“What?” Jeff said. “Tell me.” He paused as the waiter served their lunch, then pressed some more. “Hey, you can tell me. We’re friends now, remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, if you really want to hear it, but keep in mind I was only twelve. Do you remember the whole thing years ago about red M&M’s—and how the company didn’t make them for a long time because there was this controversy about whether or not the dye caused cancer? I set out to investigate. I went to the library with M&M wrappers in my hand to research the ingredients. Then I wrote to the president of Mars Candy, because I wanted to know what he was thinking. I wanted to know if he worried that he didn’t eliminate the reds soon enough, and kids had gotten sick. I wanted to ask him if he was scared that other colors could be dangerous. I thought it would be a great interview and I’d be famous.”
Jeff laughed out loud, and Iliana covered her face with her hand. “Oh, come on, don’t be embarrassed, that’s a great story,” he said. “You were a determined reporter, even back then. Did you ever get a response?”
“No. I don’t think I even had the right address. Anyway, it was a big nonissue. The reds have been back for a long time, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, well. An early lesson that life can be harsh.” He took a forkful of pasta. “Anyway, it’s probably for the best that you never got famous.”
“Oh?”
“You see, Ms. Fisher, take it from someone who knows.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Teen fame can be pretty complicated.”
“You didn’t like it?” she said, bolder now. He pretended to ignore her and kept eating. “Really, you didn’t?” He looked up at her now with another amused smile, as though he planned not to answer but found her question flattering. “Come on, we’re friends,” she teased. “What it was like, being a Dreamer, having all those girls in love with you? How could that be bad?”
He put down his fork and leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “That depends,” he told her. “Is this just between us? Or is this for the article?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe both.”
“Maybe both? I don’t get it. Isn’t your story about Downs Textiles? Aren’t you just interviewing me about blankets?”
She forced herself to be strong and hold his gaze. After all, she wasn’t Iliana Passing, chore doer and carpool driver, when she was with him; she was Iliana Fisher, the Times reporter who wasn’t afraid to go after her story, who had been learning how to chase meaningful stories from the time she was twelve, and who had perfected her skills during eight years in business journalism. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Of course that’s why I’m here. But my instincts are telling me there’s a much bigger story.”
She saw his shoulders relax. “I’m listening.”
“Here’s the thing,” she said, amazed at how she seemed to have suddenly developed the ability to be assertive. Or maybe she’d always had it; she had used it at Business Times and maybe she was discovering it anew now. She found herself drawing on arguments she once used to get reticent sources to talk, arguments she couldn’t believe she remembered. “I’m curious about the Dreamers, and if I’m curious, I know other people are, too. My instincts are good that way. And if I can interview you about your past, I know I can make it a bigger and more significant article. That means more publicity for you and your blankets.”
“And what’s in it for you?” he asked.
“A bigger, meatier story is better for my career, too. Frankly, now that I’ve started working on this article, I think including some stories from your past is essential.”
She watched him think for a minute, then scowl and shake his head. “Look, I don’t think so. There’s a reason I don’t talk about all that stuff. Hey, I know about all those guys from old TV shows, signing autographs at those pathetic oldies events, trading wives on stupid reality shows. They look like idiots, all of them, but they do it because they need the money. I don’t need the money. I’m a business owner, I’ve got a company and employees, and a great product line. I’m a success.”
“That’s what makes you so compelling,” she said, putting her elbow on the table and extending her hand, palm up. “You’re not like those others. And Business . . . I mean the Times . . . you know, any of the business publications in the city—they’re not pathetic events or stupid reality shows. What I’m talking about is different.”
He studied her, his chin forward. “Other reporters haven’t been this convincing. Why are you? What is just so special about the past, Ms. Iliana Fisher, that makes you want to write about it so much? You, the Times reporter, with the house in the suburbs, kids, husband who’s a . . .”
“Lawyer,” she admitted.
“Lawyer, very good, proves my point. The present is what matters. Why do you care about the past? What do you miss about the past? Being a kid? Being a teenager?” He shivered dramatically.
She smiled. “I miss . . .” She stopped. How could she tell him that she missed who he used to be—and how she used to feel when she watched him? “I miss starting out,” she finally said. “When you didn’t know where things might lead.”
“You mean your career?”
“That, and other things, too. Going to college. Getting married. Having babies.”
“You miss that? The only thing I remember about babies is no sleep and dirty diapers.”
“You have children?” she said. It was surprising to think of Jeff Downs as a father. The memory of him as a nineteen-year-old heartthrob was just so vivid.
He nodded. “Three teenage girls.”
She was curious to know if he was married, but she didn’t want to ask. It felt like far too personal a question. “Then you have to agree there was more than just dirty diapers. I mean, what I remember . . .” She paused, feeling slightly dreamy from the wine. “I remember the summer when my oldest was a baby, and we lived here in the city. We’d go out early in the morning, and I’d stroll him down Second Avenue and look at the store windows. And I’d stop at this coffee shop and get a blueberry muffin and coffee to go, and then we’d head over to Central Park. And I’d give him a bottle and I’d eat my muffin as we watched the bigger children in the playground. And that muffin always tasted so good.”
