The Last Dreamer (6 page)

He turned his chair backward and sat down, his chest against the chair back and his knees splayed, and he turned the catalog toward her on the table. She looked at the photos and nodded admiringly as he flipped a few pages, pointing out which were his best sellers. Then he closed the book and slid it toward her.

“What’s next?” he said.

She asked him whether price fluctuations in cotton were having an effect on his bottom line and if he would have to pass any increases on to retailers for the fall selling season. He conceded that cotton prices were volatile, but said he had made a commitment to his retailers to hold prices steady this year, and he intended to keep it. She asked whether a small company like his could continue to be viable over the next five to ten years, considering the enormous cost of maintaining a Manhattan showroom and the greater efficiencies of larger companies that supplied the same products. He explained that he had moved his design and administration functions up to Westchester so he could continue to maintain a roomy showroom in Manhattan where retailers could see his product line in comfort. He added that bigger companies weren’t as nimble in spotting trends and changing directions as a small company like his was.

She asked how “green” his products were and whether sustainable raw materials and environmentally sound manufacturing processes were a priority. He showed her some samples that his design team was working on, using new plant-based dyes, although he conceded that there were still color problems that needed to be ironed out. She asked if she could see the other products in his line, and he took her on a tour of the showroom so she could examine the high-end blankets that his company marketed.

Finally he looked at his watch and held up one hand. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t expect we’d go longer than an hour. I have a twelve o’clock with one of the merchandise managers at Bloomingdale’s. I’d cancel but it’s really important. Getting some tips for a meeting next week with the whole Bloomingdale’s team.”

“Oh,” Iliana said. She didn’t move. The time had passed so quickly! She hadn’t asked any questions yet about
Guitar Dreams
or his life post-celebrity. She had been hoping the conversation would move there naturally, that he would tell an anecdote that would lead him to start talking about Hollywood. But that hadn’t happened. The one time he had come close was when he hummed “The Best of Times”—but he had turned the conversation back to business pretty quickly after that.

“Hey, I don’t want to cut this short,” he added. “This article is important, too, and—wait, I have an idea! Why don’t you sit in on that meeting? Those Bloomingdale’s guys love reporters. It’s next Tuesday at eleven. And when they leave, we’ll wrap things up. I’ll even buy you lunch.”

She hesitated. She shouldn’t be coming back here. She had let the misunderstanding about the
Times
go on too long, and it now felt too late to come clean. She didn’t know how she’d tell Jeff the truth, and whatever she could possibly say, it would be too embarrassing to bear. The best thing would be to leave the office and never come back. She would have to come up with another idea for Stuart, but she could deal with that later. She should disappear from here, just consider this a fun meeting with her onetime crush and call it a day. After a few weeks of not seeing his company mentioned in the paper, Jeff might call the
Times
asking for her, but by then she’d be long gone and unreachable. She was glad that she hadn’t yet gotten around to adjusting the settings on her cell phone, which came preprogrammed to keep her number hidden when she made calls. There’d be no way to trace her.

And yet, the chance to meet with Jeff again, to pursue this article further and see where it might take her, was too enticing to pass up. She wasn’t ready to say good-bye.

“I would love that,” she said.

“Then it’s a date.” He clapped his hands and stood. Iliana began to slip her notebook and the catalog into her bag, but feeling frazzled at this new turn of events, she couldn’t get the pages to slide in smoothly. Her fingers felt huge and clumsy. After three attempts, she brought the books out, smoothed them on her lap, and finally succeeded. When she stood up, she saw Jeff looking at her, smiling sympathetically. She rolled her eyes and they both laughed as they started walking toward the showroom entrance.

“So do you work out of an office? Or from your home?” Jeff asked.

“My home,” she said.

“Here in the city?”

“No, Westchester.” She knew he was just making small talk, but she wished he’d stop with the questions. She didn’t want to give out any more information about herself, at least not until she got home and had a chance to think this whole morning through.

