“Are you smoking?” she asked.
“Pfft,” said KC. “See anything in these hands?”
Peri’s eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking? I can’t let that smell get into the yarn.” She was not amused as she began pulling open all four windows, the sounds of traffic and honking horns rising from Broadway below.
“Sorry,” said KC. “I’ll put my coat out on the landing.”
“And wash your hair while you’re at it. I’ll even give you a bottle of water.”
“Oh, come on,” said KC. “It’s not that bad.”
“What’s going on? Who takes up smoking at your age?” asked Peri, trying to keep her voice low so as not to disrupt the shower. “I mean, I know you had a few puffs when you were studying for the bar, but what is this? Some sort of midlife crisis?”
“God, if I have a crisis I hope I do something a bit more dramatic than smoke a pack of cigarettes.”
“A whole pack?”
“No, a few were missing,” said KC. “Look, I moved offices and there was a pack left behind in the desk.”
“This office didn’t come with a waste bin? You thought you ought to recycle by smoking them?”
KC shrugged. “It was a one-time thing. I was curious—haven’t smoked in ages. I’d had a tough day. You know.”
“No,” said Peri. “I don’t know. I’ve never smoked. You know why? Because it isn’t any good for you.”
“Okay, let’s stop with the lecture before you get started,” said KC as she took off her blazer. “I hear what you’re saying. But you might want to dial back a bit in general. The store is important, but it’s not the only thing. You don’t know everybody’s everything.”
Darwin was oblivious to Peri and KC. She could not stop grinning. She was enthralled by the balloons, the hydrangeas, the polka-dotted diaper bags from Peri’s new line, the two tiny cardigans Anita had knitted with matching booties, the champagne she couldn’t actually drink, the cupcakes with all the different sorts of frostings, the stroller she’d been drooling over when she read baby catalogs at night. She had never felt so . . . light. Like she could simply lift off and float away on a joy cloud.
It had always seemed silly, sitting around in a circle and watching someone open presents. Whenever she saw women do that on television programs—she taped A Baby Story regularly—she would roll her eyes and make a point to tell Dan that was asinine. How it just glorified conspicuous consumption and therefore set a bad example for the in utero crew. What Darwin had never reflected upon, she saw clearly now, was just how unbelievably fun it was to be the one opening all the gifts. She loved to be the center of attention.
“No one’s ever thrown me a party before,” she blurted out, immediately embarrassed. It was the truth—when she and Dan had married they’d popped into city hall and skipped any sort of reception, and they spent her birthdays dining at fancy restaurants that Dan selected after careful research in Zagat. He had never suggested or even tried to organize a party, having listened carefully to all the reasons why Darwin would never want one. Now she felt as though she’d been missing out.
But where was Lucie? The whole club was here and her best friend was nowhere to be seen. If this had happened a year ago, Darwin would have been highly concerned, knowing that Lucie would have been the first one on the scene. But not now. She hadn’t even asked Peri when she came, knowing all too well that Lucie was, no doubt, still at work. Unlike when they’d first become friends years ago, when Lucie worked freelance TV production gigs and had a fair amount of flexible time, she was often unavailable these days. And Lucie was becoming well known for being late or calling to say she couldn’t come at all, whether it was a club night or meeting Darwin for a quick lunch of tossed chicken Caesar at one of those soup-and-salad places. Now Darwin loved her work, loved to teach, and loved to argue her point until whoever she was talking to was worn into submission. She knew from working hard. From being a workaholic. But it was awfully lonely to be married to a doctor and then have a best friend whose e-mails always began with an explanation of why she hadn’t called back yet. Sheesh! Like everyone didn’t have too much to do and too little time.
Still, Lucie had promised she’d take a few weeks off when the babies came, that she’d be there for Darwin just as Darwin had been there for her when Ginger was born. She was very much looking forward to it all: the birth, Lucie coming over to help, Dan taking a little pat leave, breastfeeding, reading stories, and singing songs. (In fact, Darwin was already reading Goodnight Moon to the babies every night, patting her abdomen as she turned every page.) She was so looking forward to the expansion of her little family and to spending time with Lucie that Darwin had even asked her parents and her sister, Maya, to wait a few weeks before coming out for a visit. Instead, they’d be coming closer to the one-month party she was going to throw for the babies. After all, she’d waited a long, long time to see these teeny faces, and whereas she once hadn’t wanted very much to do with her family’s Chinese traditions, these days Darwin felt a sense of legacy she’d never previously understood. It was a glorious awakening for a woman who’d spent most of her life wondering where she belonged.
