Knit Two

  Catherine had wondered to herself when she would know Dakota was truly becoming an adult. It wasn’t whether she had sex, of course. Plenty of immature and unprepared kids experimented every day. It was when her concept of how she saw herself changed. Not the teenager’s whining that she had her own life and wanted everyone to butt out, but the confident and quiet assurance that some of her life was public and a greater part of it was private and only to be shared at her discretion.

  Certainly she had more to learn about life in general. But Catherine couldn’t fault her for that, seeing as she was, in her early forties, only just now figuring out what made her feel best. And it was when she felt complete within and by herself.

  She’d had a beautiful evening with Marco, going to a performance of The Marriage of Figaro, and finishing with drinks on the roof deck.

  “So now you know where I hide out,” she’d told him, laughing. “I’ve been avoiding you most of the summer.”

  “Why?” said Marco. “I’m hardly dangerous.”

  “I don’t know,” said Catherine, before looking him straight in the eye. “No, I do. I haven’t had the greatest luck with romance. Not lately. Not ever.”

  “We have barely had time to get to know one another,” said Marco. “We don’t even know what we’d be like in a romance. Not that I haven’t been driving to Rome all summer trying to find out.”

  “What do you think of the fact that I’m a divorcée?” she asked suddenly.

  “Your husband must have been a stupid man,” said Marco. “Or an unkind one.”

  Catherine looked down.

  “So now we know which one it is,” said Marco softly.

  “Your wife,” said Catherine. “You must miss her.”

  “Every day,” said Marco. “She told me I had better be a monk if anything ever happened to her.” He laughed heartily, caught Catherine’s look of consternation.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I spend a lot of time think-talking to her. She didn’t mean it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Catherine.

  “I pretend to talk to her in my mind,” said Marco. “I try to imagine how she’d solve problems, or what she’d say. I’m sorry, this must not be very interesting to you.”

  “No,” said Catherine. “No, this is one of the most refreshing conversations I’ve had in a long, long time.”

  She told him about Georgia, about the dinners with James, about her parents dying in a car accident years before, and about how it had taken her a long time to embrace her life as it was.

  “I can’t ruin things now, you know,” she told him.

  He nodded, then graciously offered to host a wrap party at the Cara Mia Vineyard for Lucie’s cast and crew. It was a drive into the country, he admitted, but it promised to be something truly special, and Marco told her he was going to call Lucie to extend the invitation. Everyone knew Isabella would be very interested, and it would make Lucie look very good, too.

  “You’re a very nice man,” she’d said, as Marco laughed.

  “I know that American saying,” he said. “‘Nice guys die first.’”

  “Something like that,” admitted Catherine. “That’s not what I meant exactly. I just mean you’re not my usual type.”

  “People aren’t types,” said Marco. “People are people. Unique. You and I, Catherine, are people who understand loss. But we can get lost in it. Maybe it’s time we focused more on what can be gained.”

  Isabella came over as soon as she got word the dresses had arrived, and she brought the photographer and the fashion editor from Italian Vogue with her. Ordinarily, of course, the dresses would be sent to them. But Catherine was adamant they not leave her side, and she made clear that if Isabella wore them, she’d be coming along on the shoot. As well as James and Dakota and Anita. It was a big moment for all of them, and for Georgia. It seemed right that they all share in her triumph together.

  “Our friend Peri Gayle sent you a gift,” Catherine told Isabella, showering her with the knitted bags, much to the delight of the singer. She had hired two models to show Isabella the dresses. The first had a boyish figure and a very small chest, and Catherine put her in the Phoenix, which had been tailored to show off Catherine’s curves and her very ample bustline.

  “Oh, no, that’s not what I’m looking for,” said Isabella, and Catherine felt as though she was shortchanging Georgia. But she knew what was to come.

  “Well, the other one is my favorite,” she told Isabella. “I almost don’t want to show it to you.”

  “I’ve come all this way,” demanded Isabella, who’d taken a taxi across town.

