The Last Dreamer

by Barbara Solomon Josselsohn

  She pushed the invitation away and halfheartedly turned on her computer. When the screen came back to life, she found the Google results page for Jeff Downs still open. A YouTube entry with a thumbnail photo of Jeff and his costars caught her eye. She clicked.

  It was a video of the recording session for “The Best of Times,” the Dreamers’ most famous song and their only one to go platinum. The boys were all in button-down shirts, skinny ties, and tight black jeans, their long hair windswept from their faces. Terry Brice was standing at a microphone, mugging at the others and grinning with delight, but it was Jeff Downs, the lead vocalist, who stole the scene. He half-stood, half-sat on a stool, one heel on a rung, his eyes focused on his guitar as he sang:

  When I pick her up on Saturday,

  And she tells me, “Oh, we’re on our way,”

  And it’s all so real, I have to say,

  It’s the best time, the best time in the world.

  At the beach we’ll walk along the sand,

  And I’ll kiss her soft and hold her hand,

  And she’ll tell me, yeah, that I’m her man,

  It’s the best time, the best time in the world.

  The best time,

  And I know it will last forever.

  The best time,

  And I know now our future is set . . .

  Jeff’s buttery voice lengthened every note, filling every word with intention. She could remember playing the song in her head as she sat at the edge of the lunchroom bench, next to Lizzie and across from Lizzie’s new friends. She’d pretend to laugh at jokes she didn’t get, jokes told at parties she hadn’t been invited to, all the while thinking that the girl Jeff described in the song would one day be her.

  Watching him on her computer screen, she wondered: Was he still so beautiful, with his dark eyes and square jaw? Did he still have that amazing smile? Was he happy—could he be happy? After all, he had been washed up as a TV star while he was still so young. How did he feel about being a blanket peddler? Was it a letdown after so much time as a star? Or was there something about being a regular person that was better, more fulfilling, than being a star? Was he happy with himself? Or did he spend his life second-guessing the choices he had made when he was younger? Did he have dreams that he could pursue only when he was out of the limelight, or had his only dream been to stay in the limelight forever? And maybe most important of all, what lessons about her life could she glean from his? If he had found a way to be happy as a blanket peddler instead of a star, could his story teach her how to be happy, too?

  And that’s when she realized she had to meet him. She had to find a way to sit down with him and get her questions answered.

  But how? The articles she’d read online suggested that he was pretty reclusive. He wasn’t quoted in any of them, and one piece had specifically noted that he never talked at all about his past. She couldn’t just call his showroom and ask to speak to him. No doubt he had a receptionist who screened his calls. And she couldn’t just show up there and expect him to welcome her. Without an appointment she’d be asked to leave the building before she even saw him. She supposed she could go to his showroom in Manhattan and wait until she saw him go in or out—but would she even recognize him? And if she did, what would she say? Please talk to me, I was once a big fan, I loved your music, I loved your voice, and when I read that you had a business right here in New York selling blankets . . .

  His blankets! She sat up straight, clenching her fists—that was the ticket! She could gain entry to his life by requesting to interview him for an article for Business Times. She would go ahead and write the article and then sell it to Stuart. After all, Jeff Downs was a celebrity, or at least he used to be. Thousands of businesspeople used to watch Guitar Dreams every week, thousands of businesswomen used to love the dreamy Jeff Downs the way she once did. Certainly he was the kind of big personality that Stuart wanted to profile.

  Fingers flying over the keyboard, she went back to the Downs Textiles website. She didn’t want to waste time waiting for a return email that might or might not come, so she found the company’s phone number. Barely breathing, fingers shaking, she picked up her cell phone, trying three times until she finally entered the number correctly. The line rang. She listened to the menu. Not surprisingly, there was no option to reach Jeff Downs directly, so she pressed the key for a receptionist instead.

  A moment later, a pleasant voice sounded. “Downs Textiles, may I help you?” She froze. Was she really going to ask for him?

  “Downs Textiles,” she heard again. “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello!” she blurted out. Her voice was shaking, and so was her body. She pictured all the adrenaline that was surely pouring into her bloodstream. “I’m a writer working on an article for Business Times, and I’d like to talk with Jeff Downs for a story about his company.”

  “You’d like to . . . I’m sorry, who are you?” the receptionist said.

  “I’m Iliana . . . Fisher,” she said, trying to sound professional. Instinctively she used her maiden name, which had always been the name she used at work. “This is the blanket company Downs Textiles, correct? And Jeff Downs is president?”

  “Yes, that’s true, but the sales reps handle most media requests,” the woman said. “What publication did you say you’re writing for?”

  Iliana hesitated. “Business . . . Business Times is where I’m targeting—but you see, I generally speak to company presidents—”

  “Times? Oh, wait, oh, please. I didn’t realize. Please hold on.”

  Iliana held her breath as she heard the line go silent. What had happened? Was there a problem? What had she said to get the woman so flustered?

  A few seconds later, she returned to the line. “Ms. Fisher, Mr. Downs would love to speak with you,” she said. “He’s very sorry that he’s with a customer right now, but he hopes you might come to the showroom next week. What day would be good?”

