That July, Iliana read in Teen magazine that the “Reese Jeans guy” had joined the cast of a new TV series about four high school buddies who form a band called the Dreamers. Knowing that the show would launch in September made it easier for her to accept the end of summer and the prospect of a new school year, the likelihood of finding no welcoming faces anywhere in the lunchroom, and having to sit again, ignored, with Lizzie and her rich friends. In August, she checked the shelves at the candy store daily, and was the first to pull a copy of the new issue of Teen—with a full-color photo section all about the new show—from the rope-bound stack. The photos were mainly of the show’s biggest star, Terry Brice, whose California tan and white-blond hair had made him a regular on sitcoms and commercials. But it was the one close-up of Jeff Downs that held her attention. She loved that he was looking down at his guitar, and not at the camera. Was there any better confirmation that he was just what she had imagined—modest, deep, and a little brooding? She was convinced that he allowed himself to get close to only a few people.
People like her.
The next morning, after making sure that Matt and Dara were getting dressed, Iliana slipped downstairs and turned on her computer. Sure, it was just a stupid TV show, and an old one at that, but she kept hearing Jeff’s advice to the girl over and over in her head—You just gotta put yourself out there, you know?—the same way she used to hear him as she went through the motions at middle school each day. Opening her email, she read her draft to Stuart, made a few revisions, added a concluding sentence expressing the hope that they’d talk soon, and pressed “Send.” There was no point in hesitating; it was time to put herself out there.
But no sooner had she dropped the kids off at school—double-checking in the mirror that Matt had his violin—and parked near the Scarsdale Café for her date with Jodi than she received a sobering and unwanted response:
Wish I could say your idea would fly, but that Kate Spade girl is hardly worth a feature. I remember you like profiles about little people with big dreams, but they’re pretty old school these days. We need stories with big names that can increase our social-media presence. Now if you get your hands on something like that, write it up and send it over, I’ll give it a look. And btw, thanks for the congrats!
Sitting in the turned-off car, Iliana stared at her phone until her cold, ungloved fingers started to ache. Stuart had barely taken enough time to read her idea before flatly rejecting it. And though his note had a friendly tone, his characterization of her idea as “old school” stung. As for the end of the note—how could she get her hands on a story about someone famous when she was out here in the suburbs, her days filled with chauffeuring kids, dropping off clothes, and fetching preshave? He hadn’t even raised the possibility of an assignment—just gave a vague offer to give her work “a look.” She had been on the staff of Business Times for eight years, she had helped train him when he joined the magazine five years after she did, and he couldn’t even say that he’d love her to write for him? He wasn’t interested. To him she was a has-been.
She sighed. She had been down this road before, when her ideas were dismissed or rejected by Redbook, Parents, and all the others. And this was even harder to take, since Stuart was someone she knew. She could foresee how the next few days would go. She would study Stuart’s email for an hour or two, trying to glean something positive from his response or hoping he’d email again to say he’d reconsidered. And then, when neither happened, she’d crash. She’d be miserable and angry for days, short with the kids and Marc, cool to anyone who crossed her path. She’d remind herself constantly that Stuart found her useless. And then she’d slowly wipe herself up off the floor.
This was not how she had expected her career to go. She had joined Business Times a year after college, moving there from an entry-level public relations job because she wanted to be in publishing. She thought that after a couple of years, when she had some professional writing experience under her belt, she could move to one of the big women’s magazines. And a few years after that, when she had made a name for herself in the publishing industry, she could start on her book. Her idea was to find four people who had come to New York City and prevailed despite obstacles—a lack of money or education, extreme youth, or disapproving parents or families. She wanted her book to showcase the vast possibilities of New York, and to analyze the kind of determination that could propel people to extraordinary and unlikely success.
But somehow she never made it out of Business Times. It was a comfortable place for her, and she was content. She received lots of praise for sniffing out news or scooping the competition, as well as regular pay raises. The time she stayed behind at a press conference about West Side development and got a direct quote from Donald Trump, she earned a bouquet of red roses from the publisher and a bonus. Five years into the job, she got her promotion, which brought with it more money and prestige. She figured she had plenty of time to move to the next career stage.
Then along came Marc, and everything changed. She met him on the way home from a weekend getaway in the Poconos, and he soon became her top priority. Being in love consumed much of the time and attention she once poured into her job—as did planning a wedding, starting a household, moving to the suburbs, and expecting a baby. She returned briefly to Business Times after her maternity leave, but found that she missed Matthew terribly. She hated turning him over to a nanny every morning and not seeing him all day. She talked about it with Marc, who pointed out that between the cost of the nanny and her train commute to the city, they were spending a lot of money for a job she was starting to resent. So she left Business Times, taking a gamble that when she was ready to resume her writing career, the publishing industry would welcome her back.
She opened the door and stepped out, not even bothering to close her coat. The frigid air stung her cheeks and tore through her turtleneck sweater. She stumbled into the coffee shop and stood near the entrance. She barely remembered why she was there, until she noticed Jodi waving.
