The Last Dreamer (7 page)

The young man blinked. “Uh, yes, Mr. Charles,” he said unconvincingly.

“I hope you did,” Paul said dryly. “So, let’s get started. And all money discussions are off the record, right, young lady?”

“Yes, sir,” Iliana said.

“Greg?” Jeff motioned toward his salesman, who slid an easel close to the table and handed Jeff a pile of fleece blankets from a nearby shelf. Jeff held each one up, pointing out the neat stitching around the edge before draping it over the top of the easel. When he was done, the blankets formed a vibrant line of color, ranging from cream to berry to deep navy blue.

He folded his hands on the table. “So, how many millions can we put you down for?” he joked.

“Now hold on,” Paul said, stroking his hair again. “There are a lot of great fleece products out there this season.”

“I was impressed with the Modern Bedding line,” a woman with thick black glasses put in. “They’re doing some great things with microfibers.”

“No, the Modern Bedding line isn’t nearly as well made,” said Jeff’s lunch guest from last week, her voice polite but firm. “And please, the color range here is much more comprehensive.”

“You’ve got a point, Shelly,” Paul said. “But the one thing Modern Bedding has going for it are its prices. Jeff, you’re way too high.”

“Our blankets aren’t cheap, you’re right,” Jeff said, nodding. “And that’s because the quality is unmatched. And we’re not going to change that. But if you go in for a big program, we can provide some volume discounts that will make the pricing very attractive.”

“Let me see what you’ve got,” Paul said. Greg handed over a sheet of paper. Everyone watched as Paul studied it. “I think you’ve got something here,” he finally said.

“Great. Can I put you down for ten colors?”

“We’ll start with four.”

“You can’t make any kind of impact on the sales floor with only four colors,” Jeff said. “Come on, what’ll it take to bring you to six?”

“Oh, maybe a few bars of ‘The Best of Times,’” the man in the turtleneck said. “Or how about that catchphrase you used to say on the show—‘Just start dreamin’ to the max!’” He said it with a derisive edge and then glanced around tentatively, like a comedian testing new material. The women laughed a little, their eyes downward, as though they had heard an off-color joke.

Jeff nodded and waited for the laughter to stop, looking a little irritated. Then he stood and rubbed his hands. “Seriously, folks, six?”

“Six, but that’s it,” Paul said. “We’re done.”

Ten minutes later they were all shaking hands, Jeff holding a signed contract by his side. As they moved to the reception area, Iliana saw Jeff’s lunch friend give him a private nod, and he winked back. When he turned around, his eyes caught Iliana’s, and he tilted his head questioningly. She quickly looked down and pulled an imaginary speck off her dress, angry with herself for watching their exchange. It was ridiculous that for a moment she’d felt jealous—she was here for a
business
meeting, after all. She certainly didn’t want to give Jeff the idea she was there for any other reason.

He walked the group out the double doors, then jogged back into the showroom.

“Great job, Jeff,” Greg said. “Boy, was I scared. Especially when he brought up the pricing. But you didn’t even blink.”

“Piece of cake,” Jeff said. “Hey, I know how to handle guys like Paul.”

“Congratulations, Jeff!” Rose called over, and a few other salespeople from the back echoed her sentiments.

“Yeah, but you got him to go for more colors than you even hoped,” Greg continued, shaking his head. “And at a price that—”

“Hey, can you finish telling me how great I am after I get back?” Jeff said, handing Greg the contract. “Right now I’ve got a hungry reporter on my hands.” He turned to Iliana. “Do you like Italian? I feel like celebrating. Rose, can you get us a table at Porto Aperto?

Iliana looked at her watch. It was just after twelve. “Is it
 . . .
close?” she asked.

“Two blocks south and a little west,” Jeff said. “Why, is there a problem? Do you need to make a train?”

“No, I drove in today. But I just need to check in with my editor
 . . .”

“Sure.” Jeff gestured toward the back. “Have a seat at one of the tables, and take your time. I’ll wait by the front.”

Iliana scooped up her shoulder bag and found the farthest table from the reception desk. She took out her cell phone and tapped in the number.

“Mr. Passing’s office, may I help you?”

“Kelly, it’s Iliana,” she said quietly.

“Iliana? I can barely hear you.”

“I’m sorry, it’s my cell phone, I’ll try to talk louder.” She raised her voice a tiny bit. “Is Marc
 . . .
is he in the office? They don’t have meetings today in Midtown, do they?”

“No, he’s here, but he’s got a couple of other lawyers in with him, and they seem to be working on something pretty intense. Want me to interrupt him?”

