“What are you saying?” James was genuinely perplexed.
“I’m saying I like to eat pastry,” said Dakota. “I like to think about it, I like to improvise, I like to create it. I’m saying that the one place I feel truly centered is when I’m baking. Even watching someone else—someone way beyond what I can do—is like listening to the most amazing concert. Everything just flows. So beautiful.”
The initial secret visits to Andreas had expanded from just watching to being put to work. “If you’re going to be here so often,” he’d said, “you might as well grate. Or wash up.” The industrial mixer, all gleaming stainless steel. That had felt like an honor. One time, a late lunch customer had straggled in and Andreas, feeling generous, had shown her how to sprinkle sauce over a ricotta cheesecake that had been ordered for dessert. The rest of the kitchen eyed her suspiciously, but that was as it should be, thought Dakota. After all, she was part of the next wave. She was going to steal all their jobs. She was going to run her own kitchen someday.
The challenge was making her father understand—and so far it wasn’t working.
“We’ve talked about this before,” said James. “Baking is not the career for you.”
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” said Dakota. “But I have to have enough faith in myself to pursue my own dream. Not yours.”
The tourists had settled into a grumpy silence, nursing their drinks and not even looking each other in the eye. Their competing maps lay on the table but the two of them had not moved. Dakota looked at her father, a knot of fear squeezing at her chest.
“I know,” she said. “I know you and the trust from Mom’s estate have paid for college so far. I know you can tighten the purse strings and that’s that. But you know what? If I have this dream, then I owe it to myself to figure out how to make it happen. I need to look into other sources of funding, I think. Loans or something.”
“The choice isn’t NYU or you’re homeless, Dakota,” said James. “You needn’t be so dramatic.”
“But I have to be,” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t you see, Dad? Everyone is telling me where to go and who to be. Georgia’s daughter, James’s girl. The thing is: I am not either one of you. I’m me. And I don’t want the shop.”
“So what, then?”
“Sell it to Peri, maybe. I don’t know!” She took a large mouthful of Coke and crunched the ice cubes. “I don’t know,” she said again, more calmly. “But I want to go to pastry school. I want to have that opportunity.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said James. “It’s not the career you need. On your feet all day, in a hot kitchen. What kind of life is that?”
“A delicious life,” said Dakota. “The life I want. Even if you don’t understand or approve. That can’t be why I make my decisions. Because I’m living for you, and I’ll never be satisfied. And if I keep the shop because that’s what Mom did, then I’m throwing my life away for her.”
“I’ve already told you,” said James. “The shop can be something you do on the side.”
“That’s not what I want, either. Walker and Daughter deserves someone who loves it all the time. To the right person it would be a bonanza,” said Dakota. “But to me it feels like an albatross.”
“Never knew you felt so strongly,” said James stiffly. “Your mother was so proud of that place she put your name right on the sign.”
“Is that reason enough for me to stay?” said Dakota. “I was a child. I didn’t ask for it.”
“I guess that’s something you’ll have to decide,” said James. “You’re so grown up now, you can figure out things for yourself.”
“No adult I’ve ever seen is capable of knowing everything all the time,” said Dakota. “Dad, I’ve spent the majority of my Friday nights sitting around with a bunch of older women. And they don’t seem to have a whole hell of a lot figured out most of the time. It’s all trial and error. And that’s all I’m saying. It’s time I went out there and made some big-ass mistakes.”
“The world . . .” started James. “Forging ahead seems much more glamorous in the talking about than the living of it, Dakota. Do you think every day is going to be a joy just because you’re making cookies—literally? It won’t be.”
“I know that, Dad,” said Dakota, before holding up her hand. “No, wait. Let me try that again. I have no idea, Dad. But I better start learning.”
So much for a nice outing with his daughter, thought James. He recalled when a new bike was all that Dakota wanted. Now she insisted on taking on the world.
Roberto’s few extra days in Rome turned into weeks, with the tacit approval of his father.