“Hi, honey! Iliana!” Jodi called, which made everyone in the place look up. “What’s wrong with you? You didn’t even see me!”
Iliana tried to smile normally as she slid onto the opposite green vinyl bench. “Sorry,” she said. “Just tired, I guess.”
A waitress came over with a coffeepot, and Iliana lifted an empty mug. “No, it’s easier when it’s on the table,” the woman barked. Iliana obediently put the mug down.
They ordered breakfast, and Jodi tucked the menus into their holder. “Tired, hey, I hear ya,” she said, pouring a stream of sugar from the glass dispenser into her coffee cup. “And when you’re tired, everyone annoys you more, am I right? I caught Ben loading the dishwasher last night, and he wasn’t even rinsing first. Shit, why are husbands so friggin’ lazy all the time?” Her golden-brown, artfully wavy hair cascaded forward, and she tossed it back with a forefinger.
“Actually, you’re not supposed to rinse them,” Iliana said. “Dishwashers today have sensors, and they need the food particles to read how dirty the load is, and—” She sighed. She once dreamed of being the next great female essayist of her time, and here she was, spouting boring facts she had learned writing about a local appliance store.
They were quiet for a moment. “Why’d you stop?” Jodi finally said, her lips turned down in a playful pout. “I love when you tell me that stuff. You’re so good at explaining, that’s why you’re a writer. Any new assignments coming up?”
“Not right now,” Iliana said, reaching for a napkin. She didn’t want to tell Jodi about Business Times. The rejection was too fresh, and the fact that it came from someone she once worked with was too humiliating to admit, even to her closest friend.
The waitress returned with their food, and Jodi cut hungrily into her eggs. “You’re so lucky that you have the kind of career you can do from home,” she continued, biting off a piece of bacon. “Not me. A lawyer who hasn’t practi
ced in ten years? Ha! Like I have a prayer of ever being hired again.”
Iliana looked up from her toast. “You don’t mean that, do you? It’s not true that no one would hire you, is it?”
“Yeah, it’s true. Why pretend? The only thing I’m good for these days is making sure Ben has clean shirts, clean boxers, and a full stomach, so he can keep going to work and bringing home the bacon. Or at least bringing home the money so I can eat the bacon.” She took another bite.
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“I like bacon.”
“No, seriously.”
She shrugged. “What am I gonna do? It is what it is.”
“But you were a lawyer.”
“I still am a lawyer, thank you very much. And I still get to practice once in a while, although mainly because I’m too wimpy to say no.”
Iliana smiled. “What?” she said. “What did you agree to this time?”
“I couldn’t help it!” Jodi rolled her eyes. “I ran into Chelsea Gold at the track last week—that will teach me to exercise in winter, right? You know her, she owns that store Chelsea’s Home Details a few doors down from here?”
Iliana nodded. She had covered the opening two years ago for the local paper. It was an attractive but overpriced decorating store, with small pieces of weathered, antique furniture and knickknacks.
“Well, we stopped to talk and she’s adding a location in White Plains and said she was nervous about some of the details in the lease, and when I told her I used to review leases, she asked if I’d take a look at it. ‘Just a once-over to spot any red flags,’ she said. She told me she was sinking all her money into the business, so she couldn’t pay me, but if I found something in the store, she’d give it to me as a thank-you.”
“Pretty nervy of her,” Iliana said. “She hardly knows you.”
“Yeah, but I’m like that, I start talking to someone on the street and before I know it I’m all into their business.” She shrugged. “Whatever. I like real estate. I like contracts. And she’s got some pretty stuff. Hey, as long as we’re right by the store, let’s stop in there. You can help me find my thank-you gift!”
Iliana shrugged—what else did she have to do?—and they paid the check and then walked over to the shop. A cheerful bell sounded as they opened the wooden door.
“Pick me out something nice!” Jodi whispered as she headed toward the back. “I’m just going to find her and say a quick hello.”
The place smelled good, like cinnamon and cloves, and Iliana wandered through the narrow alleyways formed by stacked chests and breakfronts. Everything looked old and weathered, as though the whole assortment had been brought in from some nineteenth-century New England estate. Eventually she came to a small writing desk in the corner and stopped to run a finger along its pewter drawer handles. It had a deep cherry finish and roll-down top, and it reminded her of the desk her parents gave her for her twelfth birthday. Her father, who had sold stationery products for a living, used to love the whisper that sharp pencils made on paper placed on a fine wood surface. He found it sad that pencils lost their points so quickly.
She opened a drawer and took out the price tag. Seven thousand dollars. No wonder she never shopped here.
Jodi came up behind her. “Hey, what’ja find me?” she said. “This? This desk? Isn’t it a little . . . I don’t know, sentimental?”
“What? No, it’s beautiful,” Iliana said.
“It’s not very practical. The drawers are so small!”