“No, don’t do that, but
 . . .”
She paused. “So he’s going to be there for a while?”

“I’d say they’ll be here for at least a few hours,” she said. “They just called in some sandwiches, so they’re not going anywhere else. Want me to slip a note to him? I’m going out to lunch now, and I know he won’t be picking up his phone anytime soon.”

“No, that’s okay,” Iliana said.

“Are you sure I can’t give him a message?”

“No, no need. I’ll see him tonight.”

She strolled through the showroom to the reception area, where Jeff was waiting. Marc was downtown for the next few hours, Dara had volleyball until five thirty, and it was Jodi’s turn to drive the boys from school to basketball practice. She felt a little guilty—actually, more than a little—for sneaking around behind Marc’s back and checking to make sure he wouldn’t see her. But it would be confusing to him if he were to run into her and Jeff right now, and a confrontation could derail what she was working to accomplish. Once she got an assignment, she would tell him everything. Her new professional achievement would be cause to celebrate. And anyway, why wasn’t she entitled to go out to a business lunch? Marc no doubt went out to business lunches with women all the time, and she knew nothing about them.

Of course, she also didn’t feel great about the way she was continuing to deceive Jeff, as well as the multiple stories she had told Paul and his staff about herself. She was racking up quite a litany of lies. But she knew that she had to put the negative thoughts out of her mind. If things went according to her plan, everyone would be happy. Jeff would get his article, she would get her career boost, Paul would get his blankets, Marc would get a happy and fulfilled wife
 . . .

“Are you okay?” Jeff said. “You look a little worried.”

“What?” She looked up, startled. “No, I’m fine. I’m good. All’s good.”

Chapter 7

The restaurant was airy and elegant, with high ceilings and polished wood floors. Iliana was seated on the banquette, with Jeff opposite her. Though the place was crowded, the walls absorbed the noise, and their table felt very private.

“How about a glass of wine?” Jeff said.

“Sure,” she answered. She wanted to relax and let the conversation wander. She hoped to explore the side of Jeff that had hummed “The Best of Times” and then said he liked that she remembered it. She wanted to tell him how much a part of all her dreams he had been when she was young, and she wanted to know that in his own way, he had been searching back then for a girl like her—smart and full of promise, a girl who could become the successful professional sitting across from him now. She was entirely anonymous to him. He didn’t know that she hadn’t published a word in years, that her husband thought her top priority was
his
career, that the article ideas she had found time to pitch between carpools and errands had been rejected, that her closest friend was another stay-at-home mom who had accepted that no law firm would ever take her back. It felt freeing to reinvent herself as a lead actor in her own right, and not just a supporting player for others. It felt like taking off a layer of clothing.

She asked for a glass of pinot grigio, and Jeff said he’d have the same. They ordered their lunch, and when the wine had been served, Jeff held up his glass.

“Well, here’s to a great day,” he said. “And a wonderful new friendship and an awesome article.”

She lifted her glass. “Thank you for that.”

They both took a sip, and then Jeff leaned forward on the table. “You know, you’re not like other reporters I’ve met. All pushy and ruthless, asking obnoxious questions, being cruel because they think it will make them seem clever. But you—you’re different. You seem to really care about me. I like that.”

She looked down, embarrassed but also thrilled by what he said. It felt good to be complimented. The things he was saying—they were almost exactly what she had imagined he would say when she daydreamed about him years ago.
All those other girls just care about jewelry and shoes. But you, Iliana—you’re different from them.
He was right, she did care about him. And because he recognized that, she was optimistic that he’d be amenable when she told him she wanted to write about his life as well as his blankets.

“So tell me some more about yourself,” he said. “Did you always want to be a writer?”

She nodded.

“From the time you were young? Like five or six?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe seven or eight.”

“Did you always want to work for a newspaper? Ever want to write anything else? A screenplay maybe? A book?”

She looked to the side, giving herself a moment to think. She wanted to keep up her
New York Times
cover, and she knew that talking about herself could be risky. And she wasn’t sure why Jeff was questioning her this way—was he just trying to butter her up to make sure her article would be entirely complimentary? But no, he seemed genuinely interested in learning more about her, and she couldn’t help but enjoy his attention. Nobody had asked her questions like this in a very long time.

“Actually, I did once want to write a book,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to write about people—what makes them brave, what makes them scared, basically what makes them tick. So I thought I’d find four people who came to New York to follow some dream of theirs, and write about why they came, whether they stayed, how hard it was to keep pushing on, that sort of thing.”

