Lucie. “It wasn’t enough. She doesn’t need to drink it now, she says. She just needs to know she’ll be able to drink it at her leisure.”

  “So she’s demanding more wine because theoretically she might want to enjoy it at some unknown point in the future?” asked Catherine. “Remind me again why I’ve been awakened for this so-not-an-emergency-I’m-going-to-get-wrinkles-from-lack-of-good-sleep?”

  “Because she’s a rock star,” said Lucie. “And she wants to be comped.”

  “Comped?”

  “Celebs don’t pay for half the stuff they have,” explained Lucie. “It’s given to them. Thank you so much for wearing the sunglasses my company produces: May we please give you the best of our line?”

  “Nice,” said Catherine. “Those who can afford it most get it for free.”

  “It’s a publicity thing,” said Lucie. “A celeb uses a product, we the minions run out to buy it.”

  “I’ve never purchased anything I read about in People magazine,” said Catherine. “Except for Crème de la Mer. But that’s it!”

  She ambled over to the sofa and sat down, curling her bare feet under her and grabbing a pillow to her stomach. Involuntarily, Catherine’s eyes began to close, even as she sat up.

  “No,” cried Lucie. “You have to help me. She wants Cara Mia Vineyard to send her a selection of wines, for free.”

  “A few bottles?”

  “Several cases,” said Lucie glumly.

  “Look, doesn’t she have a personal assistant who can call them?” Catherine decided to come clean. “I practically stood them up. I’d gone on and on about going out to see the vineyard and how it was so important to me and then I just blew it off. I canceled. My contact, Marco, has sent me three or four e-mails suggesting different days, and I’ve answered none of them. I feel awkward coming in now and saying, ‘I’d like several cases of free wine for Isabella, please.’ I don’t know her. I don’t even know them.”

  Lucie paced the length of the suite. “I have to get to the set in a half-hour,” she said. “Here’s the thing: Isabella fixates. That’s how I got hired—she was obsessed with a video I did for a boy band back in the U.S. So she wouldn’t settle for anyone else.”

  “Compulsion as a path to success?” asked Catherine. “Instead of just a route to drive everyone else crazy.”

  “Her focus is what makes her the top of the charts around here—she practices and practices until she’s perfectly amazing. But she’s decided she wants this wine. Nothing else will do. In truth, I think she just likes the label.”

  Catherine flopped back on the sofa. “No promises,” she said.

  “You’re good people, Catherine,” said Lucie, smiling broadly. “Even when you spend so much time pretending otherwise.”

  “And now you’ll go and I can sleep?”

  “And now I’ll go, and you can stay up for an hour and call that Marco guy,” said Lucie. “The word is that Isabella doesn’t want to come out of her trailer until she’s certain she’s getting the wine.”

  “Ever think she’s just yanking your chain?” asked Catherine.

  “At the rates they’re paying, it’s not in my interest to question,” said Lucie. “Ginger’s going to head to first grade in Prada loafers.”

  “How cute!”

  “Uh, I was actually just joking,” said Lucie. “We could afford them once the summer’s over, but I’ll be tucking that money into her college fund and sending her to school in Crocs instead.”

  She headed for the door. “Don’t sleep!” commanded Lucie. “I’ll be calling you in a few hours to check on your progress.”

  “Hi, Marco,” said Catherine in her mind, imagining what she’d say to her phone crush. “I was wondering if you could send me a truckload of vino for this spoiled rock star I don’t really know. No, no, I doubt she’ll endorse your wine. And I don’t think she’s going to be able to be photographed carrying it in her handbag. So what are you getting for your generous gift? Not a whole hell of a lot that I can see.”

  That approach, she concluded, was unlikely to work.

  The cell phone rang and it was Lucie, checking in as threatened. Catherine let it go through to voice mail. And then she took a deep breath and, rather embarrassed, called Marco. She thought of trying to affect a seductive phone persona, but that felt like the old her. Before she and Julius Caesar had had their meeting of the minds.

