The Last Dreamer (10 page)

She squeezed her eyes shut just before the glass shattered on the bar, spewing shards and fruity liquid in all directions. When she opened them, Marc was behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

“I think it’s time to go home,” he hissed coldly in her ear.

In the car, she looked at the wad of wet paper towels wrapped around her middle finger. A faint, dark circle had formed where blood had seeped through.

“I think the bleeding is stopping,” she said. Marc continued to drive, both hands on the steering wheel. “Hope I got all the glass out. I’ll check again at home.”

She watched the glittering lights of the approaching Triboro Bridge. “Those glasses were awfully thin,” she said. “You know. To shatter like that.”

“Huh,” Marc said.

“You mad at me?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry if I caused a scene,” she said. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

They drove a little farther in silence.

“Come on, Marc, I said I was sorry,” she said. “It was an accident. A drink got spilled. Angers didn’t even see it, and neither did his wife.”

“Oh, Angers’s wife saw. She saw the whole thing.”

“Okay, great, she saw the whole thing, and she’ll tell her husband about it. And you can blame me for the rest of your life, and make sure the kids blame me, too. You didn’t get promoted because I dropped a glass. The kids won’t go to college because I dropped a glass.”

“No, I won’t get promoted because you got drunk—”

“I did not get drunk—”

“You got drunk and started harassing Keith’s fiancée—”

“What, were you spying on me?”

“No, I came over because I thought you might want some company. And before I could shut you up, you were carrying on, the great champion of women, telling her to keep her job and to hell with her fiancé.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“Is that what you think she should do, Iliana? Is that what you wish
you
did?”

“No, Marc! I don’t think that at all!”

She turned and looked through the car window up at the sky. Planes were lined up as far as she could see, brilliant white lights lined up in the night sky as they made their way to LaGuardia. “I mean, sometimes I think it would be easier if I had never left the magazine,” she added quietly.

“I
knew
it!” Marc shouted. “I knew that was where we were going. I made you leave your job, I ruined your life—”

“Can’t I tell you how I feel without your jumping down my throat?”

“Because let me refresh your memory, Iliana. Your career wasn’t exactly skyrocketing when you left.”

“Excuse me, my career was—”

“Oh, come on, you worked for a marginal magazine, you got one promotion in eight years, and you were going nowhere.”

“What?”

“Face the facts, Iliana,” Marc continued. “The new guy was the rising star. You had plateaued, and it was just as well that you left.”

“No, you face the facts, you son of a bitch,” she said, turning to look at him. “I worked my hardest to do a good job at
Business Times
, and if I didn’t move up the editorial ranks fast enough for you . . . if I wasn’t successful enough because I fell in love with you and took my eye off the ball, it doesn’t mean . . . it isn’t . . . it’s not okay . . .” She was so upset she couldn’t even continue. How could Marc, of all people, sit there and denigrate her entire professional career? She had never felt so stupid and worthless in her life. She pressed her fist against her mouth and turned back to the window.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

When they arrived home, she followed Marc into the house, wiping her wet cheeks with her hands. Matthew was asleep on the family room couch, a half-filled milkshake on the table next to him. She gently woke him and walked with him upstairs, then reminded him to put his violin where he’d remember it in the morning. She peeked in on Dara, who was fast asleep in her bed.

Coming back downstairs, she picked up Matthew’s cup and brought it to the kitchen sink. Marc was staring into the refrigerator, one hand holding a slice of bread with cheese and the other on the door, as though he were waiting for more satisfying food to make itself known. He often did this when they came home from somewhere; it usually meant that he wanted her to step in and make him a sandwich or warm up some leftovers. In the early years of their marriage, she thought it was sweet that he wanted her to take care of him, that she could show her love by supplying domestic things, like comfort food, fluffy new bed pillows, or a medicine chest stocked with his favorite body wash and shaving lotion. But tonight she found it repulsive. How could he hurt her so badly and still be in this posture, clearly expecting her to walk over and fix him a bite?