  Catherine affected a deep sigh. “Okay,” she said. “It’s called Blossom and it’s the last dress this designer ever made.”

  “I don’t think you should show her, dear,” said Anita, intuitively picking up her cue.

  “A promise is a promise,” said Catherine with great solemnity. “We owe it to Isabella.”

  She called to Lucie to send out the model—a dead ringer for Isabella, natch—with the dress pinned in certain places to fit perfectly. The blush pink of the gown against the model’s light olive skin was stunning; the slit skirt paired with the mandarin collar provided a pleasing, vaguely exotic look.

  “I must have this,” declared Isabella, standing up. “Yes, it is decided!” And with that, she turned to rummage through Peri’s giant box of knitted and felted bags, letting out little squeals of delight now and again.

  “Tell me,” she said to Catherine without turning away from the box. “Do people in America have personal knitters? You know, like a personal assistant? Someone who makes all your knitted couture?”

  “If they don’t,” said Catherine in a cooing tone, “I’m sure they will now.”

  Isabella pulled out an oversized green backpack with wide straps and grinned a devilish smile. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked the room in general.

  “Of course,” said Lucie, who’d gotten accustomed to humoring Isabella. No need to change this close to the end of things.

  “Me, too,” said Isabella. “This dress and this bag are going to remake my image. In the dress, I’m the innocent awakening. With the bag, I’m going to be the naughty schoolgirl.”

  “Huh?” said Dakota.

  “Look at these straps,” said Isabella, sliding the bag on over her shirt. “Perfect coverage. Like a string bikini. I’m going to pose topless with just the backpack.”

  “Fabulous,” screamed the photographer. “I love it.”

  “I don’t think that’s what Peri had in mind,” said James.

  “But then a good businesswoman knows all publicity is good publicity,” interjected Dakota. How much did she owe Peri for watching over the shop this summer? The past five years? More than could easily be repaid. But a nudge to boost Peri’s clever initiative was the least she could do. “Whatever Italian Vogue wants, Italian Vogue gets. And so that designer’s name is spelled P-E-R-I . . .”

  It was settled. Isabella was going to grace the cover in Georgia’s pink dress, and the inside spread would include several provocative shots of Isabella hiding her body behind Peri’s bags. Some of them quite tiny indeed.

  Georgia’s moment had arrived. Peri’s moment had arrived.

  And the Phoenix would be Catherine’s, always and forever.

  Lucie had seen a lot of Isabella during their weeks of shooting the world’s most ridiculously complicated rock video movie, and during the Vogue photo shoot, to which she accompanied Catherine, she saw even more. And while she thought it was perfectly appropriate for Isabella, she knew she wouldn’t want Ginger to see the photos. And Ginger loved all those girlish pop singers, bouncing around in their midriff-baring shirts.

  She called Darwin.

  “Hello, Professor,” said Lucie.

  “Hello, Ms. Famous Director Sort Of,” said Darwin. “I hear you talked Isabella into going topless.”

  “Not true!” said Lucie. “Seriously, though, I??
?m having a crisis of content. I keep thinking that I don’t want Ginger to see what I do.”

  “You’re not making Wiggles videos, Luce,” said Darwin. “You make music video movie things. They’re all about sex but pretending they’re about love.”

  “I know that,” said Lucie. “You think I don’t know that? But I’m just saying to myself here that there ought to be a television channel for girls, you know? Something with cool science and a smart detective series and an appropriate fashion something or other. Something more . . . . not so shocking.”

  “It’s a perfect idea,” said Darwin. “And you have the skills.”

  “You have the background,” said Lucie. “You could be my advisory board.”

  The two women laughed, trading “What if we really did that?” back and forth until they fell silent, imagining the possibilities.

  “We’d need a lot of money,” said Lucie.

  “And time,” added Darwin.

  “And we’d probably fail.”