  “Catherine!” cried Marco upon hearing her voice. “I have been worried about you. One moment I expect you to be coming, and then the next I do not hear from you anymore. I thought you might have gotten ill, or had an accident.”

  “No, no, Marco,” said Catherine. “I’ve just been very . . . busy with things in Venice and Rome. My schedule changed.” She stopped speaking.

  “No, Marco,” she said now. “The truth is that I had some personal matters to attend to. I’ve been inconsiderate and I’m sorry.”

  “Is there anything I can do? Are you in trouble?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Catherine. “But I do need to ask you a favor. For a friend. I don’t even know where to begin because it’s not really my place to ask this of you, and . . .”

  “Just ask me,” said Marco. “Anything for you.”

  “Marco, you don’t even know me,” said Catherine. “You have no idea what I’m about to say. We’ve never even met.”

  “I don’t care,” he said. “I already like you. You are one of my favorite Americans.”

  “Have you met any others?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And I like you very much.”

  Catherine quickly outlined the situation, then waited for Marco to offer to either say no or send one case. Instead, he quickly agreed to send a substantial quantity of wine to Isabella.

  “This is really not necessary,” said Catherine.

  “But it is,” said Marco. “Because you’ve asked it of me.”

  “What can I do to repay you?”

  “Oh, now you offend me,” said Marco. “I do not send this wine with any expectation of any kind. I do it because you are my friend.”

  How nice, thought Catherine. She didn’t think a man had ever done something for her without expecting something in return. Without even seeing her, or having to flash him a little bust or thigh. It was altogether refreshing. She passed along the specifics that Lucie had given her about address and location, and then she went back to bed, quite pleased with herself, her good deed done for the day. And, as she thought about it, probably for the entire summer.

  The best thing about being self-employed, Catherine had often explained to Dakota, was being able to set your own schedule.

  “Sometimes you have to work in the middle of the night,” she told her. “And other days you can sleep in and eat breakfast at noon.”

  Currently, Dakota had eaten early, because Ginger woke up when Lucie was leaving and could not be persuaded to go back to bed.

  “C’mon,” she told her now. “Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.” Her goal was not particularly honorable: she planned to march Ginger around until she begged to go home and take a nap.

  They saw James at the elevator on their way out.

  “Hi, Dad,” said Dakota.

  “Hi, Mr. Foster,” said Ginger. “Want to take Sweetness to work with you?”

  “That’s very generous of you,” said James with utter seriousness. “But I’m afraid I just wouldn’t know what to do if Sweetness got lonely. She might prefer to go with the two of you.”

  Ginger con
sidered James’s point. “You’re right, I think,” she said to him. “But you can come over and visit all of us later.”

  “I’d like that very much,” he said, patting Dakota on the shoulder as they entered the elevator.

  The weather was overcast as they exited the hotel lobby; the first dreary day in a beautifully sunny—and very busy—two weeks.

  “Ginger,” said Dakota. “Have you ever been to a museum?”

  “Yeah,” said Ginger sullenly, looking up through her strawberry blond bangs. “Look here. Don’t run. Don’t touch. There’s no ice cream. And no fun.”

  “Okay,” said Dakota, thinking on her feet. “Let’s try something different. Can you count to ten?”

  “Yeah,” said Ginger, insulted. “One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten!” She shouted to bring home her point.

  “What if I told you that we were going to go to a beautiful building, and we’ll count out ten things,” said Dakota. “Ten things that you pick out—and you have to tell me a story about each one.”

  “No,” said Ginger. “We trade stories.”

  “Done deal,” said Dakota, shaking hands with her charge. “And if you don’t whine at all, we will definitely have ice cream.”

  Dakota steered Ginger down and across the street, occasionally checking her map to make sure they were moving in the right direction. Several times along the way, Ginger ran ahead.

