In Your Dreams Bobby Anderson (12 page)

Emily
was not your typical real estate broker. Well, on the one hand she
was
addicted to her job, and she
did
sleep with her cell phone under her pillow; but on the other hand, Emily didn’t really want to be in real estate at all, despite the money she reeled in. What she wanted to be, deep down inside, in a secret place she hid away from the entire world, was an actress. She had wanted to try out for school plays when she was growing up, but she had always been seen as the academic type, not to mention the too tall unattractive type. She had never felt confident enough to audition.

When
Emily dropped out of Harvard—ruining all of her father’s dreams and practically giving him an early heart attack at fifty-nine in the process—to pursue a career in real estate, she had tried forgetting her dream of getting up in front of the big screen. But recently… recently she had remembered her dream, and now she had her chance. Tonight she would show Bobby Anderson the time of his life, and ever so gently persuade him to help jump-start her new career in movies. He just
had
to help her. She had enough money; what she needed in her life now was purpose.

Emily
had been practicing her lines all week in anticipation of this date. She knew she would get the date, just as she knew she would get the apartment—although, to be honest, she had the apartment sitting empty for four months before Bobby came along. Nobody wanted to rent for the ridiculously high monthlies the owners were asking. Emily secretly suspected they didn’t really want to rent at all, and were using the elevated price as a deterrent for pesky lessees. However, they loved Bobby, and also Bobby could not be deterred. She admired that about him. Of course, she could have found him a much cheaper option with even better rooms than The Dakota, and right by Central Park as well, but even she knew that that was not the same. She marveled at Bobby’s stubbornness. She too went for what she wanted; the only difference being that she was also reasonable.

Bobby decided not to fetch Emily in a chauffeur driven limo, as she may have expected.  Instead, he took a cab and met her just outside the three Michelin star restaurant, Brooklyn Fare, which also happened to be a grocers. It was located only a few blocks down from the Brooklyn Bridge and Emily had promised Bobby the best meal of his life. “Better than a restaurant in Manhattan?” “Yes, Bobby.”

Emily had reserved seats at the last minute, which is practically unheard of for such an e
xquisite dining experience, but her father and Chef Cesar Ramirez had been friends once—which actually still didn’t help her to get a reservation, because Chef Cesar Ramirez was not taking calls.

What
got her the reservation in the end, after much begging, name dropping, and further attempts of persuasion (all too, which failed) was to offer the Maitre d’, Chris Stands, a free night at one of her exclusive rooftop apartments in Gramercy. Chris silently canceled a couple that had booked eight weeks in advance and bumped Emily and Bobby up the list. Emily knew it wasn’t enough to offer people money; you had to offer them dreams. And it just so happened that the Maitre d’ had a boyfriend he dearly wanted to impress. Emily’s apartment on Gramercy Park was a Matire d’ in love’s dream come true.

Bobby had never shared a dinner table with complete strangers before, but that was exactly what dinner at the Chef’s Table called for. Bobby and about eleven other guests, including Emily, sat at an oval table with an uncountable number of copper pots hanging precariously above their heads, watching in wonder as Chef Cesar Ramirez worked his magic.

Chef Cesar
nodded to Bobby in a way that let Bobby know he knew who he was; but he did it with the other guests as well, so Bobby assumed he wasn’t the only hot shot there. In fact, unbeknownst to Bobby, in a line of New York City hotshots dining at the Brooklyn Fare that night, he was just above Emily, and not by that much.

“Do you like the scallops
?” Emily asked, taking a generous bite of raw scallop nestled on a bed of snow-white cauliflower marinated in blood orange and soy vinaigrette.

“Is that what that
is?” Bobby asked.

Emily laughed. She couldn’t help but like Bobby. He was so boyish and easy to please, so unlike the crowd she usually dealt with in
the city. They were, quite frankly, above pleasing. They were so busy being bored with what they already had and challenging you to constantly do better, that it had become quite tiresome. Bobby was a brief breath of fresh air.

“Do you
come here often?” Bobby asked.

“No, not often.” Ordinarily Emily would have added some smart remark to this question and given
an un-truth about how many times she frequented one of the best restaurants in the city, but with Bobby she felt she could be a little more honest. He was already impressed; she didn’t have to push it.

