The Last Dreamer (9 page)

As she was going to put the Lysol back under the sink, she heard the beep that signaled an email. She went back to her computer. It was from Stuart:

Just as well. He’s pretty much a lightweight. It wasn’t right for us anyway.

A piece of her wanted to cry. But she told herself it was all for the best. It would be good to put this whole strange chapter behind her. She wasn’t a sneak or conniver by nature, and she wasn’t up for all the stress and guilt that the pursuit of a major story would entail for a stay-at-home mom like her.

She hoped that at some point soon, she would actually believe it.

Chapter 9

Dara recovered, Matthew apologized about the violin, and the week flew by. Iliana threw herself into her routines, planning her schedule extra carefully for Tuesday so she would have plenty of time to shower, dress, and arrive at Marc’s office promptly at seven thirty for the cocktail party. But that afternoon the tailor in Tarrytown gave her some other kid’s orchestra tuxedo, which she didn’t realize until she got home, so she had to go all the way back to get Matt’s. That made her late to pick up Dara from school, so they missed her orthodontist appointment and had to wait in the office an extra half-hour until they could be slotted in. Then she had to run across the library parking lot in a downpour to track down Matt inside, since the cell service in the building was weak and he didn’t get her text that she was waiting.

Soaking wet and slightly carsick from the stop-and-go traffic, Iliana rushed upstairs as soon as they got home. Fearing that the bad weather would make the trip into the city slow, she decided to forgo the shower and just dried her hair and threw on some makeup and her blue suit. She had thought about wearing the dress she’d worn to the Bloomingdale’s meeting, but just looking at it made her feel guilty again about missing Dara’s call. Running downstairs, she kissed the kids and gave them money to call in a pizza, reminding Matt that he was in charge and should call Jodi if there were any problems. She didn’t have time to eat anything, and she didn’t have much of an appetite anyway, so she grabbed a packet of nuts from the snack drawer. She figured she and Marc could stop somewhere for dinner on the way home.

“Great, you’re on time!” Marc said as she walked into his office. “I heard Dan’s wife is going to be late. This will give us some time alone with Angers before they show up. I can really use the extra face time with him.” He got up from his desk and kissed her on the cheek. “You look great. I don’t remember that suit.”

“No?” she asked. It was dark outside, and the tinted windows worked as mirrors. Peering at herself across the room, she adjusted the jacket. Somehow it didn’t look as good as it had that day in Jeff Downs’s office. “I wore it to your cousin’s wedding,” she said.

“Don’t remember it. I don’t know, maybe I do.”

He went to get his own suit jacket off a hook on the back of his door, which gave Iliana a moment to glance around the office. On the credenza was a photo of her taken many years ago, to accompany her
Business Times
column. The photographer, while setting up the lighting, had entertained her with observations about a male colleague who was smitten with him, and Iliana had found the story charmingly off-color. He snapped her at the precise moment when she was most enjoying his recollections, and the contrast between her business clothes and her amused expression made the photograph sexy. Marc saw it in the magazine while they were dating and asked for an eight-by-ten print, which he had framed and kept on display ever since.

She picked up the picture, remembering how much fun the photo session had been, how much fun just being in Manhattan had been. The city was crowded and diverse, and everyone she met—from the photographers and designers who lived in the Village to the corporate executives who worked in Midtown office towers and even the Russian drivers who answered her call for a car service when she had to work late at night—had stories to tell that surprised her or enlightened her or made her laugh out loud, and she sometimes regretted that she had to leave it behind to go back to her apartment each night and sleep.

“Come on,” Marc said. “I hear the elevator opening.” He took her hand, and they rushed down the hall. “Now remember to talk about how glad you are to be going to the Jena Connors thing,” he said. “And try not to mention that you were a reporter. Angers was annoyed with the financial coverage from the Seattle deal, and that would just remind him about it.”

The cocktail party was on the twentieth floor, in the circular lobby near the executive suites. There was a high ceiling, and the light from the enormous crystal chandelier made the silvery marble floor shine. Across from the elevator was a long mahogany bar, behind which bartenders in crisp white shirts and red bow ties mixed drinks. Iliana had frequently gone to cocktail parties when she was at
Business Times
, at cool downtown lofts or showy Midtown hotels. It was at these venues that she heard about and talked about businesses opening or dissolving, ideas being launched, and deals taking off or sometimes falling apart. She had been an integral part of the commerce that powered the city. And nobody had ever scripted her in a hallway, she thought ruefully, as she and Marc stepped out of the elevator.