She smiled. “Maybe this is going to sound crazy, but one of the people I wanted to write about was Madonna. Do you know that she came to New York with almost nothing but the clothes she was wearing? She was just eighteen and wanted to study dancing. She did odd jobs to pay the rent. I love that. I love how driven she was.”

“It’s not crazy at all,” he said. “I like brave people, too. So whatever happened to the book?” he asked.

She sighed. “I had to put it aside. Life was busy, and writing a book takes time. Who knows? Maybe I’ll give it another shot someday.”

“I think it sounds good,” he said. “I’d read it.”

“It’s what I like, digging below the surface, finding the story beneath what everybody knows. I remember sitting at this writing desk my parents gave me when I was twelve, thinking of people to write about. I even once tried to write a story about—” She looked up and saw him smiling, which made her feel self-conscious. Maybe the wine was making her open up too much. “Forget it,” she said.

“What?” Jeff said. “Tell me.” He paused as the waiter served their lunch, then pressed some more. “Hey, you can tell me. We’re friends now, remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, if you really want to hear it, but keep in mind I was only twelve. Do you remember the whole thing years ago about red M&M’s—and how the company didn’t make them for a long time because there was this controversy about whether or not the dye caused cancer?
I
set out to investigate. I went to the library with M&M wrappers in my hand to research the ingredients. Then I wrote to the president of Mars Candy, because I wanted to know what he was thinking. I wanted to know if he worried that he didn’t eliminate the reds soon enough, and kids had gotten sick. I wanted to ask him if he was scared that other colors could be dangerous. I thought it would be a great interview and I’d be famous.”

Jeff laughed out loud, and Iliana covered her face with her hand. “Oh, come on, don’t be embarrassed, that’s a great story,” he said. “You were a determined reporter, even back then. Did you ever get a response?”

“No. I don’t think I even had the right address. Anyway, it was a big nonissue. The reds have been back for a long time, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, well. An early lesson that life can be harsh.” He took a forkful of pasta. “Anyway, it’s probably for the best that you never got famous.”

“Oh?”

“You see, Ms. Fisher, take it from someone who knows.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Teen fame can be pretty complicated.”

“You didn’t like it?” she said, bolder now. He pretended to ignore her and kept eating. “Really, you didn’t?” He looked up at her now with another amused smile, as though he planned not to answer but found her question flattering. “Come on, we’re friends,” she teased. “What it was like, being a Dreamer, having all those girls in love with you? How could that be bad?”

He put down his fork and leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “That depends,” he told her. “Is this just between us? Or is this for the article?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe both.”

“Maybe
both
? I don’t get it. Isn’t your story about Downs Textiles? Aren’t you just interviewing me about blankets?”

She forced herself to be strong and hold his gaze. After all, she wasn’t Iliana Passing, chore doer and carpool driver, when she was with him; she was Iliana Fisher, the
Times
reporter who wasn’t afraid to go after her story, who had been learning how to chase meaningful stories from the time she was twelve, and who had perfected her skills during eight years in business journalism. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Of course that’s why I’m here. But my instincts are telling me there’s a much bigger story.”

She saw his shoulders relax. “I’m listening.”

“Here’s the thing,” she said, amazed at how she seemed to have suddenly developed the ability to be assertive. Or maybe she’d always had it; she had used it at
Business Times
and maybe she was discovering it anew now. She found herself drawing on arguments she once used to get reticent sources to talk, arguments she couldn’t believe she remembered. “I’m curious about the Dreamers, and if I’m curious, I know other people are, too. My instincts are good that way. And if I can interview you about your past, I know I can make it a bigger and more significant article. That means more publicity for you and your blankets.”

“And what’s in it for you?” he asked.

“A bigger, meatier story is better for my career, too. Frankly, now that I’ve started working on this article, I think including some stories from your past is essential.”

She watched him think for a minute, then scowl and shake his head. “Look, I don’t think so. There’s a reason I don’t talk about all that stuff. Hey, I know about all those guys from old TV shows, signing autographs at those pathetic oldies events, trading wives on stupid reality shows. They look like idiots, all of them, but they do it because they need the money. I
don’t
need the money. I’m a business owner, I’ve got a company and employees, and a great product line. I’m a success.”

“That’s what makes you so compelling,” she said, putting her elbow on the table and extending her hand, palm up. “You’re
not
like those others. And
Business
 . . . I mean the
Times
 . . . you know, any of the business publications in the city—they’re not pathetic events or stupid reality shows. What I’m talking about is
different
.”