“No kidding! I live in Westchester, too. What do you know about that? I’m in Mount Kisco.”

He looked at her expectantly, clearly waiting for her to volunteer what town she lived in, but luckily Rose appeared just then with her coat. Jeff took it and held it up for her, and she slipped an arm through a sleeve, acutely aware that it was Jeff Downs—
Jeff Downs!
—supporting her coat’s weight. She had daydreamed so many times when she was young about Jeff doing simple things—helping her with her coat, opening a door—that having him actually
do
one felt full of meaning. Suddenly her real life seemed unimaginably remote. If she had found a way to make Jeff Downs real, what else could she do?

“Well, Ms. Iliana Fisher, it’s been a pleasure,” Jeff said, taking her hand in both of his. She felt her face redden. She had expected a simple handshake. “Thanks for coming. See you next Tuesday at eleven.”

Outside the double doors, Iliana turned and looked through the glass as Jeff jogged back through the showroom.

And then she was back in the elevator. She didn’t remember pushing the button to call it. She sensed that the elevator was crowded, but she didn’t see any faces. She was only aware of her black wool coat, which had been almost weightless as Jeff Downs helped her with it. She remembered the way the sleeves slipped on. She could feel how they glided up to her shoulders.

Gazing forward at the mirrored elevator doors, Iliana watched her face come into focus, peeking out between the shoulders of two men in front of her. It reminded her of when she was a teenager sitting in the backseat of her father’s Ford Taurus, and could just make out her eyes in the small rearview mirror. Sometimes, particularly when her dad was driving her to a party, she couldn’t believe how pretty her eyes were. Large and brown, a little almond-shaped, with huge black pupils, framed by the soft, brown waves of her hair. For the first time in a long time, she could see those pretty eyes again. Maybe it was because she had just come out of a very successful business meeting with a charming man who admired and respected her. She was feeling very good about herself.

She left the building and began walking, hearing Jeff’s voice in her head:
“Wow, you must be good.” “Ms. Iliana Fisher, it’s been a pleasure.”
Nearing the corner, she was vaguely aware of a man’s voice calling out. It annoyed her because it was disrupting her thoughts, like an alarm clock that interrupts a delicious dream. She was trying to concentrate on the memory of Jeff’s words, when suddenly she felt a harsh tug on her elbow. Alarmed, she pulled it back defensively, but then recognized the voice.

“What’s going on? I’ve been chasing you for two blocks!”

“Marc!” she said. “Oh my God, Marc! I thought someone was trying to take my bag. God, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

“What am
I
doing here?” he said. “I’ve been working at the Affinia. I told you that this morning—Angers arranged the off-site for today. We just finished one meeting, and I was taking a walk to clear my head. What are
you
doing here?”

“I was . . . shopping at Macy’s,” she said, pointing toward Thirty-Fourth Street.

“You came all the way into the city for Macy’s?”

“They have a wider selection here than the one in White Plains.”

“Why, what are you buying?”

“I was going to look for something to wear to Jena Connors’s.” Looking over Marc’s shoulder, she spotted Jeff Downs emerging from his building, wearing a black overcoat and holding the arm of a tall woman draped in a red sweater-coat. It dawned on her that the woman must be the Bloomingdale’s executive he had been waiting for. She had assumed his meeting was with a man.

She grabbed Marc’s elbow and pivoted to his other side, so her back was to the couple. “Marc, I really need to catch a train back so I’ll be home for the kids,” she said.

“Okay, fine, don’t let me hold you up. But come to think of it, go ahead and buy something to wear for the workshop. You want to make a good impression. And maybe you should get something for next Wednesday, too—there’s a cocktail party to celebrate the Cleveland office, wives invited.” He kissed her cheek. “I’d better get back; I’ll see you at home.”

Iliana watched him proceed down the block, feeling guilty that she had lied to him. It was something she never did, other than to throw him off when she was shopping for his birthday presents. But she was also insulted that he had basically
instructed
her to buy new clothes. That was the kind of thing a parent did, not an equal partner in a marriage.