The babies kicked.
“Oooh,” said Darwin. “They love the presents.”
“Can I feel?” asked Catherine, putting out her fingers tentatively.
“My God, you’re one of the few people who’s ever asked,” said Darwin. “Mainly strangers just reach out and fondle my tummy if I dare to stop moving. That’s why pregnant women are always waddling—we’re trying to run away from all your grabby hands.”
Catherine immediately pulled back, but Darwin reached out and placed Catherine’s hand on her belly. “You’re okay,” she said. “Wait for it, wait for it . . .”
“Oh!” squealed Catherine. “That’s like there’s an alien in there!”
“Pretty much,” said Darwin. “Two very smart, perfect aliens. They’re going to go to Harvard.”
“I remember when I was pregnant with Nathan,” said Anita. “I was sick to my stomach the entire time. But it was the fifties, you know, so I was always trying to put on fresh lipstick and comb my hair.”
“And I remember when I was preggers with Ginger,” said Lucie, bustling through the door carrying a computer bag, a handbag, and a canvas tote filled with groceries. “I had the hugest boobs. They hurt like a bitch but, man, did they look great in a bra. I used to even buy those water bras to boost them up even more.”
“You went to the store before coming here?” asked Darwin, pointing to a head of celery poking out of Lucie’s bag.
“Just for a few minutes to get some milk and stuff,” said Lucie, coming over to the table to give Darwin a behind-the-chair hug. “I didn’t have any other spare time. But I’m here now and I see you guys have been partying it up. KC, fill ’er up with whatever you’re pouring.” She took the glass of wine, gulped it down, and held it out for another.
“I just had the worst day at work,” Lucie continued after she’d taken a sip from the refill. “This model was just an absolute disaster. If I said, ‘Look tough,’ she looked pouty. If I said, ‘Look sexy,’ she looked bored. I was completely pulling my hair out.”
“Your hair looks fine to me,” said Darwin quietly.
Lucie threw her a look. “You know what I mean!” she said. “And I have great news—I finally got word that I landed this job directing a music video for the latest European singing sensation: Isabella. I’ve been dying for it.”
“Congrats,” said KC. “I think I saw her on that Eurovision contest thing.” She caught Catherine’s eye. “What? So I have satellite. I’m interested in the world around me. Lawyers can afford a lot more channels than editors, that’s for sure.”
“Thing is, I barely have time to finish this job, and then I’m going to be in Italy before I know it!”
“What?” Darwin was pushing her black hair behind her ears, as though to hear more clearly. “Where are you going when?”
She wanted to be genuinely thrilled for Lucie, knew how hard she was working. With effort, she forced a closed-mouth smile.
“I got the Isabella video,” she said to Darwin. “But it might change things up a bit so we’ll talk later, okay? What sort of stuff did you get?” She leaned over to whisper in Darwin’s ear. “I had something sent to the apartment. It’ll arrive in a few.”
Lucie stood up again and picked up an organic cotton bunny. “Too cute! Who picked this out?”
“I did,” said Catherine. “That’s fair-trade cotton. It cost a bundle, but I feel very, very good about myself.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have it in you to go all googly for the baby stuff, Cat,” said Lucie. “You don’t strike me as the mommy type.”
“Indeed,” said Catherine. “I’ve heard that.”
“Nothing wrong with being child-free, ladies,” said KC. “Catherine and I aren’t kiddie types. The world’s overpopulated as it is. Besides, I just don’t like kids. Present company excepted, of course,” she said, toasting her glass to Darwin’s baby bulge and then moving it slightly toward Dakota, then shaking her head.
“Scratch that, kiddo,” KC said to Dakota. “You’re not a kid anymore. Soon enough you’ll be running the store and then the world, or vice versa.”