“It’s nice.” And he meant it. He liked watching a chef work
out in the open instead of hidden away in a kitchen somewhere. He thought it was similar to a culinary lesson he would never repeat at home.

Delicacies
appeared before him like magic; and there wasn’t even much need for dinner conversation with so much action and entertainment coming from the chef. It was a relief not to have to talk.

Somewhere between the panna cotta of sea urchin with ocietra caviar and the crispy pork belly with red wine and mustard powder, Emily realized that what she wanted to ask Bobby should probably be left to a more quiet location. Had she chosen badly with the Brooklyn Fare Kitchen? Sure, it was a popular place and showed good taste on her part, but it wasn’t what one would exactly call “intimate”.

S
adly, she realized that after dinner they would probably head their separate ways. She knew Bobby wasn’t interested in her as far as going back to her apartment for coffee was concerned. He had made it quite clear in Yes magazine that he was after a special girl. Also, she could tell that he was only doing her a favor by going out with her tonight. If she wanted to ask him something important, it would have to be sooner rather than later; especially sooner than the arrival of the bill, which judging from his wine choice would be higher than even she was willing to go.

“How’s the apartment?”
she asked, as way of conversation.

“I guess its fine.
My crew seem happy there.”

“Good. It really is prime real estate.”

Bobby nodded and put another bite of pork belly into his mouth.

“Did you know that Antonio
Banderas and his wife got turned down from buying there?”

“Really? In that case I don’t have a chance
.”

“Would you want to buy?”

Bobby chuckled, but didn’t bother answering. He didn’t really want to play the real estate game. He’d had quite enough of real estate since he started earning enough money to deal in it, and there was only so much that could be said about property (in his opinion). Also, no, he would not buy at The Dakota. He was sure Susan would prefer something a little more Greenwich Village style. He had only rented at The Dakota to draw attention. Once he had Susan, he planned on a more bohemian lifestyle, but without the poverty.

But m
aybe Bobby wasn’t too sure anymore about what he wanted. His energy was consumed with wanting the one thing it seemed he couldn’t have: Susan. However, that was too much to mention to someone like Emily. For some odd reason she reminded him of an overly ambitious hairdresser. Her intensity exhausted him if he gave it his full attention, which was why he had concentrated on Chef Cesar Ramirez for most of the night.

Emily
felt frantic. Desserts were next and she still hadn’t told Bobby about her childhood ambition of stardom. She knew she wasn’t a great looker; her tall heavy frame was far from glamorous, but she was sure she could act. She was so sick of doing anything else. She
had
to act.

“Bobby?”

Bobby sighed. Was this going to be another housing question? Exhaustion was starting to kick in, and at this point he just wanted to get to bed.

“Bobby?”

Where was this cold place? He was on the beach all right—Susan’s beach, but the sun wasn’t shining. A cold night beach. He’d been on beaches at night before, usually with a cocktail in one hand and a beautiful girl in the other, but this beach was not that sort of beach. Crabs crawled around him and he could hear the click clack of their body parts as they crept along the sand. The stars above did not twinkle down in that cozy way stars are supposed to. These stars stared at him and made him feel lonely. Where was she? He had heard her call, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. He had never been on her island at night before.

“Bobby.
”

“Susan!” he yelled as loud
ly as he could, but his voice just echoed back at him.

Bobby got up from the sand and looked t
owards the coconut forest.
She must be in there
. He didn’t like the idea of going into that place at night. Caribbean tarantulas came to mind, but oh joy if she were there!

With a drunken gait—
how much wine did he consume with Emily?—he half jogged, half dragged himself to the trees. Once there, he tried to find the fallen coconut tree with the help of the half moon; but it wasn’t easy. His eyes were unaccustomed to the darkness and his feet kept hitting stones in the sand.

At last he found the
fallen tree, but Susan wasn’t sitting on it as he had hoped. “Susan!” he yelled.

“Bobby?” A weak voice came from som
ewhere nearby. Bobby searched frantically about and finally saw her, a dark shape against the bark of a tree. Susan was curled into a ball as if she was freezing to death.

“Susan!” Bobby lunged to her side
and put his arms around her. “Susan.”

