The Last Dreamer

by Barbara Solomon Josselsohn

  Nearly alone on the off-peak train, Iliana tried to close her eyes and relax. Moving vehicles usually put her to sleep in an instant, but today her eyes kept popping back open. Was she sure she knew where she was going? She took out her phone and googled Downs Textiles to recheck the address. Yes, she had it right—295 Fifth Avenue, between Thirtieth and Thirty-First Streets. She had spent many hours in that neighborhood back when she was at Business Times, interviewing retail executives who had their showrooms there. 295 Fifth Avenue, Suite 916, she said to herself. 295 Fifth Avenue, Suite 916. She forcefully let out another breath and shoved the notebook back into her bag. Then she rehearsed in her head what she planned to say: I want to do a feature on your company because I’ve heard good things about your blankets . . . She figured she’d start off talking about his business to get him to relax and open up, and then gradually talk about his life and former celebrity, which was what Stuart would most want to see.

  In Grand Central Station, she walked down the platform, up the staircase, and through the huge main hall, joining the vast flow of people rushing in all directions. She felt powerful and energized, just as she had during her reporter days when she felt she was on the brink of unearthing a great story. Outside the station, she hailed a taxi, and a few minutes later, she emerged. Stepping onto the curb, she looked at the sky. It was cold, but the sun was shining, bright and warm on her face. She walked a few steps to a newsstand and bought a pack of peppermint Tic Tacs, just as she used to do before important interviews. She shoved a few in her mouth and stuffed the box in her bag. She chewed them up and swallowed. She looked at her phone. It was ten twenty. Time to head up.

  Moving easily with the other people entering the building, she checked in with the security desk, found the elevator, and stepped inside. She saw herself in the mirrored doors of the car, one face among many faces, one person among many who were in the city today to make something happen. The elevator stopped on six. Eight. Nine. Murmuring “Excuse me,” she stepped out and eyed the hallways to her left and right. Too wound up to focus on the posted floor directory, she turned left and peeked around the next corner. And there it was, straight ahead at the end of the hall.

  Double glass doors with two words imprinted: Downs Textiles.

  She took her hands out of her pockets and flexed her fingers to get the blood circulating. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat, then made a little “mmm” sound to make sure her voice was normal. It was. She looked at her phone—no messages—and then tucked it in her bag. She licked her lips and moved her jaw from side to side. Finally, turning the corner and walking forward, barely breathing, she reached the doors and pulled one open.

  She entered a small reception area. Ahead was a large, open showroom, just like the photo on the company’s home page, with several tall racks holding all styles of blankets. A few groups of people were sitting at tables scattered around the showroom. The largest group was sitting at the table closest to her, facing one of the racks. Their backs were toward her.

  “May I help you?” came a gentle but authoritative voice. Iliana turned to her right and saw a very thin, older woman looking out at her from behind a long wooden reception desk.

  “Iliana Fisher, for Jeff Downs? For a ten-thirty appointment?” She hated that she sounded as though she were asking permission.

  “Oh, Ms. Fisher, welcome,” the woman said. “I’m Rose, the person you spoke with on the phone.” She got up and walked around the desk. “Let me take your coat. Jeff wanted me to apologize again for how I must have sounded. We get calls from the media from time to time, and usually the sales reps handle them. But I never meant to imply that Jeff wouldn’t want—I mean, we’re all so excited to see you.”

  She took Iliana’s coat and went to a nearby closet, as Iliana watched stiffly. Suddenly it seemed that all the air was behind her, outside the double doors. This Rose person, and evidently all the people in the office, clearly thought Iliana had an actual Business Times assignment. It was going to be hard to admit otherwise.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here,” Rose said when she returned, putting up one finger to suggest that it would only take a moment. Iliana smiled and nodded. The woman walked into the showroom, and Iliana assumed she was heading toward an office in the back. Instead she went to the nearby table. She placed her hand on one man’s shoulder as she leaned down and whispered into his ear. He stood. He was wearing a light-blue shirt, his sleeves neatly rolled up, and gray suit pants, and although Iliana could only see him from the back, she noticed that he had an attractive shape, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. Rose spoke a few more words, and the man raised his hands as though excusing himself from the meeting.

  And suddenly it hit her: Oh my God, was that him?

  The man turned toward her and came forward with confident strides. Iliana watched him, examining his face, his gait, searching for something familiar. Then she saw him smile, a shy, tight-lipped grin. But it was his familiar voice, mid-toned and smooth as Amaretto, that clinched it.

  “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Jeff Downs.”

  Chapter 5

  “Iliana . . . Fisher,” she said, shaking his hand.

  It was shocking to see him after all this time. He was the same person, that was clear, but his familiar features seemed superimposed on a completely different surface. His face was longer than it used to be; his once-full cheeks now led to his square chin in a sharper, more direct line. His brown eyes were small and close together—hadn’t they once seemed huge? And his nose looked narrower, too. His hair was coarser, like the hair of a fox terrier. He wore it short all around, with the top slightly longer and casually parted to the side. It looked washed-out now, a dull taupe. Not the rich caramel-brown from way back.