  Iliana was sure she had heard wrong. “To come there . . . I mean, there?”

  “Now let’s see . . . how’s Tuesday . . . I’m checking his calendar . . . ten thirty?”

  “To meet Jeff Downs? Come there? On Tuesday?”

  “Does that work for you?”

  “Yes, sure,” Iliana said. “Sure. That’s fine.”

  “Great, we’ll see you at ten thirty Tuesday.”

  “Yes, great, we’ll see you then,” said Iliana. “I mean, me. Me! I’ll see you then.”

  For the next two hours, Iliana tried to do some online research, hunting down information on blanket constructions and fabrics, and looking for background information on manufacturers that would compete with Downs Textiles. But mostly she wandered aimlessly around the house, unable to take anything but the shallowest of breaths. How was it that Business Times had as much clout today—or maybe even more—as it had back in her day? How was it that Jeff Downs would not simply take a call, but actually invite her in? She felt a little guilty—after all, she hadn’t made it clear that she didn’t have an actual assignment—but she could fix that later. The thing was, she was going to meet Jeff Downs and write a story about him. She was going to interview Jeff Downs for an article she would get published. What had Jodi said at breakfast? It was so exciting!

  That evening as she was pulling out plates for dinner, she heard Marc’s car pull up. Suddenly the name Jena Connors popped into her head. Shit, she thought—she had never gotten around to calling that woman, and the last thing she wanted was another fight. Setting the plates on the table, she went to the dining room and found the phone number on the invitation. An answering machine picked up.

  “Mrs. Connors? This is Iliana Passing,” she said in an amiable tone. “Thank you for inviting me to participate in the workshop. I’m delighted to attend, and I look forward to meeting you.”

  She put the phone down and looked toward the kitchen. Marc was watching
from the doorway.

  “So you’re going,” he said tentatively, as though he wasn’t completely sure and needed confirmation.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “You heard me.”

  “I think it’s for the best.”

  “You made that point.”

  He sighed and put down his briefcase. “Look, Iliana, I’m sorry about how I came down on you last night, okay? I was tired and frustrated. The trip to Chicago really sucked. But I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  She let out a breath, releasing all the tension from her jaw and shoulders. It was nice that he apologized. “And I’m sorry I took so long to call,” she said.

  He held out his hand and she walked over to him, then wrapped her arms around his neck. He hugged her back and kissed her tenderly on the mouth.

  “So how did everything go today?” she asked. “Was there any fallout from that contract?”

  “Not too much yet,” he said. “But there’s still the off-site to deal with next week.” He kissed her on the nose. “I’m going up to change.”

  “Can you let the kids know dinner’s almost ready?” she asked.

  He nodded and continued up the stairs, as she went to the kitchen to take the chicken from the oven. The whole fight, and even her resistance to going to New Jersey, was starting to seem a little irrelevant. She had scored an interview with someone who was notoriously press-shy, and she was going to write an article that Stuart would buy and readers would love. She was going to meet Jeff Downs. She had actually stepped up today and accomplished something she really wanted.

  It was amazing how much that brightened her mood.

  Chapter 4

  The weekend was the usual blur of drop-offs, hand-offs, and pickups. Iliana started out on Saturday taking Dara to a friend’s house, then stopped to purchase eight six-packs of Gatorade from Super Stop & Shop, where they were on sale. Next she went to the library, where she grabbed Matt after his study-group session and brought him back home to meet Marc, who had gone to the gym that morning. Marc then took Matt out for pizza for lunch and brought him to New Rochelle for his basketball game, while Iliana went to buy new ribbons at the craft store for Dara’s hair, pick up Matt’s skin cream from the drugstore, and sprint to the dry cleaner, sipping on cardboard containers of coffee to keep herself going. She crossed paths with Jodi in the drugstore parking lot and remembered to switch carpool days. She thought she’d be back from her appointment at Downs Textiles in time to do the Tuesday carpool as usual, but it couldn’t hurt to be safe.

  “Yeah, I can switch,” Jodi said. “Whatcha doing on Tuesday?”

  “Going into the city,” Iliana said as she shifted into drive.

  “Lucky you!” Jodi called from behind her. “Buy something pretty!”

  Alone in the car, Iliana smiled that Jodi assumed she was going into the city to shop. Then she thought about where she was really going and immediately felt like a small bubble had burst in her stomach, sending warm juices up to her chest and out to her fingertips and toes. It was hard to believe that the whole thing had even happened. Who was this person who had mustered the courage to call?