She stopped talking, hypnotized by the memory. She remembered the sun on her shoulders, and the sound of Matthew sucking rhythmically on his bottle. She remembered seeing the children playing, framed by the tall, green trees in the park and the high-rise buildings on Fifth Avenue. She remembered going home and giving Matthew a bath and then closing the blinds and watching him fall asleep in her arms. Later, when he woke up, she would put on a CD with children’s songs by artists like James Taylor, Nicolette Larson, and Kenny Loggins, and dance around the living room, holding him. That’s how Marc would find them when he got home—dancing in the living room. And he’d take off his suit jacket and tie, roll up his sleeves and unbutton the top buttons of his shirt, and join them. She loved that he didn’t take the time to change his clothes. He had missed them that much.
“We spent every day like that,” she said. “And on those long summer days . . . I felt like I found the meaning of life.” She smiled, enjoying how wistful she felt. She’d never expressed these feelings before to anyone, not even Marc. Maybe she’d been too scared of missing it all too much. She had seen many things drift away in her life: her dreams of becoming a famous writer; her excitement at being a newly minted reporter; the warm pleasure of falling in love with Marc; their wedding; the birth of their first baby, Matthew; and the birth of their daughter, Dara. She had relished their babyhoods completely. But they were over. What was there now to look forward to? Teenage rebellions? More fights with Marc? An empty nest? Illness? Old age?
“Yeah, well,” Jeff said, looking a bit unnerved at how personal the conversation had become. “I guess you wouldn’t want them to stay babies forever. How
old are they now?”
“Fourteen and twelve.”
“So you must know that watching them grow up is fun, too. I mean, yeah, the teenage years can be rough. Our oldest, Katie, she was dating this real loser for a while, but thankfully that’s over. And these days I really like my daughters. I like the people they’ve become. So does Catherine, my wife.”
Iliana looked up. Now that he had mentioned his wife, she wanted to know more about her. She was curious: Who was the woman who had married the guy thousands of teenage girls across the country adored?
“Tell me about your wife,” she said.
“She’s a dancer,” he answered, no longer reticent. In fact, it looked like now he was the one who was enjoying being questioned. “She teaches ballet at Purchase College, when she’s not managing the back-office stuff for Downs Textiles. That’s how we met. She danced on Guitar Dreams sometimes, for the party scenes. Those scenes were a blast.”
“Aha!” she said playfully. “So you did enjoy being a star.”
“It’s like I said, it was complicated. It had its ups and downs. Although most of the downs came after the whole thing was over.” He paused, looking at her. “You really want to interview me about the Dreamers? You really think it’s essential for the article?”
She nodded.
He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “The reason I don’t often talk about those days is because to a lot of people it’s a joke. Four talentless guys who got paid to smile at the camera—that’s what they think. Like that idiot today who brought up the ‘dreamin’ to the max’ line. Barely old enough to drink and he tries to look clever by making me the butt of his joke.
“Look,” he said, leaning in closer. “I stopped doing media interviews a while ago because no matter what I said, the reporters always ended up talking about pretty-boy looks and bubblegum music. And the only reason I said yes to you was because I could really use the publicity about my blankets in the Times. But I saw the look on your face when I hummed my song—I didn’t do it to test you or anything, I was just humming. And the way you lit right up makes me think I can trust you with my past. You won’t trivialize my life, will you?”
She looked at him, at his beautiful brown eyes set deep in his appealingly weathered face. She would never have guessed that he carried so much resentment. She would never have guessed that his casual charm was a kind of self-protection. Now more than ever, she wanted to know his story. She wanted to uncover all that had made him who he was, and develop a portrait of him that was honest and profound.
“Of course not,” she said.
He looked at her, then smiled his charming, tight-lipped smile. “Okay then. I’ll do it. I’ll talk about the Dreamers. Hey, it’ll be fun.”
They agreed that they didn’t have enough time to continue the interview now, so they’d schedule another meeting. “I’ve got an idea,” Jeff added. “Why don’t we continue this up in Mount Kisco? You can see where we do our product development, and you’ll get a better feel for the business. And then we can talk some more.” He took his phone out of his breast pocket and made a few taps. “Except I have some meetings here in Manhattan coming up. Can we schedule it for . . . next Thursday? Or is that too late for your deadline?”
Things were moving so fast that Iliana felt as though she were racing to keep up with her life. Another meeting . . . and this time up in Westchester? She needed a moment to stop and think. The waiter returned and Jeff ordered coffee for them. Iliana excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
Weaving among the tables, she felt wobbly on her legs. Clearly the wine had gotten to her. At the sink, she rummaged in her bag to find her lipstick. That was when she spied her cell phone, buried deep inside, and discovered that she had missed six calls and had two new voicemails.
She hadn’t heard the phone ring. Not once. Snapping to attention, she forced her shaking fingers to tap the right numbers. She hoped that Dara’s orthodontist had called to confirm an appointment, or some stranger had reached her by mistake. But then she heard the voice. The tipsy sensation she’d been feeling immediately drained out of her, like an air mattress that had been unplugged.