  And yet, he was still attractive, maybe even more so. The changes in his face made him look smarter than he had as a kid, while his bouncy stride and slim waist gave him an irresistible youthfulness. His familiar smile now produced a pair of deep double parentheses around his mouth and three prominent horizontal grooves just outside and below each eye. The parentheses pulled her into him, drawing her close with so much charisma that she felt she should take a step back or she might be too overwhelmed to speak.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Fisher. Glad you could make time for us,” he said. Then he looked over at Rose, who was standing a few steps away, and lifted his eyebrows mischievously. “So far so good, boss?”

  Rose pressed her hand to her cheek and shook her head, and Iliana was sure she was blushing. “Oh, Jeff,” the woman said. “You are just impossible.”

  He turned back to Iliana, his hands in his pants pockets, and rocked slightly on his heels. “Rose here has been coaching me on how to behave with a reporter—”

  “Jeff, please, I think you know exactly how to do that—”

  “—and she was sure I was going to muck it up. As a matter of fact, she insisted that I bring up Eureka. So how’s it going? You think the changes will stick?”

  Iliana looked at him blankly. “Eureka?”

  “You know. The vacuum company.”

  She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. What was he talking about? He made blankets, not vacuums, didn’t he? Did he think she was someone else?

  Now he seemed confused. “Wasn’t it Eureka—the management shake-up yesterday? It was the top story in the Business section this morning, wasn’t it? We figured you and your colleagues over there at the Times must have worked late into the night to get that done. We were worried you might cancel our appointment so you could take the morning off and sleep in.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, Eureka. Yes.” It hit her immediately: He didn’t think she had an assignment in Business Times; he thought she was a reporter for the Business section of the New York Times! Now she understood why Rose hadn’t handed her off to the sales reps, and had seemed so apologetic on the phone. Now it was clear why
he had invited her in to meet him. He thought he was getting an article about his blankets in the New York Times—no wonder he’d been so happy to see her.

  While she found his attempt to flatter her very sweet, it also terrified her. How could she admit that she was writing for Business Times—or actually just hoping to? It would be so embarrassing. Already she felt her cheeks grow hot. “Oh, no, you see, I didn’t work on that,” she said. “I don’t actually write for the Times . . . Business section. I don’t write for the Business section.”

  “No? What section do you write for?”

  She looked at his sweet, youthful smile, at the double parentheses near his mouth, at the friendly look in his eyes that said that he liked her. “New York,” she said. “I write for the New York section.” Her cheeks suddenly felt hot. She put her hand against the one closest to him, so he wouldn’t notice how red it probably was.

  “Oh,” he said agreeably. “Well, we’ll have to pay more attention to that one.” He clapped his fisted left hand into his open-palmed right. “So, how about if we go scrounge up some space in the back and talk? Sound good?”

  She nodded and tried to discreetly breathe out through her mouth, hoping that her face would begin to cool down.

  “Maybe some coffee first, Jeff?” Rose said.

  Jeff knocked his forehead with his fingers. “Coffee, of course! Rose, you saved me again! Would you like some, Ms. Fisher? Or may I call you Iliana?”

  Iliana smiled and nodded, starting to relax. Clearly he was a little full of himself, teasing his receptionist and making her blush, even though Rose was quite a bit older than he was. But he was cute and funny, and his charm was irresistible, just as it had been when he was young. “Iliana is fine. And I’d love coffee, thank you.”

  “Milk and sugar?” Rose asked.

  “Just milk, thank you.”

  “Black for you, Jeff?”

  “You got it, thanks.”

  The woman waved cheerfully, and Jeff extended his arm, inviting Iliana farther into the showroom. “We don’t have any offices here, just tables,” he told her. “I’m not really into the whole formal thing. You’re probably used to interviewing people in big executive suites, right? Suited-up execs in their big, padded chairs?”

  “I like all types—I mean, I interview all types,” she said. It disarmed her, the way he was walking sideways so he could look directly in her eyes as they walked. She felt like she was twelve again.

  “Well, we’re pretty casual here, as you can see. But I’m sure I can find us somewhere quiet.”

  He turned and scrutinized the available tables, and as she followed him, her left foot caught the leg of a display rack. She felt her whole body start to propel forward but jammed her right foot down and found her balance just a few moments before she’d have landed on her face. Grateful that no one had seen her—and that the carpet had muffled the sound of her stumbling—she let out a shaky breath. She didn’t know if she was nervous because she was pretending to be a Times reporter or simply because she was with Jeff Downs, but either way, she told herself, she had better calm down.

  Jeff led her to a table, while Rose delivered the coffee. Iliana sat down and then Jeff did, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands on the table.

  “So, Ms. Fisher—I mean, Iliana,” he said. “We don’t get many reporters here in the showroom, definitely not from the Times. Tell me about that. Have you been there long?”