Marc looked around, then took her elbow and led her toward an older couple, a hefty man with curly gray hair and a slender, blond woman. “Richard,” he said. “The place looks great.”

“Marc, right on time as always,” the man answered. Then he turned to Iliana and extended his hand. “Nice to see you again, Iliana. Glad you could make it.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Iliana said. “What a lovely party.”

“Do you remember my wife?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Hi, Karen.” The women shook hands.

A waiter carrying a tray of cosmopolitans approached, and Iliana nodded and took one. Richard took one and handed it to his wife.

Karen took a sip, and the enormous diamond ring on her finger glimmered. “How old are your children now, Iliana?” she asked.

“Fourteen and twelve.” She felt Marc’s eyes on her. “Oh, and I should tell you, I’m so pleased to be included in Jena Connors’s program. I’m looking forward to it.” It was hard to get the words out—she really hated that Marc had told her what to say—but she reminded herself she was there to support him. She took a sip of her drink and immediately coughed, pressing her fingers to her mouth. Boy, was it strong! She told herself she’d better take it slow. There wasn’t that much food around, and she’d only had that pack of nuts to eat in the car.

“It’s always quite an event,” Karen was saying. “The women are so interesting, and the speaker sounds wonderful. I love fresh floral arrangements in the house. Not that I have any time to make them lately—we’re in the middle of this major renovation, enlarging the front entranceway and adding a second patio behind the dining room and a gazebo near the pool—”

“Karen, can you come here for a moment?” Richard called. He and Marc had moved a few steps away, and now Richard was talking to some other people.

Karen touched Iliana’s hand. “Anyway, it should be wonderful. Will you excuse me?” She stepped away and joined her husband, as Iliana breathed a sigh of relief. She truly had no idea how to talk to women like Karen Angers, who were so rich and lived in such luxury. Giving her empty glass to a waiter, she took a full one from his tray. She didn’t want to drink too much, but the cosmo tasted delicious, and she hoped a little more liquor could help her feel less awkward around any other Karen Angers types she might meet.

Turning to her left, she saw that Dan and his wife had arrived and were talking with Marc and the Angerses. She wondered if Marc was stressed because he hadn’t had as much time alone with Richard as he had wanted. She looked around for him so she could make sure he was okay, but then she saw him approaching two women in business suits. She recognized them from past company functions; one was a lawyer who worked in Marc’s department and the other was in finance or something. They were both in their late 30s and looked as though they jogged eight miles each day before going to work. Marc began talking, gesturing comfortably as he spoke, and the two women listened attentively and nodded. At one point Marc seemed to have said something funny. The two women laughed, the one on the left grasping his elbow and dropping her chin, her silky dark hair spilling down around her face.

Iliana watched Marc take in the laughter, rocking back on his heels and putting his hands in pants pockets. He looked like he was enjoying himself, and suddenly she found herself wondering how happy
he
was with his stay-at-home wife. Sure, she made his life easy by taking care of the house and kids, but did he find the women he worked with more exciting? Was he disappointed that she had not made more of herself? She remembered how interesting he had found her that day they met on the train. He thought it was so cool that she wrote for a living, and he wanted to hear all about her job. Later, when he moved from the law firm to Connors Holdings, they found it serendipitous that she wrote about retailing and his company bought and sold retail chains. They often talked shop at home, and he liked to hear her thoughts about how different sectors of the retail industry were doing. Was apparel going soft? Were home furnishings picking up? Sure, they both had agreed that she should stay home with the kids; but was he now a little let down by the woman she’d become—just as she was?

Shaken, she turned in the other direction and slowly walked around the perimeter of the room. She didn’t want to go over to Marc just now; she didn’t want to be the kind of wife who takes her husband’s hand when she sees him talking to attractive women. The place had become crowded in the last few minutes, so no one really noticed her, and the few who did nodded and stepped out of the way, as though they assumed she was heading somewhere intentionally. She stopped near a small table with a fruit platter and took a few grapes, snacking on them as she continued to saunter. Ultimately she ended up at the bar and put down her glass, which was already nearly empty.