“Running the store?” Peri and Dakota spoke in unison. Was it that time already? There was a brief pause in the conversation, and then Peri was back to compulsively stuffing gift wrap into her garbage bag and Dakota had moved away to stare out the window, watch the yellow cabs roll up and down Broadway, their headlights flashing as the night grew dark. Everyone else kept busy cooing over the double wicker Moses baskets for which Anita had knitted two dishcloth-style blankets in machine washable yarn, laughed as Darwin rubbed them on her cheeks and remarked on their softness.
Running the store? She’d just started college! Why, Dakota wondered to herself, did no one ever stop to ask her if that was what she wanted? All she ever got were assumptions. From her father, that she’d want to go to Princeton as he had. They’d had to make such a jump from just getting to know each other to having only each other. He was so unlike her mother in many ways. It had been challenging, the transition from being mostly buddies to James being the decision-maker. Well, she hadn’t wanted to go to Princeton. She wanted to go to culinary school to become a pastry chef. But his child wasn’t going to go to school for cookie-making, James had said. Making treats for the family or for the club was all well and good, he’d said, but it didn’t mean she should throw her life away because she had a hobby.
Going to NYU had been the compromise, sweetened by his reluctant agreement that Dakota could take the occasional baking course on the side. But he wasn’t the only one who decided he knew what she was going to do. Even Anita talked an awful lot about how great it would be when she took over the store, tut-tutting Dakota’s protestations and launching into yet another version of the time she’d met Georgia in the park. Why walk away from your legacy? they’d wondered. But that wasn’t all. Her friends, her dad’s mom, her mother’s brother, Donny. Everyone had an opinion about Dakota. Was it because her mother was dead or because they were all unbelievably nosy and opinionated? Hard to tell. But the lack of boundaries even happened with strangers. She’d lucked out and gotten a dorm room partway through the semester—it was nearly impossible for city kids to get a place—and her roommate had thought she was joking when she said the picture of Georgia taped to the wall above her dinky twin bed was her mother. Because Georgia was white and Dakota was . . . her own distinctive blend of Georgia and James. White and black. Protestant and Baptist. A little bit Scottish, too. But no one could see that at first glance.
Peri was forthright, telling her she should join the Black Students’ Union.
“Everyone is going to see you as black,” she’d said. “So embrace it. You can spend your entire life saying you’re biracial but to white people that’s just another word for black, you know.”
Thing was, Dakota didn’t want everyone telling her who to be and how to act.
“I don’t care about everybody,” she told Peri. “I just care about me.”
But that didn’t make it any easier. And that wasn’t even the half of it. Her problems extended way beyond Peri’s opinions, her annoying roommate’s inability to not leave wet towels on the floor, and the fact that she’d gained ten pounds in less than ten months. No, truth be told, most of her days—and nights—were taken up with thoughts of Andrew Doyle. He was in her American lit lecture and he was one of those curiously attractive guys who didn’t quite fit the mold. He wasn’t super trim, he wasn’t an athlete, he wasn’t conventionally attractive. He was at least an inch shorter than Dakota, he had a beak of a nose, he wore the same red-hooded sweatshirt every day and yet he was the funniest, sexiest, most charming guy she’d ever met. His allure—and she’d spent a long time thinking about this matter—was his seemingly endless reserves of confidence. Andrew walked into every room as if he owned the place. God, she loved that about him.
They were totally in the same group. Well, sort of. No, not really. But they did know some of the same people, and had been at the same events fairly often. Like Greg Durant’s Christmas party in his Mercer Street studio, and the Earth Day rally at Washington Square Park. Plus, Andrew Doyle knew her name. No, he definitely did. Like the time he passed her row in the lecture hall—she was sitting there with her friend Olivia—and he said, “Hey, Dakota.” Not “Hey, Dakota and Olivia.” Just her name, as she’d swallowed giggles and almost let out a burp of air as Olivia’s elbow dug into her ribs. Not that she knew what would happen if he actually asked her out or anything. Unlike Olivia, who was in a committed long-distance relationship with a boyfriend at SUNY-Purchase, and Catherine, with her eight million stories of boys at Harrisburg High in the 1980s, and even Anita, who waxed poetic about the day she met Stan, Dakota had a dirty little secret: She’d never been kissed. Not once. Not ever. Oh, she’d had a date for prom, a nice enough guy. A friend. And while she’d debated the pros and cons of laying one on him to get this kiss business out of the way, in the end she’d decided to wait for a kiss that mattered. Or was at least hot. Really, truly, smokin’ hot.