He studied her, his chin forward. “Other reporters haven’t been this convincing. Why are you? What is just so special about the past, Ms. Iliana Fisher, that makes you want to write about it so much? You, the
Times
reporter, with the house in the suburbs, kids, husband who’s a . . .”

“Lawyer,” she admitted.

“Lawyer, very good, proves my point. The present is what matters. Why do you care about the past? What do you miss about the past? Being a kid? Being a
teenager
?”
He shivered dramatically.

She smiled. “I miss . . .” She stopped. How could she tell him that she missed who he used to be—and how she used to feel when she watched him? “I miss starting out,” she finally said. “When you didn’t know where things might lead.”

“You mean your career?”

“That, and other things, too. Going to college. Getting married. Having babies.”

“You miss
that
? The only thing I remember about babies is no sleep and dirty diapers.”

“You have children?” she said. It was surprising to think of Jeff Downs as a father. The memory of him as a nineteen-year-old heartthrob was just so vivid.

He nodded. “Three teenage girls.”

She was curious to know if he was married, but she didn’t want to ask. It felt like far too personal a question. “Then you have to agree there was more than just dirty diapers. I mean, what I remember . . .” She paused, feeling slightly dreamy from the wine. “I remember the summer when my oldest was a baby, and we lived here in the city. We’d go out early in the morning, and I’d stroll him down Second Avenue and look at the store windows. And I’d stop at this coffee shop and get a blueberry muffin and coffee to go, and then we’d head over to Central Park. And I’d give him a bottle and I’d eat my muffin as we watched the bigger children in the playground. And that muffin always tasted so good.”

She stopped talking, hypnotized by the memory. She remembered the sun on her shoulders, and the sound of Matthew sucking rhythmically on his bottle. She remembered seeing the children playing, framed by the tall, green trees in the park and the high-rise buildings on Fifth Avenue. She remembered going home and giving Matthew a bath and then closing the blinds and watching him fall asleep in her arms. Later, when he woke up, she would put on a CD with children’s songs by artists like James Taylor, Nicolette Larson, and Kenny Loggins, and dance around the living room, holding him. That’s how Marc would find them when he got home—dancing in the living room. And he’d take off his suit jacket and tie, roll up his sleeves and unbutton the top buttons of his shirt, and join them. She loved that he didn’t take the time to change his clothes. He had missed them that much.

“We spent every day like that,” she said. “And on those long summer days . . . I felt like I found the meaning of life.” She smiled, enjoying how wistful she felt. She’d never expressed these feelings before to anyone, not even Marc. Maybe she’d been too scared of missing it all too much. She had seen many things drift away in her life: her dreams of becoming a famous writer; her excitement at being a newly minted reporter; the warm pleasure of falling in love with Marc; their wedding; the birth of their first baby, Matthew; and the birth of their daughter, Dara. She had relished their babyhoods completely. But they were over. What was there now to look forward to? Teenage rebellions? More fights with Marc? An empty nest? Illness? Old age?

“Yeah, well,” Jeff said, looking a bit unnerved at how personal the conversation had become. “I guess you wouldn’t want them to stay babies forever. How old are they now?”

“Fourteen and twelve.”

“So you must know that watching them grow up is fun, too. I mean, yeah, the teenage years can be rough. Our oldest, Katie, she was dating this real loser for a while, but thankfully that’s over. And these days I really like my daughters. I like the people they’ve become. So does Catherine, my wife.”

Iliana looked up. Now that he had mentioned his wife, she wanted to know more about her. She was curious: Who was the woman who had married the guy thousands of teenage girls across the country adored?

“Tell me about your wife,” she said.

“She’s a dancer,” he answered, no longer reticent. In fact, it looked like now
he
was the one who was enjoying being questioned. “She teaches ballet at Purchase College, when she’s not managing the back-office stuff for Downs Textiles. That’s how we met. She danced on
Guitar Dreams
sometimes, for the party scenes. Those scenes were a blast.”

“Aha!” she said playfully. “So you
did
enjoy being a star.”

“It’s like I said, it was complicated. It had its ups and downs. Although most of the downs came after the whole thing was over.” He paused, looking at her. “You really want to interview me about the Dreamers? You really think it’s essential for the article?”

She nodded.

He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “The reason I don’t often talk about those days is because to a lot of people it’s a joke. Four talentless guys who got paid to smile at the camera—that’s what they think. Like that idiot today who brought up the ‘dreamin’ to the max’ line. Barely old enough to drink and he tries to look clever by making me the butt of his joke.