Backing up to the wall of the nearest building, Iliana peeked around the portico. She saw Jeff step off the curb and raise his hand. Meanwhile, the woman he was with swung her head toward Iliana, letting the wind sweep her mahogany-colored hair away from her face. A cab stopped in front of them, and Jeff opened the door. The woman laughed, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and slid inside. Iliana watched as the cab pulled away and disappeared into traffic. Their warm interaction made her question for a moment her own time with Jeff Downs. He had made her feel that he thought she was special—but was that simply the way he behaved with all women?

She pushed the thought from her mind. They had had a wonderful meeting that morning, and she wasn’t going to let any insecurities change that. The bottom line was, she had loved being part of Jeff Downs’s world, and loved being Iliana Fisher,
New York Times
reporter on assignment. It had satisfied a need she had been feeling a long time.

And she was going back next week to do it again. She could hardly wait.

Chapter 6

Where do ex–pop stars go when it’s time to leave the soundstage? Here’s one who’s made the switch from rehearsal studio to design studio, proving that a TV star’s success can extend beyond reruns!

Later that day at the dining room table, Iliana finished typing and leaned back in her chair. Not bad—it was a lively lead, and it focused on celebrity, which was what Stuart wanted. She was pleased that after years away from
Business Times
, she still could develop a solid business story.

She continued:

The ex–pop star in question is Jeff Downs, one of the four teenage boys who made up the Dreamers, the centerpiece of the one-time hit sitcom
Guitar Dreams
. Back then, Jeff Downs was a superstar. His slender frame graced posters in teenage girls’ bedrooms across the country, and his modest smile shone on magazine covers week after week after week.

But after a handful of years in the limelight, and many more out of it, Jeff has done an about-face. While once he filled the dreams of teenyboppers, now he covers their beds—with blankets that bear the name of his successful New York–based textiles firm.

How does it feel to go from pop stardom to business ownership? What does a former star miss—and what doesn’t he miss? How did he come to land in New York? What did his years on TV teach him about making a go of it in the world of commerce?

Would you be interested in a 1,200-word profile about Jeff Downs and Downs Textiles? I’m ready to get started as soon as you give me the word. Thanks, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Iliana

She typed the last words and sat back, proud and satisfied. It was a good query, one she thought any shrewd business editor should find irresistible. Hell, if
she
were Stuart, she’d lock the piece up immediately with an assignment and a contract! She knew that Stuart had indicated in his email that he wanted to see a finished article and not a proposal, but as soon as she had gotten home from the city yesterday, she had decided to reach out to him this way. She would have felt too guilty otherwise to go back to Downs Textiles next week—especially when Jeff was including her in a client meeting and then taking her out to lunch. Jeff had been so generous and personable, and she figured that if she could at least get some interest from Stuart to hang her hat on, she would feel better about returning to be with him again. She could gradually nudge Jeff into seeing
Business Times
as a strong and significant publication—maybe even a preferred outlet for business coverage over the
Times
Business section—so that when she eventually told him she’d sold the piece to
Business Times
,
he’d be fine with the switch.

It was a great story idea and would make a great article, she thought. Of course, she still needed Jeff to agree to share some thoughts about his past to give the story some color, but she felt confident that she could convince him to do so. He liked her, she could tell—he liked and admired her, and she thought he would trust her when she told him some anecdotes and personal comments would make her article better. And once it was published and out in the world, it could open up even more writing opportunities for her. Feeling that things were falling into place, she tapped “Send,” and the email was on its way.

Then, just for good measure, she went to the
New York Times
website and found an email address for the New York section editor. Why not? If Stuart didn’t like the idea, maybe the
Times
would, and if she somehow ended up with two acceptances, she could figure out then what to do. As an old journalism professor of hers used to say,
that
would be a high-quality problem.

