Free Kate Jacobs by The Friday Night Knitting Club - [The Friday Night Knitting Club 01]

talked about what she
did outside of knitting. It's like Peri with her
handbags—women do amazing, creative, wonderful things."

"Like us, Mommy." Dakota was nodding. Georgia winked.

"Yup. Now I've got to hurry and get dressed for work. Finish up and rinse
out your bowl in the sink, muffingirl ."

"Hey, Mom, would you ever do it?"

"Do what?"

"A commercial, like that girl said!" Dakota had turned to a new page
in her notebook. "I could write a script for you, even go on-camera."

"I'll tell you a funny thing," answered Georgia. "The last thing
that Lucie said before packing up was that the meeting crasher may have given
the store a jolt in the right direction. A commercial probably doesn't make
sense, she said, but Lucie's asked me to think about
creating a series of how-to videos, said she'd help with making it happen if we
were interested. I mean, I don't know, those things could take a lot of time
and money." She shrugged. "But we've started on everyone doing one
sweater pattern. So we could track everyone's progress with that and make a
how-to sweater video."

"We could do a cell-phone sock," Dakota pointed out. "It's easy,
a little decreasing, a buttonhole. And then maybe I could get a cell for my
birthday."

"Aha, now the reason comes out." Georgia pretended to swat Dakota's
butt. "Your birthday isn't until the summer. So we'll see. Got to run,
hon. I've got an appointment downstairs."
    * * *
    Georgia went to her small bedroom and changed,
pulling out underwear from the chipped white dresser that she used as a
nightstand, her full-sized bed right up against the walls that she had recently
painted sky-blue. She'd been lucky to afford a two-bedroom all those years ago,
had put Dakota into the bigger bedroom from the beginning, figuring she'd need
room for baby things, then toys, then sleepovers. (At least one of them got to
have sleepovers, right?)

Now Dakota had a large desk in one corner for homework or art projects; in the
early years, it had been the home of a Barbie McMansion and her fleet of tiny pink convertibles. All provided by Anita who, as the
mother to three grown sons, was simply thrilled by everything girl. She'd
showered Dakota with Barbies of every hue, and
Dakota, in turn, had named her favorite doll in her honor. Watching Dakota play
with the white and blond Mommy doll and the dark-skinned African-American
Barbie named Anita had prompted a line of gentle questioning from Georgia.

"Why did you name that one after Anita?" she'd asked her daughter,
then four years old.

"Because it looks like her," Dakota had answered, not looking up from
the engrossing task of sliding plastic Barbie shoes on those tiny curved feet.

"How does the doll look like Anita?" Georgia prodded.

"It's pretty," said Dakota, then handed Georgia a Skipper. "You
can drive the convertible or the Barbies are all
going to be late for a news conference. They're opening a knitting shop."

Who could argue with that?

Though, of course, they'd had talks, especially as Dakota grew older. About how
she and her mom looked different from each other. Each beautiful in her own
way. About being prepared for people whose prejudices might lead them to say
stupid things. And about how Georgia loved Dakota more than anything in the
world. That was the constant. Though it helped, too, that at her Upper West
Side public school there were other kids whose parents didn't look the same.
Some were foreign adoptees, and others had parents from different backgrounds,
like Dakota.

Sometimes they talked about it a lot. And then long stretches would go by and
it didn't come up. Dakota would be preoccupied with a new recipe, or arranging
a massive sleepover party ("Can I just add two more people?"), or
getting her mom to lend her a favorite sweater from her prized collection of handknits .

None of which she planned to wear today. Georgia's closet was cramped, her main
storage space for more than just clothes, and it took some effort to begin to
sort through