  “It’s a crazy idea,” said Darwin. “But hey, I’m knitting up Georgia afghans like my fingers are on fire, and there was a time when I never would have done that. I think we ought to think about it.”

  They made a deal: Each woman would work out a list of pros, cons—and worries, per Darwin—and then they’d decide just how willing they were to try something crazy.

  “Talking about crazy,” said Lucie. “I can’t believe the summer’s almost over and I haven’t done half of what I’d planned.”

  “Like contacting Ginger’s father,” pointed out Darwin.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Lucie. “To be honest, I haven’t thought about him that much since the night of the Roberto discovery. I thought for a while that I needed him. Then I wondered if any man would do.”

  “Marco,” said Darwin.

  “Yes,” admitted Lucie. “But as nice as he is, and so attentive to Catherine, I’ve finally figured something out.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I have enough people to be responsible for,” said Lucie. “I wouldn’t mind the occasional friend for mature company, if you know what I mean, and Dakota being around has made me realize the value of a personal assistant. But a boyfriend or a husband? Not right now. Maybe never.”

  “So Will never knows about Ginger?”

  “Not for the moment,” said Lucie. “It would affect a lot of people—Ginger, his children, his wife—and could lead to a lot of problems. For now, I’m going to close that door again.”

  “You know I support you no matter what,” said Darwin. “Even when you abandon me for Rome.”

  “Ha! I might as well have been in a studio in Brooklyn,” said Lucie. “I’ve seen nothing all summer. Not even the Sistine Chapel. Rosie’s going to kill me.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “Eh,” said Lucie. “Hard to tell. Mitch gives me long-winded stories about how she needs to be watched and then my mother tells me something else. The truth is somewhere in the middle. I’ll be back in a week, though, and I’m eager to check in.”

  “Well, Dan and I are finally free of the M-I-L,” said Darwin. “I’m taking the kids to the pediatrician for a weigh-in but I could ask Dan to go get her on Saturday and bring her in for the afternoon. Frankly, I could use some help finishing up my Georgia afghans.”

  “That’s cheating,” said Lucie. “You can’t use my mother to finish your charity work.”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Darwin. “When you’re in Italy, all bets are off.”

  “I haven’t finished a new one since April,” admitted Lucie.

  “And that just makes you one more person falling in my wake,” said Darwin gleefully. “I really liked Georgia, you know. We had our differences but we were alike in a lot of ways, too. So I think she’s rooting for me this year, and I’m not about to let her down.”

  “This is going to go down as the summer of no sleep,” mumbled Catherine to herself, as she dragged her body out of bed to answer yet another ringing phone.

  “Catherine, I’m so sorry,” said Marco. “So sorry to awaken you.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. Better than fine,” said Marco. “I have a few friends, you know, and I pulled a few strings.”

  Catherine pulled off her eye mask, wondering what he was talking about. And then she remembered: Marco had promised her he could get her into the Vatican museums before they opened. Before all the crowds. At least an hour, he said, an hour to soak up the tapestries and the Sistine Chapel and the Egyptian artifacts, too. All sorts of good stuff.

  “Oh, Marco, you know what would be wonderful?” said Catherine.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “Bring all your friends. Trying to spend time with you is like trying to spend time with a young virgin fifty years ago. The whole village comes out to walk with us.”

  “Do you mind?” she asked tentatively.

  “No,” he said. “At least this way I get to see my son. He’s been a hard one to find since he met your Dakota. She’s his first real girlfriend.”

  “Yes,” said Catherine, who’d kept her own counsel on the discovery of Roberto and Dakota, and advised Lucie to do the same. They’d told no one, not even James, determining that some things aren’t necessary for fathers to know. Besides, Dakota had never given them a straight answer, had she? So they weren’t even sure what they would tell James even if they did reveal all. “Roberto is one of the only things I ever hear about from Dakota. So it must be love.”

  “Ha!” said Marco. “First love could only be this clean and simple. The rest of us have learned, haven’t we? It can be more challenging as we go on. But, Catherine, no time to debate as we always do. You must be downstairs in half an hour if the taxi is to get you here on time.”