“It isn’t for storage, it’s for writing. My parents gave me one just like it when I was in middle school. My dad went to six stores before he found the one he wanted. He said it was the perfect desk for writing down my dreams.” She felt her eyes filling with tears. Her father had died over a year ago, and she still missed him.
Jodi leaned over and rubbed her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go,” she said softly. “I can choose something later.”
Outside, she adjusted her fringed scarf. “Could you drive the boys to basketball today? The floor guy’s coming, and I don’t know how long it will take.”
Iliana nodded. “Sure, I’ll take them.”
“Great. And let me know when I should fill in for you.”
Iliana nodded. “Okay. I will.”
“Because that thing in New Jersey for Marc’s company is coming up, right?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. The flower thing.” The owner of Marc’s company had a wife who grew up in New Jersey, and each year she hosted a flower-arranging workshop at her family’s estate for the nonworking wives of the firm’s male senior executives. Marc was ecstatic that she had been invited this year, because he thought it showed that he was finally on the partners’ radar screen and might be in line for a promotion.
“You don’t want to go? I think it sounds fun,” Jodi said. She reached out and nudged a strand of Iliana’s hair from her face. “What’s wrong with you today anyway? You’re not usually this down.”
Through the store window, Iliana could just make out the desk that looked like the one her father had chosen, the desk that Jodi had called sentimental. “I’ll see you later, Jo,” she said and started for her car.
Back home, Iliana stared at her laptop as she had known she would, looking for something positive in Stuart’s email. True, she thought, he had turned her down, but he hadn’t said he wouldn’t hire her, and he hadn’t said she wasn’t a good writer. Yes, his characterization of her taste in profiles stung, but maybe he was right—maybe magazines had to be flashier these days. And maybe there was some cool, well-known business star she could track down, now that she knew the kind of article Stuart wanted. Still, Jodi’s lament hung in the air. Were lawyers who’d left the workforce to have their families really as unmarketable as she claimed? Was the same true of former magazine writers?
She turned away from the laptop and rested her head in her palm. It would take some time for her to think of a personality who would impress Stuart and then figure out how to get the interview. She would have to be resourceful—maybe reach out to women she knew who could put her in touch with celebrity businesspeople. Who did she know with those kinds of contacts? Were there any doctors or lawyers in town who might have famous people in their practice? Any PR people who had famous clients? Brokers or financial planners with helpful connections? She tapped her forehead with the pads of her fingers. Come on! she told herself. You know how to chase down a story! Think! THINK! But the encouragement didn’t help. Nothing came to her.
Gradually her eyes wandered to the family room, and she saw the TV on the wall, as well as the coffee table where she had sat and watched Jeff Downs through four straight episodes of Guitar Dreams last night. Jeff Downs, the guy who had made her feel better about herself every week throughout middle school, even though she didn’t even know him. She couldn’t help but wonder how his story played out. He had had a career that took off fast and ended quickly—the show was off the air after three or four years, and she never saw him on TV again after—and she was starting to worry that her career was over, too. She wanted to know how he had coped and whether he’d been able to move on to something else. She wanted to know what became of him—and how he felt about it all.
She turned back to the computer and typed “Jeff Downs” in the Google search box. Her eyebrows lifted with curiosity as she hit the “return” key. But then she sighed, as more than eleven million results popped up, along with ads from companies claiming they could find his address, phone number, and arrest record instantly. This was not going to be easy.
Methodically, she read through the first page of Jeff Downs listings. There was a cardiologist in Tampa named Jeff Downs, as well as a police officer in Las Vegas and a professor of biology at Stanford. There was a pastor in Philadelphia and a few insurance brokers and financial planners in scattered cities. Sure, she could eliminate the basketball star at Syra
cuse University and the old man who just died in Buffalo—her Jeff Downs was neither nineteen nor ninety-three. But what about the others? Was the guy whose smile once drove preteen girls crazy now a doctor, professor, or policeman? Could he have invented a whole new life for himself after his star crashed and burned years ago?
She went back to the search box and typed in “Guitar Dreams,” staring intently at the screen for new results. Up came a Wikipedia entry—wasn’t there always a Wikipedia entry?—followed by a host of YouTube videos and several TV-centered websites. She clicked on the Wikipedia link, which described the show’s origins and gave some information she already knew. But within the wordy copy, an unfamiliar tidbit emerged:
After Guitar Dreams was canceled, Jeff Downs, once known as the Reese Jeans guy, moved to Maine to start a skiwear business with his brother, Jack.
Skiwear? Now that was an interesting piece of news, assuming Wikipedia was right. Googling “Jack Downs skiwear,” she held her breath while the results page loaded and then clicked on the first link, which brought her to the home page of a website called JackDownsHatsandAllThat.com. Locating the “About Us” tab beneath a picture of a lighthouse, she skimmed the paragraph that appeared. Sure enough, it said that Jack Downs had started the company with his brother—but added that Jack and Jeff eventually parted ways, and Jeff moved to New York to start something called Downs Textiles.
The Last Dreamer Page 2