“I suspect he wants a reason to keep returning to the city,” Roberto told Dakota as they strolled the gardens at the Villa Borghese, with its wide lawns like Central Park back home. “He talks often of your friend Catherine.”
“Do they see each other a lot?” asked Dakota, and Roberto shrugged.
She had noticed, in a vague way, that Catherine was keeping a low profile recently, but she’d had more than enough going on in her own life to keep herself preoccupied. Her father had tried several times to discuss, yet again, his position about her college career. All the while, Dakota had been diligently doing her research, coming up with schools and financial plans and just opportunities in general.
The wind came up, just slightly, shaking the tall trees and adding a bit of resistance to Ginger as she scurried about on the grass nearby, having running contests with Sweetness, who bounced alternately in Ginger’s hand or up on her shoulder.
“I won again,” she shouted triumphantly after yet another victory against the stuffie she took everywhere.
“That creature is lucky you’re looking after it,” said Roberto. Dakota grinned. In addition to the cupcakes she was creating, she’d also knitted a teeny cardigan for Sweetness, and a cap with holes for her ears. She’d done it for Ginger, of course, but she was very glad to see that Roberto had noticed. One part of her wanted to make something for Roberto, too, but that seemed so 1950s. She’d stick to making clothes for the toy.
They’d had quite an afternoon, their trio, renting bikes to ride through the park, and relaxing on the grass afterward with squat bottles of Orangina.
“Hey, hey,” said Ginger, racing up to them. “Can I jump out of a tree, Dakota?”
“No,” said Dakota. It was their game now: Ginger thought up the craziest suggestion she could and then waited for Dakota to tell her she couldn’t do it.
“Can I fly on the wings of a bird?”
“No.”
“Can I watch you kiss Roberto?”
Dakota blushed, looked at Roberto, and then hastily looked away. Truth was, they hadn’t kissed. They had sometimes held hands, but mostly they just hung out with Ginger as their chaperone and flirted via text message afterward.
“No,” she said pointedly.
“Is Roberto your boyfriend?” asked Ginger.
“No,” said Dakota.
“Yes,” said Roberto.
Dakota grinned, but only on the inside. “Okay,” she said casually. It was quite a summer, indeed.
Marco went back and forth between the vineyard and the city several times, always encouraging Catherine to join him on one of his drives to the country.
Mostly she demurred. But, just one time, as an experiment, she relented, tying a blue scarf around her blond hair to prevent the wind from mussing her all about. She didn’t plan to have any fun, told herself that she was only going to stop Marco from being such a pest, but, in fact, she fell easily into conversation with him. Which, of course, made her annoyed for even going.
“Allegra loves to take drives,” he said, talking about his young daughter as he swerved very, very quickly around the curving road. “She sits in the back and tells me where to turn.”
“I helped teach Dakota how to drive,” Catherine told him, soaking in the green trees, the tiled houses. “James brought her up to Cold Spring and we practiced parallel parking o
n some quiet roads. It’s quite difficult to drive in New York. The cabs change multiple lanes at the same time.”
“Thank God, Allegra won’t be driving for years,” Marco replied. “It’s hard enough seeing how tall she’s growing. And Roberto! Well, he’s practically a man already. Bigger than I am, and he’s smarter, too.”
It was refreshing, truly, to spend time with a man who couldn’t seem to stop himself from talking about his children. Catherine made sure to store up tidbits on Roberto—how he liked to quote his favorite American movie when he was in high school, the afternoon he fell out of a tree at the vineyard as a young boy and broke his arm—that she could later share with Dakota. Because she enjoyed chatting with her young friend and she knew Dakota hadn’t much else but Roberto on the brain. And baking. There was always that. But Catherine had even less to add to a discussion in that category. So Roberto details it was.