  “Don’t leave me behind, Ginger,” said Dakota. “I might get lost if you do that.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Ginger, falling back to hold Dakota’s hand.

  In a few minutes, she let go and started to dart forward, entranced by the colorful display in a store window.

  “Slow down, cowgirl,” said Dakota.

  “But I wanna see,” said Ginger.

  “No,” said Dakota. “You have to walk with me.”

  Ginger stuck her hands in the pockets of her capri pants and stopped moving. She was only a few steps away. “So you come here,” she said.

  “No,” said Dakota, who also stood still. Apparently, she’d just entered a standoff with a kindergartner.

  “No,” said Ginger.

  Dakota leaned on the building and waited, calmly. Unlike Lucie, she had no place she needed to go. She and Ginger could play at this game all day.

  “I could run away,” said Ginger.

  “I could catch you,” said Dakota.

  Ginger thought about this for several moments, then took a few steps toward Dakota.

  “You’re funny,” she told Dakota.

  “You’re fun,” said Dakota, who wasn’t feeling exactly that. Ginger’s favorite word, she was starting to realize, was “no.” Not just saying it—though she did an awful lot of that, too—but hearing it. She liked to have Dakota stand up to her.

  If it was stressful to figure out her life now, thought Dakota, imagine how hard it must be to be five years old and in a position to make all the decisions.

  “Let’s go get a gelato,” she said, even though it was before lunch.

  “Can I have any flavor I want?” asked Ginger.

  “No,” said Dakota. “You can have either chocolate or vanilla. And next time we go, you can pick between two different flavors. But just two choices.”

  To her surprise, Ginger didn’t put up a fuss at all. Instead, hand on her chin, she thought about Dakota’s offer. “Can I get two scoops?” she asked.

  “No,” said Dakota. “You just get one.”

  “Okay,” said Ginger amiably. “I’ll take it.”

  The evening promised to be quite an adventure: Lucie called to let Dakota know she could bring Ginger down to the shoot. And Dakota, who had never been around a real set, could barely sleep even though she’d hoped to take a nap alongside Ginger.

  She dressed with care, once again putting on her red tunic-style cabled sweater, but this time she wore it over jeans and boots. Catherine came by, wearing black slacks and a camel cape that fell to her hips, wearing seriously high heels. She looked like a giant. Ginger also selected her own outfit: a pink long-sleeve tee over which she layered a SpongeBob shirt.

  “And jeans, like Dakota,” she explained to Catherine.

  “Very nice,” said Catherine, who was trying to brush the tangles out of Ginger’s hair, captivated by the softness of her babyish waves and the sweet smell of her shampoo. She had just enough baby left in her, with her slight chubbiness and round cheeks, thought Catherine, to make you want to smush her little tummy with raspberry kisses. Moments like these, as Dakota put shoes on small feet and tied laces, while Ginger chattered on about whether or not Sweetness would like to be in a music video, made her believe Lucie was a very smart woman indeed. She hadn’t waited for some theoretical Mr. Right to come along, but had been brave enough to decide to parent alone.

  Of course, when Ginger was putting up a fuss, Catherine told herself that Lucie was nuts. So it was all a matter of timing, really.

  But good Ginger was in full force, and the trio took a cab to meet Lucie on the set.

  Catherine expected to find a harried Lucie, rushing around, muttering to herself. She often seemed overwhelmed when she came to club meetings, frustrated and on edge. So it was a revelation to arrive at the shoot, get past the security guards, and enter a military-style operation: Lucie was in complete command of the scene. Everyone—the camera operators, the gaffers, the stylist, even Isabella herself—was following each and every direction Lucie gave.

  “And cut!” shouted Lucie, before turning to catch a running Ginger in her arms.

  “You’re so smart, Mommy,” said Ginger. For the second time in an evening, Catherine envied her.

  “Catherine,” said Lucie, tamping down Ginger’s hair to see. “Thank you so much. The personal touch went a huge way.”