She turned back to the group, her mother’s boisterous friends; Catherine’s cheeks, she could see, were flushed red, her brown eyes dark and hard to reach. For everyone else.
“I really don’t hate kids,” she was insisting, a bit too loudly. “In fact, I’m very good with them.”
“You run whenever you see Ginger,” Peri pointed out. The group laughed.
“I’m not making a joke,” insisted Catherine. The women laughed harder as the expression on her face grew tighter.
Taking a deep breath, she chuckled along with the other members of the club, though inside she felt more and more lost. She glanced at her cell phone to check the time, then began to make noises about having to go and meet someone.
“Recreational sex,” crowed KC. “You’re an Olympic medalist in that sport.”
Catherine gave a small nod. “Takes one to know one,” she said, gathering up her coat with one hand and briefly squeezing Darwin’s with the other. “Thanks for the pat,” she said softly. “I appreciate it.”
“Oh, wait, Catherine,” said Lucie, looking up from an intense conversation with Anita. “You’re always going to Italy. I could use some travel tips. It’s been years since I went there to see my mom’s village. I need to know which hotels and restaurants and . . .”
Catherine nodded and brought her hand up to her face, her pinkie finger at her mouth and her thumb at her ear, mouthing, “Call me,” before she waltzed out the door. As soon as she was safely out of everyone’s sight, she raced down the steep stairs and pushed open the glass door to the street, hoping for some cool night air to chill the stinging on her cheeks. She’d have been a great mom if she’d had the chance, she thought.
A man passing by gave her a quick, appreciative nod, and Catherine automa
tically sucked in her well-toned gut and tilted her head sideways, revealing her neck to look more vulnerable.
Don’t muss the makeup with tears, she hummed to herself. It was the first rule of business: Never muss the goods.
six
The hours of The Phoenix: Furnishings and Fine Wines were impossible to find, or even to predict. There was certainly no such detail on the sign above the front door of Catherine’s antique shop, nor were the times of business marked on a poster in the large plate-glass window. Or anywhere else, for that matter. After all, this was Catherine’s store, an elegant mix of antiques, collectibles, and pretty much any item or object that struck her fancy. It was just as likely to be opened at seven a.m. (if she couldn’t sleep) or at eleven a.m. (if she slept too much). Not in any way a model for how to set up a successful business—it was nothing like the knitting shop her best friend had started long ago in Manhattan—and yet there it was, thriving right on the main street of Cold Spring, in the Hudson Valley, just north of New York City. It was a little jewel box of a shop, with its rich jumble of brocaded chairs and mahogany tables and tinkly crystal lamps.
The Phoenix looked as if a grand salon from another century had been dropped wholesale and wedged into the compact storefront. Entering through the door was like being invited into a regal yet cozy private home of rustling skirts and tea parties, and Catherine’s ability to play the welcoming hostess was a strong attraction to her customers. That, and the fact of her former marriage to an old-money investment banker, which intrigued more than a few looky-loos. Was she a downtrodden and cast-aside first wife about whom they could feel superior? Or something far more interesting: a woman trying to begin a real life? Some days even Catherine had her doubts.
The store did a fairly steady business with serious antique hunters—not keeping a regular workday did not indicate anything about the quality of her store’s wares—and it remained a popular destination for weekenders, who enjoyed a browse of the furniture and then waltzed through the French doors set in one wall. The side entrance ushered them into a stand-alone cellar and tasting room right next door, filled with wines from vineyards local and far away. That side of the business—for which Catherine had astutely hired a manager—kept prompt hours and did brisk business on weekends, when all the citygoers came up to their “country” houses and entertained themselves by making gorgeous meals with fresh produce from the farmer’s markets and toasted themselves with glass after glass of good wine from Catherine’s shelves.