She copied the text and pasted it into a new email and added some information about her past experience at
Business Times
. Then she signed off and sent it on its way. Two pitches in just over an hour. Two potential opportunities that didn’t exist before.

She was feeling so good about all she had accomplished that day, so glad that things looked so promising, that later that night when the kids came downstairs—Dara to watch TV, Matt to get a snack—she blocked their way, pointing toward the kitchen table where she had set up the Scrabble board. She had realized while making dinner that often when she was with her kids, she was mostly in her own head—worrying about how fast the day was going, fretting over traffic, silently cursing drivers ahead of her who slowed down when the light turned yellow. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel compelled to throw in another load of laundry or sort through stacks of mail or write checks for pizza lunches and field trips and other assorted school events, in the hope that she could clear a few hours the next morning to accomplish something meaningful. Tonight she felt satisfied.

“Come on,” she said to them. “Let’s play.”

They looked at her as though she had told them to scrub the toilet. “But I just
finished
thinking!” Dara complained. “I can’t think anymore!”

“I’m so tired,” Matt said. “Can’t we do it this weekend?”

But Iliana wouldn’t take no for an answer, and soon they were choosing letters and laying down words. At one point, Matthew found a perfect triple-letter spot for his “x” and celebrated his move by punching the air with his fists, shouting, “Yes!”

Iliana lifted her wrist to her forehead. “Oh, the humiliation!” she cried.

When Marc came home, there were just a few letters left in the bag. “Whose idea was this? I love Scrabble!” he said. He warmed the dinner plate Iliana had left for him and brought it to the table just as Matt won. Iliana suggested that they play again so Marc could join in, and the kids enthusiastically refilled the letter bag.

Later that evening, Marc was in bed reading
Wall Street Journal
updates on his iPad when she finished straightening the kitchen and went upstairs. He was in his boxers and his dress shirt was on, although the top few buttons were unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up. She could see his bare chest, the warm tone of his skin, the mass of pepper-and-salt hair. Closing their bedroom door, she climbed onto the bed and ran a finger gently from his ankle to his knee. Although they used to make love often, as the kids got older they gradually began waiting for weekend evenings when Matt and Dara were at the movies or friends’ houses. The house wasn’t that large, the kids’ bedrooms were just down a short hall, and once both Matt and Dara had learned about sex, their presence in the house inhibited her. She assumed Marc felt the same way. But tonight she felt like making love anyway. Why not? The door was closed and the kids knew to knock if they needed anything, which they most likely wouldn’t since they were both already in bed. She and Marc were creative and inventive, and surely they could make love in a quiet way. She didn’t want to wait for the weekend and hope the kids would have plans. Why had she and Marc come up with that unspoken rule? Why hadn’t either one of them questioned it before?

“By the way, they’re changing the date,” Marc mumbled, his eyes still on his iPad.

She looked up from his calf. “What date?”

“The cocktail party. For the Cleveland office. I told you about it when I saw you yesterday. It may not be Wednesday anymore, I’ll have to let you know.”

“Got it, change of date,” Iliana said teasingly, as she leaned over and began planting kisses on his ankle, his knee, his thigh just below his boxers.

Marc twisted his leg away. “I mean it, Iliana, don’t act like this is no big deal, because it is. It’s coming up and I don’t know when, so you’re going to have to put Jodi or whoever on call—if there’s driving to be done, she’s going to have to cover for you.”

“There’s no driving to be done in the evenings.”

“I’m just saying that all the exec wives will be there, so you can’t start fighting with me about conflicts.”

Iliana straightened her back and looked at him. On any other evening, this would be the time when she stormed into the bathroom, or went downstairs to the family room, just like she did last week when he came home from Chicago. This would be the time when she wrapped herself in the plaid throw and sulked, feeling rejected and sorry for herself. Now would be when she thought about how he was always telling her what to do, and then worried that maybe he was right and she was being selfish. Now would be the beginning of her passive-aggressive silence, which would gradually fade, only to start again after the next disagreement. But she decided right then that she wasn’t going to follow that path. Not tonight. She was feeling too good about herself. She was feeling too excited about all the good things that were potentially in store for her.