  She smiled as she started to formulate an answer. She hadn’t expected him to start out questioning her, although it occurred to her now that many executives she’d interviewed had begun that way. Sometimes they were just breaking the ice, and sometimes they were trying to get a read on exactly who they were dealing with—how experienced she was, what other publishers she’d worked for—so they could determine whether she’d be throwing hardballs or softballs. She also knew it was possible that Jeff was suspicious about whether she was really with the Times or not, but she didn’t think so. He didn’t look suspicious. He looked like he truly found her interesting. She loved that—it was as though he recognized something special in her, the same way she had imagined he would back when she was in middle school. And yet it also made her uncomfortable. He was responding to her lies—and she was going to have to lie more to keep up this whole charade. She felt guilty, but she forced herself to ignore that so she could concentrate on her answer.

  “I’ve . . . I’ve been writing for a long time,” she answered. “But I don’t work directly for the Times. I’m a freelancer. I work for myself.” She nodded and relaxed a bit; calling herself a freelancer was at least somewhat more truthful than pretending to be an actual Times employee.

  “Cool,” he said. “That must be a great way to work. Gives you control over what you want to do. Gives you freedom, too. Have you always been a freelancer?”

  “Before I . . . actually, I was on staff at a business magazine. I was there for a long time. But then I stopped writing for a while. To have my family.”

  “And now you write for the Times? Wow, you must be good.”

  She shook her head, embarrassed that his compliment was based on her lie. “Just trying . . . to do a job,” she said.

  “Hey, no need for modesty,” he said. “My motto is, you gotta stand up for yourself in this world, because no one else is gonna do it.” He drank some of his coffee, holding his cup around the rim and then putting it back down on the saucer. “So, I don’t want to waste any more of your time,” he said. “Tell me, Ms. Fisher—I mean, Iliana. What can I do for you?”

  She took a deep breath and combined the words she’d rehearsed with some new ones the situation required her to improvise. “I’d like to do a piece on your company . . . for New Yorkers who read . . . the New York section,” she said. “I heard about your blankets from . . . some of my sources, and I wanted to meet you and get the full story.”

  “Great,” he said. “Who told you about us?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that. When my sources talk about products, it’s not for attribution.” She was glad for that handy old Business Times line.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Then I’ll just get started, and feel free to interrupt if you have any questions. Let’s see . . . the big picture is, we’re a specialty blanket supplier with a full assortment of products. At the top end, we have our cashmeres and silk blends, and at the more affordable price points, we have our fleeces.” He cupped his head with his hands and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Fleece, as you may know, is a perfect blanket fabric. It’s warm but lightweight, it’s strong but soft. It wears well, takes dye well, and it washes beautifully. We’ve been very successful with that line in particular.”

  “Yes, but fleece is a pretty basic product,” Iliana said, and as she pulled out her notebook and started to take notes, she finally started to relax. It felt great, being back in the game again. She was a tennis player finding the sweet spot, a pitcher catching the edge of the strike zone. She was a dancer moving in perfect sync with her partner. She had always enjoyed the pas de deux she danced with the people she interviewed, especially the handsome male ones: both parties on their best behavior, looking their best and performing at their peak. “How do you compete with the cheaper imports coming in from China?” she said.

  “Well, we’ve got a thicker construction and our color palette is unmatched,” he answered. “In fact, our new spring colors are hitting the stores next month. Hey, Greg, throw me a couple of those fleeces.”

  A bearded young man who was adjusting some display racks pulled two blankets off a shelf and tossed them to Jeff, who spread them on the table. One was a pale sage, and the other was lavender. Iliana ran her finger along a fold.

  “Very pretty,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Our new colors are all great. We don’t have the complete line here, but you can get an idea from the
catalog—I’ll show you.” He jumped from his chair and opened the top drawer of a nearby file cabinet.

  “Let’s see, Rose was going to file them in here . . .” he said. As he shuffled through the folders, he started to whistle. Then he began to hum. Softly at first, and then a little louder.

  Suddenly Iliana’s shoulders rose and she gave a little gasp as her hands, her fingers froze. She leaned forward, watching his back, straining to hear what he was humming. And then she knew. It was “The Best of Times.” At first it surprised her that he’d hum a song he had made famous decades ago. It seemed a little pitiful, like a guy who decorates his house with medals from his days as a high school athlete. But then she came to the conclusion that he wasn’t doing it consciously. He seemed to be just humming a tune out of habit, the way other people might bite their lip or click their tongue to fill the silence.

  “Hey, I know that song!” she said.

  “What?” He looked up.

  “The song you were humming,” she explained quickly, regretting her outburst. She had meant to be subtler. Her thoughts started racing down a paranoid path: An actual Times reporter on assignment wouldn’t exclaim like that over some old pop tune. What if he started to be suspicious of her, because she said she knew the song? What if he demanded proof that she was writing for the Times?

  Jeff leaned against the filing cabinet and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “I was humming?” he asked. “I didn’t realize. What was I humming?”

  She watched him, desperately hoping for a cue about how to respond. “You were humming ‘The Best of Times,’” she finally said. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “I used to watch your show.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “So,” he said with a Dracula-like accent. “I see you know about my past life.”