Marco made a point to call Catherine dutifully every time he returned to Rome to check on Roberto, and several times went to dinner with Lucie, Ginger, Dakota, and his son. Catherine, although invited every time, went only once, when James had also accompanied them. They spent the better part of an evening eating salads and tasting wines and discussing the benefits of working on one’s own or for someone else. James was circumspect but seemed very intrigued by what the winemaker had to say.
“That Marco is one cool guy,” he told her later as they sat at the V hotel bar and had a nightcap. “Not like those chuckleheads you usually hang around with.”
“I barely know him,” said Catherine. “I just sell his wine at The Phoenix.”
“Speaking of, how’s business?” said James. He found it rather amusing that Catherine would assume it perfectly natural to leave her shop in someone else’s hands while she jaunted off to Europe. Peri, at the very least, owned a part of Walker and Daughter and was heavily invested in its success.
“I hear it’s going not too bad,” she said, knowing full well he thought she ran a vanity business. She preferred to think of it as a lifestyle occupation.
“Dakota wants to sell the shop,” he told her, sipping at a Scotch. “It breaks my heart.”
“Georgia isn’t in the store, you know,” said Catherine. She was also drinking Scotch, but just one. She hadn’t had a G.W. with James in a long time, nor had they felt the need to sneak out to a restaurant and pretend to dine with Georgia. Dakota kept telling her that Rome was going to renew her soul. Perhaps she really did know what she was talking about.
“Right,” said James, raising an eyebrow. “She’s in your store’s namesake dress.”
“I was thinking more broadly here,” said Catherine. “You know, she’s in our hearts and all that jazz.”
“Yeah,” said James ruefully. “But doesn’t the store make it feel less like she’s gone?”
“Maybe that’s it,” said Catherine softly as an idea came to her. “Maybe the store itself is a stumbling block for Dakota. Emotionally, I mean.”
“Don’t know. I can’t get her to really open up to me,” said James. “She thinks I’m the enemy, crushing her cookie dreams.”
“No,” said Catherine. “She believes you don’t understand her. But she doesn’t hate you.”
“I feel like an ogre,” said James. “I just know what’s best.”
Catherine began to laugh, heartily. “Oh, James Foster,” she said. “That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. No, you don’t. You just want her to do what’s safest, not what’s best. It isn’t the same thing.”
James had to admit: She had him there.
“So,” he said. “Let’s talk about playing it safe. I’ll start with just one word.”
“Bring it on,” said Catherine.
James drained his Scotch glass before dabbing his lips with a napkin, then standing up from his bar stool. He kissed Catherine on the top of her head and leaned in close to whisper his one word: “Marco?”
twenty-seven
The raspberry-lime granita was melting faster than Catherine could spoon it into her mouth, making a delicious fruit slushy, as she idled away the afternoon on the roof deck of the V hotel. She was hiding, yet again, in broad daylight. Everyone assumed she was going on grand adventures and avoiding them all. In truth, she simply took the elevator up several flights and watched the city go about its business, admiring the architectural feats in every direction, the shape of Saint Peter’s Basilica in the distance. Oh, some days she wandered around the city—with all the great art everywhere, even a quick half-hour dash into a church could satiate her desire to see the work of masters—but now that Marco continued to pop up unexpectedly, she pretty much stayed put at the hotel.
On the few occasions when they’d been without the gaggle—such as when Marco hounded Catherine to help him choose a new label for Cara Mia’s export wines—she had been merciless in her questioning of Marco.
Why did he never remarry? He almost did, he told her, but he ended it when he realized he was just trying to fill his loneliness and he wasn’t the right man for the girl. He’d never give her what she truly deserved.
She hated that answer: he was a gentleman even when he was crushing someone’s dream.
Was it hard to be a single parent who was a man? Yes, he said, but it didn’t matter. His children needed a constant love, not a carousel of women playing mommy.
She hated that answer, too.
Had he ever had customers at Cara Mia who couldn’t pay? Yes, he said, and eventually they always settled up. So he rode through their bad times with them. Loyalty, he told her, is its own reward.
