Excerpt: The Friday Night Knitting Club

The day was a scorcher. The air conditioner in her Upper West Side walk-up had konked out, leaving her sweat-soaked and uncomfortable. Her dark curly hair had frizzed and stuck to the back of her neck, her belly jutted out of her slender frame, and her fingers, always so slim and nimble, were swollen. Her eyes were red, puffy. Georgia had finally worked up the nerve to call James late one night and reveal the pregnancy. He was shocked, angry, apologetic…and bedded down with his newest girlfriend. And no, she wasn't his boss. He had already found someone else. "This isn't a really good time for me…perhaps we can meet tomorrow? At the park?" And so she made her way that morning to an empty bench under the trees, sat down with the half-finished blanket she was knitting for her baby-to-be, and waited. James never showed.

"That's an impressive pattern you've worked out there." Georgia was startled by the elegant older woman standing before her, her linen suit still crisp and a wide-brimmed sun hat framing her face. Georgia smiled weakly, embarrassed by her cheap clothes, her fat belly, her youth.
The woman sat down anyway, began talking about the blankets she had knitted for her own children and about how working the needles always helped her sort out her emotions. Georgia just wanted her to go away, but she had been raised to be a good girl, so she pretended to listen politely. Tears of rage and frustration stung her eyes.

"You don't find very many people who can knit with this type of precision," she heard the woman say as she fingered the piece. "It's a dying art, and one I imagine people would pay for." She reached over and patted Georgia's left hand; there was no ring, but the woman knew that already.

"If I were you, I might start asking around, see if anyone needed sweaters or scarves for gifts. Perhaps see if you can put up a sign at the baby store over on Broadway and 76th? Get the word out. You could buy a classified ad in the New Yorker -- it worked for Lillian Vernon."

Georgia sat there, at a loss for words, doubt and confusion oozing from every pore. The woman stood up to leave, motioned to a man in the distance.

"You have a gift, my dear, and I have an eye for talent." She handed Georgia a cream calling card on heavy stock. "Just to prove it to you, I'll buy the first sweater you make. Make it cashmere, and make it quickly. I'll expect a call when it's done." Her heels made a soft clip-clop on the sidewalk as she walked away.

Georgia turned over the card.

Anita Lowenstein. The San Remo. 212-555-9580.

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