“Why are you calling me that?” she asked with a frown.

Now it was Bobby’s turn to frown. “That’s your name,” he said.

Susan tried to shake her head
, but the effort seemed to exert her. “No,” she said. “I’m Maggie.”

“Maggie? No. You said you were Susan. I’m sure of it. Maggie is your sister.”

Susan smiled slightly. “Maggie,” she whispered, and closed her eyes.

All
around him there was a flurry of activity. The Brooklyn Fare Kitchen had never had anyone faint on them before, much less a movie star. Chris Stands busily ran around trying to organize water and fainting salts, although no one had ever seen a fainting salt and a good old slap on the face would have done the job just as well. Emily decided to carry out the procedure herself, and gave Bobby a sharp whack with her open palm to his bare cheek. It worked.

“What happened
?” Bobby asked, although he already knew.

“You fai
nted, darling,” Emily said dryly. “Too much wine perhaps?”

Bobby rubbed his head and then his cheek. He felt the sting of Emily’s hit and grimaced.

“Sorry about that,” Emily said, and looked guilty, for she had in fact quite enjoyed smacking Bobby Anderson. Its not that she didn’t like him, but when would she ever have the chance to hit a Hollywood star again unless she herself became one? Not that she would hit herself, of course, but there might be the option to hit others.

“Is dinner over?” Bobby asked sheepishly.

“Well,” Emily mused. “They are saying I should take you to the hospital, in case.

“I really just want to go home.” Bobby stumbled up from the floor and tried to stand.

“I don’t think I should leave you alone in this condition,” Emily reasoned. Also, there was the matter of the bill, not to mention her acting career; she still hadn’t said a word about it to him.

“I’m fine
, honest.” Bobby went to fetch his coat, and luckily for Emily, remembered about the bill. Flustered he got out his credit card and handed it to her with shaky hands.

“Bobby, you don’t look
fine. After you pay this I’m taking you back to my place so I can at least keep an eye on you until you really are better, agreed?”

“Do you have coffee?” Bobby
tried a grin.

“I have something better. It’s called Earl Gray.”

Emily’s apartment was not at all what Bobby had expected
from a real estate mogul. It was tucked away in the East Village above what seemed to be the store of a psychic reader and a tattered looking tattoo parlor. There weren’t even many trees along her street, or much else to call attention to the place. With all Emily’s money and all her connections to great spaces, why had she chosen this place?

Emily smiled shyly as the old rickety elev
ator carried them to the third floor. She was not in the habit of bringing her customers home; and her home was a sacred place indeed, not something to be shared lightly. But let us not forget Emily’s dream. It was still there, hanging on stubbornly and needing urgent attention. But, oh, she did feel exposed. What would he think of her one bedroom unit? Emily had shown so many apartments to so many people during her lifetime; but her own was her own, and for some reason, she never quite liked the idea of showing it off. Not that she had much opportunity to do so anyway. It wasn’t as though she had that many friends. She often puzzled about why that was. Perhaps she was too ambitious. No, many New Yorkers were much more ambitious than she was and they all seemed to have friends. Was it her looks? Sure, she wasn’t beautiful, but she wasn’t ugly either. And could looks refract from the amount of friends one obtained? It’s too bad she didn’t just ask Bobby. He could have told her all about her intensity.

Stepping through the
threshold, Emily suppressed a rush of pride that can only be compared to a mother who knows her child is far better than the rest. If Emily had come across her apartment while house hunting, she would have snatched it up immediately. It was her best-kept secret. She could have sold it years ago for quadruple the price she bought it for, but she knew that she would probably hang onto it forever. Emily appreciated, better than anyone, that a home was made, not bought, and she had made this space her home.

It had been a loving and painstaking ordeal, which
had required endless trips to local flea markets and antiquity stores, not to mention the time she had taken in choosing the right fabric for each window dressing and pillowcase cover. When she eventually moved to California to pursue her acting career, she decided that she would still keep this place; a personal sanctuary she could escape to whenever she needed it.