  The only thing that still troubled her was that the receptionist thought she had an actual assignment. She had tried to be honest, saying that she was “targeting” Business Times, but the woman had clearly misunderstood. Still, it wasn’t so bad. What she had done was unintentional—not nearly as bad as all the manipulative tricks businesspeople often used to get their way. Even she had nudged the truth occasionally when she was at Business Times, saying “My deadline’s tonight” to get someone to make time for her, or “I’m right around the corner,” when she was way across town. It was so common in business that she could even tell Marc or Jodi about it, and they wouldn’t see what the big deal was. And anyway, who wouldn’t do anything to meet a celebrity? Marc himself had pretended to be having cell-phone trouble last summer when they found themselves at the same restaurant as Derek Jeter. He walked past Jeter’s table and tried to listen in on his conversation, all the while shaking his phone and giving the worst performance of a frustrated cell-phone user that Iliana could imagine. She laughed with him about it on the ride home, as he good-naturedly defended himself: “Give me a break—it was Jeter!” It was cute, the way he had kept his eye on the ballplayer all through dinner.

  Then she started thinking again about meeting Jeff Downs in his office, shaking hands with the guy whose face had set up camp in her imagination years ago, and before she knew it, she was back to hyperventilating. She would never share this with Marc or Jodi. They would never understand what she was doing. Marc would make her feel that she was being selfish and wasting time, while Jodi would probably just start to worry about her, the way she had outside of Chelsea’s Home Details: What’s the matter with you, Iliana? I never see you like this. Without intending to, they’d both end up making her rethink what she was doing, and she didn’t want to second-guess herself. Thinking about Jeff Downs was diverting, just like it had been during those endless days in middle school, when she would stare out the window during class and choose a daydream about him to watch in her head, like a favorite book you pull off the shelf again and again. Often she’d imagine that she had graduated from high school and moved to Los Angeles, where she got a job arranging props on the Guitar Dreams set. She imagined that Terry would ask her out, while Jeff would hold back, intimidated by Terry’s confidence. She’d turn Terry down, and finally Jeff would see that she liked him. And then one day he’d ask her to dinner.

  And he’d look even more surprised than happy when she nodded. And at the end of their date, he’d tell her that he’d fallen in love with her the moment he met her. Then he’d hold her chin with one hand and kiss her, slowly and luxuriously, as though he was so in love that he wanted the kiss to last forever. He’d say she was the most incredible girl he’d ever known.

  On Tuesday morning, after Marc left for work and the kids were in school, Iliana turned on the TV. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she flipped through the channels until she found a station airing an interview with the Dreamers. But Jeff wasn’t paying attention to the interviewer. Instead, he looked straight into the camera, as though he were trying to catch her eye. How was that possible? It couldn’t be. And yet he kept looking, the intensity of his stare forcing her to look back at him. When she did, he nodded ever so slightly, and she realized he didn’t want the other boys to notice he had made contact. She waited. He nodded again. She pointed to herself and mouthed “Me?” Slowly, he lifted his arm and held it toward her, as though he intended to bring her into the TV with him.

  “Good morning,” she saw him mouth, and his hand started to emerge from the screen. She gasped. She could feel his fingers on her face. It was so close . . . it was that close . . .

  “Whoa!” Marc said, looking down at her. “You okay?”

  “Good morning!” the radio announcer repeated. “It’s seven-oh-eight, time for traffic and weather together . . .”

  “I just wanted to say good-bye,” Marc said. “Man, you nearly hit the ceiling.”

  “I’m fine,” Iliana said, her hands over her face. “I was sleeping. You scared me.”

  Back home after dropping the kids off at school—Matthew’s violin was clearly visible in his hand—Iliana showered and put on the navy-blue suit she had worn to Marc’s cousin’s wedding last year. It was probably too formal for a business meeting, but it was the only professional-looking outfit she had. She hadn’t needed to buy business clothes in a long time. She blew out her hair and put on more makeup than she usually wore—foundation, eyeliner, and blush, in addition to her everyday mascara and lip-gloss. She had fun pulling herself together in this way. It wasn’t that she didn’t normally care about her appearance, because she did. She liked to look nice. But casual clothes, little makeup, and air-dried, finger-combed hair had been the appearance she’d developed over the years. It w
as comfortable and it worked for her. It was sort of like her uniform.

  In the kitchen, she put a pod into the Keurig and took out the milk. Her hands were so tingly that the carton nearly slipped from her fingers, and a few drops of milk landed on her suit. She wiped it down with a dish towel as she went to get a yogurt, but then changed her mind. She was way too nervous to eat; her stomach was bubbling so much, she could picture the acids rising in her chest. She took a few sips of coffee, then placed the mug in the sink and went to the hall closet for her shoes and coat. Now it wasn’t just her hands that were clumsy, but her whole body. Her arms felt like they had no muscle tone, and her breaths were quick and shallow. She realized that if she kept imagining her morning—going to the station, getting on the train, walking into the Downs Textiles office, seeing Jeff Downs, meeting Jeff Downs, making conversation with Jeff Downs—her legs would give out completely. Would he look old? Could he be bald, or fat? Would he still be so cute she wanted to cry? Would seeing him still make her feel so good?

  She decided that the only way to cope was to concentrate on the present. Grab her shoulder bag. Wallet and phone? Check. Slip a notebook and a pen into her shoulder bag. Anything else she had to do? No, all was set. She could go and come back with no one suspecting a thing. Marc was working, and she’d be home way before the kids were done with their sports and Jodi carpooled them home.