  “I’ll bring the group,” she said. “I’d like you to finally meet Anita. She’s been so preoccupied with this search for her sister and you hear us talk about her all the time . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Marco?” she asked. “We really do talk a lot, don’t we?”

  “Of course,” he said. “We’re friends.”

  “No, we really are friends,” said Catherine, becoming more excited. “You know about Georgia, about Adam, about the shop, about Anita and her sister, about my parents, about all those relationships that never work out.”

  Marco jumped in as she paused for breath. “We’ll be late, my Catherine, and there will be a horde of tourists at the Sistine if we don’t hurry,” he said. “Get up, put on some clothes, and I’ll see you soon.”

  Catherine hung up the phone, feeling more energy than she’d felt in months. She’d had such fun with her friends from New York over the summer. And such fun by herself. Taking flowers to Julius Caesar. Reading. Writing. Eating. Walking. Sleeping (when someone wasn’t waking her up). She’d put herself out there, helping Lucie. And she’d held herself back, with Marco. Not rushing into yet another quick romance that was full of spark and low on sustainability. Instead, she’d let herself just talk talk talk. And if he didn’t like it, or her, he could just move on.

  The revelation was that Marco seemed to really enjoy what she had to say. That he wanted to share opinions and ideas of his own. That he thought her store was a great idea, and not just the wine side of the business. He paid serious attention when she told him she was working on a book, and nodded in delight when she told him all the bad men were killed by a serial murderer in the novel.

  “But of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  In short, he’d become a great buddy. A buddy from whom she wanted more, and who had made it plain he had more to give. But, for now, things felt just right.

  She pulled on a light sweater and a pair of slacks, a tall pair of heeled boots, and a slash of lipstick, skipping the rest of her makeup routine. He listened to her stories, she figured, so Marco could at least see her eyes without mascara.

  Catherine didn’t need a mask anymore.

  thirty-one

>   Dakota couldn’t believe it as she opened her eyes and gazed out the window of her bedroom at the rolling hills of Cara Mia just outside Velletri, the bottles of wine yet to be produced from the endless rows of grapes.

  All the New Yorkers had arrived the night before, making a caravan of convertibles and Smart cars as they drove out to the vineyard. Summer was drawing to a close, and as promised, Marco was hosting the wrap party for the Isabellastravaganza, installing white canvas tents close to the villa. The evening promised to be a night to remember.

  As had the entire trip. Much had happened: Her nineteenth birthday was in a few days, and Dakota had found a chef to be her inspiration, told her father she wanted to sell the shop, and absorbed all the beauty—the art, the architecture, the smells of bakeries in neighborhoods near and far—that a person could in a few short weeks. She’d made a lot of progress.

  Not to mention she’d fallen in love. Or maybe just super like. It was hard to say for certain, seeing as how she had nothing to compare it with. But one thing was clear: She had a boyfriend—a very cute boyfriend—and he was an excellent kisser indeed. She enjoyed thinking often about all the moments they’d spent together; she’d texted her friend Olivia after her first kiss with Roberto, thrilled and also grateful not to feel like the only college student in America who’d been left behind.

  Roberto had a relaxed way about him and his easy laughter contrasted nicely with Dakota’s natural seriousness. They made a good combo, she thought, and she’d figured out long ago that his English was fairly close to perfect already. Which had only made her like him all the more, the way he thought he had to come up with reasons to make her want to spend time with him. It was great to be pursued. To be desired. To be found beautiful. To have precious, private jokes with another person who could finally understand her in a completely new way. Different from anyone else. But she wasn’t about to tell anyone what all transpired that night in Lucie’s suite; that was hers and Roberto’s alone.

  “I know what I want and what I don’t,” she said aloud now, as she stretched her remaining sleepiness away. This, then, is also what the summer in Italy had brought her: a deeper understanding. Of almost everything.