“Okay, Marc,” she said. “I understand this is important.”

She pulled herself alongside him and kissed his waist, then ran her open palm over his chest. “Do you know that the way I most love seeing you is with your dress shirt unbuttoned?” she said.

He looked down at her. “What?” He laughed.

“No, I mean it,” she said. “You’ve got your shirt buttoned up and a tie on all day, being the smart, serious lawyer you are. And then you come home and unbutton your shirt, and you’re still that Marc but you’re also the Marc who belongs to me. It’s why when we were dating, I always liked to meet you right after work and go to your apartment. I didn’t want you to change your clothes and then come to my place. I wanted to be there when you became my Marc.”

He took off his glasses and closed the tablet. “And do you know what I love best about you?” he said. “It’s the smile you give me when you know I’m about to kiss you. There’s just a look you have that makes me think you feel really lucky to be with me. There—see? There it is.”

Then he brought her face close to his and kissed her—a long, rich kiss that felt so good on her mouth. Their lovemaking was gentle, as they both explored how to be together with sleeping adolescents down the hall. It was a different kind of lovemaking than she was used to—stretchy and slow instead of intense and assertive—and it was wonderful. Her limbs felt like chocolate liqueur.

“Here she is, I see her walking in. Excuse me a moment.”

Iliana could hear Jeff talking about her as she handed Rose her coat. When she turned, he was walking toward her, smiling that familiar Jeff smile. He had on a deep blue shirt and fanciful blue tie with gold and red saxophones.

“Hello, Ms. Fisher,” he said, in a mock-formal tone. “Thank you for coming back.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Downs,” she responded, matching her tone to his.

“They’re killing me out there,” he whispered teasingly.

“Somehow I don’t believe that,” she teased back. He struck her as a winner, and his smile told her he liked that she thought that.

He stepped aside and she proceeded into the showroom. She was wearing a new outfit, a lavender sheath dress with a robin’s-egg-blue cardigan, both of which she had bought on Saturday, in between drop-offs and pickups. It was unusual for her to wear colors—the other two professional-style dresses she owned were black—but she had thought that a
Times
reporter who wrote about home trends would definitely make bolder fashion choices, and once she tried the clothes on, she realized the colors made her brown eyes look bigger and the whites of her eyes, whiter. And because she planned to wear the outfit to Marc’s cocktail party, she didn’t feel guilty about buying it. It had been a nice surprise in the store to find that clothes seemed to fit her better than they used to. Apparently all her excitement about Jeff Downs had curbed her appetite, because it felt like she had dropped a few pounds. She had also decided to add some subtle highlights when she got her hair colored. She loved the way they looked.

Jeff led her to a round table where four people were already seated and made the introductions.

“Iliana Fisher. I’ve never heard that name,” said the patriarch of the contingent, an elegant man with a long face and a mane of white hair. He rested his elbows on the table, and with his eyes closed, stroked his hair with one hand. “I thought I knew all the home furnishings reporters at the
Times
.”

Reflexively she reached for her bag, anticipating a potentially quick exit. But Jeff saved her.

“Iliana’s a freelancer, Paul,” he said. “She works for the New York section.”

Iliana nodded sheepishly. She knew she looked uncomfortable and hoped they would all think it was just because she was embarrassed at the attention. She felt bad that Jeff was now repeating her lie, but told herself that hopefully it wouldn’t be a lie for long. She could soon be a writer for the New York section, she thought. She just had to get through these little bumpy spots until then.

“New York, huh? Never met those people. But they’re good. They did an excellent article on commercial real estate a few weeks back. Two pages.” He pointed a pencil at a young man with short, gelled hair and a body-hugging black turtleneck sweater. “See it?” he demanded.