To Bobby, Emily’s apartment was the B
ohemian lifestyle he had suddenly envisioned. It was the perfect place to share with Susan. The perfect place to cuddle up in on weekends, buried like hibernating bears beneath bed sheets and eiderdown, reading the paper and deciding on which movie to see or which Broadway play to buy tickets for. It was the perfect place for sharing cups of coffee and spying on passing neighbors walking down the street below. Even the hustle and bustle sound of the cars and buses was somehow soothing. This was not Beverly hills, but he just had to have it. First things first, though: he needed to make a phone call. With the restaurant fuss, and the taxi ride over and all of his thoughts in a swirl, he’d almost forgotten to call Judge.

“Mr. Judge?”

“Speaking.”

“The girl isn’t named Susan. Her name is Maggie.”

Judge sighed. He would have to do his entire search again. “Does she look the same?”

“Yes. But she gave a wrong name.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want you to find her.”

“No. I’m sure she wants me to find her. I can’t expla
in it, but just… find her! All right? It’s urgent.”

Bobby had not noticed
Emily drop the tea mug she’d been holding a second earlier. Earl Gray spread out all over the floor, soaking her exclusive handspun Persian Gabbeh rug with the two lions she’d absolutely fallen in love with and had bought on EBay last year. She didn’t even try to clean it up.

“Hey! Bobby called to her. “Your rug.”

“Maggie? Did you say the girl you want to find is Maggie, not Susan?”

“Yes.” Bobby felt a
shudder rush up his spine. Did she know a Maggie?

“But how can this be?” she asked, still not attending to the
tea.

Bobby automatically found the kitchen towels an
d started dabbing at the rug.

“
You told the papers you were dating a girl. Is this girl Maggie?”

“Yes, but it’s complicated.
I thought her name was Susan. I’m sort of looking for her. We aren’t really dating, yet.”

“But that’s not…
possible…” Emily looked at hard Bobby and said, “Because I know them both, Maggie
and
Susan. They’re sisters.”

Bobby sprang to his feet. “Yes! They are sisters
! I can’t believe you know them―her. I can’t believe you know Susan, I mean Maggie! That is amazing! Where is she?”

“But, don’t you know?”

“Know what?” Bobby’s head screamed to understand. “How do you know her?”

“
Susan is my friend, and Maggie is her little sister. But you can’t be dating Maggie because, because she’s been in a coma for over two months now. She’s on a machine at the New York Presbyterian. Bobby, it’s a burn center.”

Bobby let his body slump down onto the s
ofa of many colors. It was comfortable and gorgeous, but he didn’t notice the apartment anymore. “Can you take me there?”

“Of course, but you’re going to have to e
xplain all this to me, and I’m going to have to call Susan.”

“Do you have a picture of Maggie?” Bobby asked.

“No, only of Susan. I didn’t see Maggie much. She won a scholarship to the New York Conservatory of Music in violin and cello and she just lived for her music. Classical.”

Bobby’s he
ad spun, and he felt he might faint again. Emily took a worried look at him and wanted to kick herself for not taking him to the hospital earlier. What if he truly was concussed and he died? What was that test you were supposed to do: smile, put your hands in the air, say a complete sentence? Maybe that was only for a stroke.

“Please, show me a picture,” were the only words Bobby could
render.

Emily ran to her room where she kept the framed picture of her and Susan. It was Emily’s birthday celebration
taken last year, and if it hadn’t been for Susan, she would have been on her own that night. Susan was her only friend.

They had met each other
through Emily’s work. Young adventurous Susan was looking for an apartment to share, and for some reason she had been directed to Emily. Although Emily did not usually deal with the lower end market, she had taken to Susan, and had managed to find her a decent place for a relatively low price. After that, for some odd reason, the two had become friends.

“Here it is,” Emily said, rushing over wi
th the picture.

Bobby looked a
nd let his jaw drop open. There, before his brown eyes, was a girl he only knew from his dreams. But she was the same, and she was real. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “It’s Susan. But how can that be?” He looked again. The girl in the picture was exactly the same as the Susan in his dream, except she wasn’t wearing the shorts and red T-shirt. In this picture she was dressed in a floral green and white mini dress, her hair up in a loose braid; but she still had that beautiful face, deep red hair, smooth clear skin with only a hint of makeup, and there was her cheeky smile.

He couldn’t believe
he’d finally found her.