  “All I made was a phone call,” said Catherine, though she was quite pleased with herself.

  “I know, but for them to come all this way,” said Lucie. “I’m eternally grateful.”

  “For who to come all this way?”

  “Those gentlemen,” said Lucie, pointing to a dark-haired man and a much taller boy, about twenty, waving delightedly and starting to come over.

  “Who’s that?” said Dakota. “Because he is cute.”

  “That’s Roberto Toscano,” said Lucie. “And his father, Marco.”

  Catherine didn’t move a muscle. She hadn’t expected him to show up personally. And it was one thing to have a nice phone crush on a man, and quite another to have to meet him in person. He looked different from how she envisioned. Not as tall as he sounded, for one thing, and while he was nice-looking, he wasn’t quite as movie star-like as she figured he must be. He was, in fact, quite an ordinary man. But then he opened his mouth and she heard that gorgeous baritone.

  “It’s so wonderful to meet you, Catherine,” said Marco, offering her a handshake.

  “I thought for sure you’d kiss her hand,” said Dakota. “Isn’t that what all Italians do when they meet a lady?”

  Marco inclined his head and smiled, then took Dakota’s hand and kissed it. “A very beautiful young lady,” he said. “Your daughter?” he asked Catherine. And for the third time that night, Catherine felt again a sense of something she’d missed.

  “I could only be so lucky,” she said. “But Dakota is the daughter of a dear friend of mine.”

  “Well, then we must take all of you out for a wonderful dinner tonight to celebrate our meeting new friends,” said Marco.

  “Sure,” said Dakota, whose eyes were firmly planted on Roberto, who was every bit as chiseled as his father was not. The kid could be a model, thought Catherine, not blaming Dakota for her attentions.

  “We couldn’t,” said Catherine. “You’ve done too much.”

  “I insist,” said Marco.

  “I don’t know about you all,” said Lucie. “But I’m freakin’ starved. It’s been a long, long day. Mr. Toscano, you do too much. But I, for one, am gracious enough to accept.”

 
“Then it’s decided,” said Marco. “Tonight you are all going to savor the flavors of Italy.”

  twenty-five

  There was another half-hour of shooting before they could all leave for dinner, and Catherine pretended to be fascinated by the comings and goings on the set. Marco tried, more than once, to start a conversation: he commented on the weather. Asked about her flight. Told her how pleased he was that her shop carried his family’s wines. But none of it made a dent in Catherine’s resolve. She was downright cold.

  Her natural impulse was to flirt and try to get attention. That had its place, but now that she was trying to recover, she wasn’t about to let herself get distracted. Marco’s presence was a test. A deep-voiced, wine-delivering, nice-guy test.

  At the restaurant, she insisted on sitting between Ginger and Dakota, letting Lucie have the place beside Marco on the banquette. Dakota, on the other hand, was only too delighted to sit next to Roberto, who seemed equally enthralled. As Marco struggled to make conversation with Catherine, Dakota and Roberto chattered away about Isabella.

  “She said again how much she likes my tunic,” Dakota told the table. “She said again she’d like me to make one for her.”

  “Oh, no,” said Lucie. “Here I go again. No sooner does Marco bring the wine than she’s on to something else.”

  “I told her she could just have it,” said Dakota, sipping a spoonful of chilled carrot soup.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” said Catherine. “She just doesn’t have to get everything she wants.”

  Lucie and Dakota exchanged a look, which Catherine knew immediately was about her.

  “We all need a chance to learn,” she said now.

  “And to hear the word ‘no,’” said Dakota. “Ginger and I have had a meeting of the minds, haven’t we, Ginger?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Ginger, her eyelids fluttering at the table. “Mommy’s the big boss, Dakota’s the next boss, and I’m the littlest boss of Sweetness.”

  “Looks like we’re going to have to go,” said Lucie, as Ginger laid her head on her shoulder. “I was so excited to join you that I guess I didn’t think.”