“May I take this?” the bartender asked.

She nodded and the waiter placed another cosmopolitan in front of her. Before she could say, “No, thank you,” he went on to serve two women to her left. She didn’t want the drink; she typically never finished one mixed drink, let alone two. But Marc was still talking to the other women, and she felt uncomfortable standing there by herself, doing nothing. She needed something to do with her hands.

“So, are you all packed?” one of the women was asking.

“Almost,” answered the other, a round-faced redhead. “Our furniture left this morning. I have a few boxes still to pack, just some really fragile things I didn’t want to give to the movers, and we’re driving out for good on Sunday.”

“And how about the wedding? Everything set?”

“Pretty much. My mother can handle most of the details, and I’ll fly out in the spring, you know, to get my dress fitted, finalize the menu, things like that.”

Iliana took a sip of the drink, wishing there were some stools around so she could sit. She lifted one foot to rest it on a ledge at the bottom of the bar, but the ledge was much narrower than she realized, and her foot ended up sliding to the floor. The rest of her body lurched forward, and some of her drink spilled onto the bar’s glossy surface. The redhead and her friend looked over.

“Oh, excuse me. Clumsy,” Iliana said, accepting a napkin from the bartender, who quickly mopped up the mess. She knew she was getting tipsy. She could feel herself slightly swaying. The room was starting to seem slightly out of focus.

“It’s so hard not to spill with this kind of glass,” the redhead said amiably.

“That’s true,” Iliana said. “Hi, I’m Iliana Passing, Marc Passing’s wife.”

“This is Rosanne Green, Bruce Green’s wife, and I’m Gwen Freelander, Keith Rein’s fiancée,” the redhead said.

“Oh, Keith Rein—he’s going to be running the new Cleveland office,” Iliana said. “Marc told me all about it.” The bartender put a fresh drink in front of her. She vowed not to touch it. She could hear herself starting to slur her words. “Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”

“In June. But we’re moving this weekend.”

“How are they taking it at work?” the other woman asked.

“It’s been hard, but I think they appreciate that I’m tying up all the loose ends,” Gwen answered. “Just have a few more things to take care of with the new play.”

“Play?” Iliana said, curious. “What do you do?”

“I’m an intern with a Broadway casting office, Telesido Brothers. They’re really successful. They’re working on a new show that may have Meryl Streep in it.”

“Really?” Iliana said. “What an exciting job.”

“And Hugh Jackman is coming in next month to have lunch and talk about a new project. I was hoping I’d be made an assistant casting director by then. Kills me to be leaving now,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Then, why are you?” Iliana asked seriously, leaning toward her.

The woman moved back a step. “Because I
love
my fianc
é
,” she said, sounding affronted. “And because I’m building a life with him.”

“Of course you are,” her friend said. “And if you don’t meet Hugh Jackman this time, you’ll meet him the next. Don’t worry, a woman with your skills—there’ll always be a way back, whenever you decide to return.”

“I don’t know about that,” Iliana said under her breath. She raised her glass, and her drink sloshed over the side.

“Excuse me?” Gwen said.

“I’m just saying it’s not so easy. Trust me, I know. I have a lawyer friend who left her job to raise her kids. She says no law firm would ever want her now.”

“So what are you saying? I should break off my engagement?”

“No, but couldn’t you stay here anyway? I mean, there’s no guarantee
his
job is going to work out. Why give up yours?”

“Come on, Gwen, I think we should go,” her friend said.

“No, I want to answer that,” Gwen said. Then she looked at Iliana. “I worked hard to get the job I have, and no, I’m not thrilled about leaving. But I’m smart enough to know that marriage is about compromise. I’m smart enough to know that life isn’t always perfect, so you examine your options and you make the best decisions you can.”

“I don’t mean to be a jerk, I’m just being honest,” Iliana said, grasping the woman’s wrist. “You may think you can always go back to work, but the sad truth is, it’s a myth. When you’re ready to go back, they don’t want you, and besides, with a family, it’s too complicated—” She raised her foot to place it on the ledge again, forgetting how narrow it was. When it slipped down this time, she fell forward with such force that her drink flew into the air.