“By the way, they’re changing the date,” Marc mumbled, his eyes still on his iPad.
She looked up from his calf. “What date?”
“The cocktail party. For the Cleveland office. I told you about it when I saw you yesterday. It may not be Wednesday anymore, I’ll have to let you know.”
“Got it, change of date,” Iliana said teasingly, as she leaned over and began planting kisses on his ankle, his knee, his thigh just below his boxers.
Marc twisted his leg away. “I mean it, Iliana, don’t act like this is no big deal, because it is. It’s coming up and I don’t know when, so you’re going to have to put Jodi or whoever on call—if there’s driving to be done, she’s going to have to cover for you.”
“There’s no driving to be done in the evenings.”
“I’m just saying that all the exec wives will be there, so you can’t start fighting with me about conflicts.”
Iliana straightened her back and looked at him. On any other evening, this would be the time when she stormed into the bathroom, or went downstairs to the family room, just like she did last week when he came home from Chicago. This would be the time when she wrapped herself in the plaid throw and sulked, feeling rejected and sorry for herself. Now would be when she thought about how he was always telling her what to do, and then worried that maybe he was right and she was being selfish. Now would be the beginning of her passive-aggressive silence, which would gradually fade, only to start again after the next disagreement. But she decided right then that she wasn’t going to follow that path. Not tonight. She was feeling too good about herself. She was feeling too excited about all the good things that were potentially in store for her.
“Okay, Marc,” she said. “I understand this is important.”
She pulled herself alongside him and kissed his waist, then ran her open palm over his chest. “Do you know that the way I most love seeing you is with your dress shirt unbuttoned?” she said.
He looked down at her. “What?” He laughed.
“No, I mean it,” she said. “You’ve got your shirt buttoned up and a tie on all day, being the smart, serious lawyer you are. And then you come home and unbutton your shirt, and you’re still that Marc but you’re also the Marc who belongs to me. It’s why when we were dating, I always liked to meet you right after work and go to your apartment. I didn’t want you to change your clothes and then come to my place. I wanted to be there when you became my Marc.”
He took off his glasses and closed the tablet. “And do you know what I love best about you?” he said. “It’s the smile you give me when you know I’m about to kiss you. There’s just a look you have that makes me think you feel really lucky to be with me. There—see? There it is.”
Then he brought her face close to his and kissed her—a long, rich kiss that felt so good on her mouth. Their lovemaking was gentle, as they both explored how to be together with sleeping adolescents down the hall. It was a different kind of lovemaking than she was used to—stretchy and slow instead of intense and assertive—and it was wonderful. Her limbs felt like chocolate liqueur.
“Here she is, I see her walking in. Excuse me a moment.”
Iliana could hear Jeff talking about her as she handed Rose her coat. When she turned, he was walking toward her, smiling that familiar Jeff smile. He had on a deep blue shirt and fanciful blue tie with gold and red saxophones.
“Hello, Ms. Fisher,” he said, in a mock-formal tone. “Thank you for coming back.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Downs,” she responded, matching her tone to his.
“They’re killing me out there,” he whispered teasingly.
“Somehow I don’t believe that,” she teased back. He struck her as a winner, and his smile told her he liked that she thought that.
He stepped aside and she proceeded into the showroom. She was wearing a new outfit, a lavender sheath dress with a robin’s-egg-blue cardigan, both of which she had bought on Saturday, in between drop-offs and pickups. It was unusual for her to wear colors—the other two professional-style dresses she owned were black—but she had thought that a Times reporter who wrote about home trends would definitely make bolder fashion choices, and once she tried the clothes on, she realized the colors made her brown eyes look bigger and the whites of her eyes, whiter. And because she planned to wear the outfit to Marc’s cocktail party, she didn’t feel guilty about buying it. It had been a nice surprise in the store to find that clothes seemed to fit her better than they used to. Apparently all her excitement about Jeff Downs had curbed her appetite, because it felt like she had dropped a few pounds. She had also decided to add some subtle highlights when she got her hair colored. She loved the way they looked.
Jeff led her to a round table where four people were already seated and made the introductions.
“Iliana Fisher. I’ve never heard that name,” said the patriarch of the contingent, an elegant man with a long face and a mane of white hair. He rested his elbows on the table, and with his eyes closed, stroked his hair with one hand. “I thought I knew all the home furnishings reporters at the Times.”
Reflexively she reached for her bag, anticipating a potentially quick exit. But Jeff saved her.
“Iliana’s a freelancer, Paul,” he said. “She works for the New York section.”
Iliana nodded sheepishly. She knew she looked uncomfortable and hoped they would all think it was just because she was embarrassed at the attention. She felt bad that Jeff was now repeating her lie, but told herself that hopefully it wouldn’t be a lie for long. She could soon be a writer for the New York section, she thought. She just had to get through these little bumpy spots until then.
“New York, huh? Never met those people. But they’re good. They did an excellent article on commercial real estate a few weeks back. Two pages.” He pointed a pencil at a young man with short, gelled hair and a body-hugging black turtleneck sweater. “See it?” he demanded.
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 onl
y 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 hers
elf 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.
The Last Dreamer Page 7