“Iliana, it’s Jodi. I have Dara here at my house. I ran into her when I picked up the boys. She felt too sick to stay for volleyball, and I think she has a fever. Where the hell are you? Call us.”
The second, earlier voicemail was from Dara. “Mom, why aren’t you answering your phone? My throat hurts and my head, and I think I’m gonna throw up. I just wanna go home. Where are you?”
Her heart racing, Iliana tried to call Jodi’s house, but her fingers were shaking and she couldn’t concentrate. Shit, how long ago had these calls come? Finally she finished dialing. “Jo, it’s Iliana. Is Dara okay?”
“She’s okay, she’s sleeping. Are you all right?”
“I’m in the city—”
“In the city?”
“I’m on my way home, I’ll be there in forty-five minutes, an hour max. Jo, thanks so much, I’ll be there soon, I’ll be right there.”
Grabbing her bag, she left the ladies’ room. Her palms and face were sweaty. Poor Dara, waiting for her, feeling so sick and scared. It hadn’t even occurred to her that either one of her kids would be looking for her, would need her while she was gallivanting with Jeff Downs. What was wrong with her? She was a jerk to have come here. She was a jerk to have started all this.
Jeff smiled as she returned. “Hey, I was just about to go in there and find you,” he joked. But as he looked at her, his expression changed. “Something wrong?”
“Just something at work. A problem . . . I’m going to have to get home right away.” She wiped the corner of one eye with her finger so she didn’t have to look at him.
“Wouldn’t it be faster to go to the Times office? It’s just a few blocks away, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but . . . I need to look at my notes. Jeff, I’ve really got to go,” she said, heading to the door.
He called to the waiter to put the check on his house account, and quickly they were out on the street. He held her arm lightly as they walked. Almost in a complete state of panic, she showed him her garage ticket and let him lead her up the right block. As they waited for her car, she tapped her toes inside her shoes and gritted her teeth.
“Guess this really has you worried,” he said. “Hey, it’s just a job.”
She nodded. Her head was pounding. Finally her car arrived.
“Look, this was a great conversation—before, you know, all this happened,” he said, offering his hand. She put hers into it, and he gave it an affectionate pat with his other one. “Call me when this is all over, okay?”
“Thanks for lunch,” she said, pulling away and sliding into the car. She didn’t even want to look at him.
“I hope we’ll get together again. I hope you’ll come to Mount Kisco next Thursday.”
“Yeah, thanks,” she said. She put the car in gear and was stepping on the gas before her door was even completely closed.
Chapter 8
“Relax. She’s sleeping,” Jodi said, pointing toward the family room. “I think I was as freaked out as she was. Seriously, what were you doing in the city again?”
Iliana rushed past Jodi and into the family room, where Dara was asleep on the sofa. She kneeled down and gently shook her daughter’s shoulder, warm beneath her volleyball shirt.
“Mom, where were you?” Dara said, her eyes squinting open. “I called you like a million times.”
“I think my phone’s broken. I’m sorry. Let’s get you home.”
Jodi walked into the room with Dara’s coat and backpack. “Your phone isn’t working? Is it the battery?”
“I don’t know,” Iliana said as she helped Dara up.
“Or probably not, since you eventually got our messages. That’s so strange—it stopped working but then it sta
rted again?”
“I don’t know, Jo,” Iliana said. “I’ll look at it later.” She took Dara’s coat and held it out.
“It was so weird, Mom, because you’re always around,” Dara said, putting an arm through the sleeve. “And then you weren’t home and you weren’t answering your cell phone. I was so scared.”
“But I told you there was nothing to worry about, didn’t I?” Jodi said, playfully tugging Dara’s ponytail. “I told you that by the time we dropped the boys off at basketball and got back here, we’d hear from her. Didn’t I tell you that?” She turned to Iliana. “I didn’t give her Tylenol or anything because I wanted to check with you first. And then by the time I heard from you, she was already sleeping.”
Iliana walked Dara out to the car and helped her climb in, then came back up the front walk, where Jodi was standing, holding the backpack. “Thanks, Jodi, I really appreciate this,” she said, taking it from her. “Go back inside, it’s cold and you don’t even have a coat on.”
Jodi shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. “What were you doing in the city anyway?” she asked.
“It was for a job. A possible job . . . that I was thinking of doing,” Iliana said.
“A job in the city? I thought you liked freelancing. You’re going to leave your kids to commute to the city?”
“No, no, it’s over. I’m not going to do it. I mean, I’m not even going to get the job. But I wouldn’t take it anyway. It’s over. No more.”
Jodi smiled. “Well, that’s a relief. I kept picturing you in some horrible car accident. I couldn’t imagine why else you weren’t answering. I almost called Marc—”
“You called Marc?”
“I was about to, but I didn’t have his number. I thought about waking Dara to ask her for it, but then you called and everything was fine.”
Iliana let out a breath. “Good. I wouldn’t have wanted . . . you know, to scare him.”
“Yeah, well, you scared me.”
The Last Dreamer Page 8