Marco was, without question, a problem. And the problem was that Catherine liked him. She didn’t appreciate James pointing it out, either.
Well, we know how that always turns out, she said to herself, her nose practically in her chilled glass to scrape out every last bit of lusciousness.
It was a well-earned treat for rising early. She’d made one trip outside the hotel that day, getting up at the crack of dawn to pay her respects to her new imaginary best friend: good old Julius Caesar, resting in the Roman Forum. She took flowers, as she’d heard many do, and spent a few moments reflecting not on Caesar but on herself. About how she’d want people to think of her once she was gone. The legacy of her humanity, such as it was. And she focused on the new resolution she’d made.
This was the thing of it: Catherine had yet to manage having a relationship and having a life. The casual dating hadn’t been more than a pleasant distraction. But the serious ones, the guys she cared about, always led to trouble. She always tried to duck down and merge into someone else’s identity instead of maintaining her own. It wasn’t falling in love so much as tossing herself aside. She did it with her ex-husband, philandering, cruel bastard that he was, and she did it with Nathan in the space of about a week. “Julius,” she said, “I promise to stop playing it that way, and I will.” So there could be no Marco, no man at all, until she’d figured out how not to fall into the trap. Though it was too late to lobby for a spot as a vestal virgin.
Strange how after ages wondering if everyone had time for her, she was making herself scarce just when they all wanted to hang out together. She and KC were e-mailing, something they’d never done before, just sharing news. She told her about Marco, that it wasn’t going to be serious. If you say so, KC had written in reply. And Lucie seemed to call her with a thought or idea every few days. Dakota came by every so often bursting with a Roberto update, or a James complaint, and sometimes Catherine entertained both Roberto and Dakota when they came back to the hotel after a date and didn’t want to spend any more time with Ginger. She listened to Roberto talk about his dreams of being an airline pilot and Dakota of being a pastry chef. She liked those evenings best, when the kids would come on over and drink espresso even though it was late, and talk about anything and everything: the crazy woman stalking tour groups at Palatine Hill, the pros and cons of American versus European Idol, the way they both felt sad often because their mothers were
gone. Catherine nodded at all of it: she could empathize with much of what they had to say—whether it was remembering Georgia or her own mother—or at least recall moments when she’d felt many of the same emotions they were going through. Maybe, she told herself, it was better she wasn’t a mother. This way she could always just be the friend who cared.
And even if Dakota didn’t come by, there was always Anita. Even though she was thoroughly harried by her quest to find Sarah, she and Marty checked in on Catherine every day. She couldn’t let her bridesmaid get all mopey, she said.
But Catherine wasn’t moping around. She was hiding, yes. Not the same thing. She was calmer than she could ever remember being. Sometimes she pecked away at writing her book, which she enjoyed more and more. “Long ago,” she told Dakota, “I was the best columnist at the Harrisburg High Gazette, and Georgia was my editor.” Other times, she read classics she borrowed from the reading nook in the hotel café. Reconnecting with who she was: that’s what she was doing. Creating a better model for how to be comfortable in her own skin. With her life as it was.
Her cell phone buzzed on the table. Lucie. She’d been calling all day. Another Isabella emergency, no doubt. There’d been several over the course of the summer. Well, Catherine would call her back. Later. After she’d enjoyed a second granita.
Working with Isabella was a headache: new demands night and day, constant suggestions for how Lucie should set up a shot, and an ever-changing entourage. The latest compulsive quest, however, was going to push her right over the edge.
Lucie’s phone rang and she whipped it out of her jeans.
“Catherine?” she asked. “I have to ask another huge favor.”
“Mom got lost,” said a voice. No hello. No how are you. Just the facts. And a lot of edge to the tone. “I thought you might actually care to know.”
“Hi, Mitch,” said Lucie evenly. If Rosie was really in danger, he would have led with that news, she told herself. Better to play it calm. “Where is she now?”