Turning away, she wandered into the dining room. Yes, she knew that just last week, she had promised to commit herself entirely to her husband and kids. The situation with Dara had convinced her that wanting anything more was dangerous. She hadn’t intended to trash-talk marriage at the cocktail party, and she hadn’t intended to get into a fight with Marc in the car. But she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, and Marc couldn’t either, and now they were fighting again. Wasn’t it Einstein who said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different outcome? How could she continue to tamp down her dreams and hope things with Marc would get better, when tamping down her dreams was exactly what kept making them get worse? What was she doing wrong? What could she be doing better?

Sitting down at the table, she woke up the computer. An icon appeared that indicated she had an email. She opened it. It was from someone at the
New York Times
:

Dear Ms. Passing:

Great idea, love that this successful guy was an old teen heartthrob, but a little too feature-ish for us. Why don’t you try the magazine section? They eat up stuff like this. Try Julius Criss. Use my name. Good luck!

Allie Paulson
Senior Editor, New York section
The New York Times

Iliana sat back in her chair and stared at the screen until the words blurred. She had completely forgotten that she had sent an email to the
Times
proposing a Jeff Downs story—but here was a pretty exciting response. Allie Paulson hadn’t ignored her query or rejected it. Allie Paulson of the
New York Times
had liked her pitch!
Why don’t you try the magazine section? Use my name!
Iliana smiled as she realized that she had believed in her story enough to send it out to the
Times
and not just to Stuart, and as a result, she had a link to the editor of the
Times
magazine. And eventually she might actually get an article about Jeff Downs into the
New York Times
after all. Then Marc would have to see her in an entirely new light.

In a flash, the email changed everything.
Thank you, Allie Paulson!
she whispered to herself. She could hardly wait until the next morning. She could hardly wait to call Jeff’s office and confirm a trip to Mount Kisco on Thursday.

Chapter 10

“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Iliana.”

He was sitting in a booth in the narrow coffee shop where Rose had said he’d be. He was reading the newspaper, his chin tilted up to keep his glasses from sliding down. At first she didn’t recognize him. The sunlight easing through the window blinds in long, hazy stripes made his hair look gray and seemed to add lines to his face, and her eyes passed right over him as she surveyed the restaurant. She blinked when he stood, wondering why a stranger was approaching her. Although she had met with him twice, she still had been looking for someone much younger.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, holding her shoulders and bending his knees so they were eye to eye. “Cold? Hungry?”

“I could use some coffee,” she said.

“Jim, could you get my reporter friend some coffee?” he called to a short, elderly man behind the counter, then looked back at her as he added, “Just milk, no sugar.” He remembered how she liked her coffee. She smiled.

He took her coat and hung it at the back of the shop. She was wearing a blue V-neck sweater over tan pants, with a wide black belt. She loved that she now looked good in belts. She thought the last time she’d worn one was before she was pregnant with Matthew.

“I hope you don’t mind meeting here,” Jeff said as they sat. He looked as good in a black crew-neck sweater and jeans as he had in a shirt and tie. “It seemed a good idea, since it’s right off the highway, and they’ve got the best coffee in Westchester. And look!” He held up his newspaper, and she saw it was the
Times
. “They sell your paper. The good old-fashioned print variety. I forked over cold hard cash today in honor of your visit.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, nodding. Hopefully it really
would
be her paper. She had whipped out an email to Julius Criss right before she left for Mount Kisco that morning:

Allie Paulson from the New York section suggested I get in touch with you. She and I have been in contact about an article idea that she thinks might work in the magazine section . . .

“You know, I’ve been looking for your byline,” he added, more seriously.

“Freelancers
 . . .
don’t always get bylines because they tend to write shorter pieces,” she said smoothly, after a beat. “And I’m still getting to know the editors, since I took all that time off to be home with my kids. So I’m not the first one they call for assignments.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Makes sense.” She wondered why he accepted her explanation so easily. If their roles were reversed, she thought she’d probably have questioned him more.

“But
this
piece will be a bylined piece,” she added. “In fact, they are taking a look at it for the magazine section.”

“The magazine? That means it will be fairly long, right?”

She nodded. “I think so!”

“And I guess that’s quite disappointing, considering the look on your face,” he teased.

Iliana laughed as she realized that yes—she
was
happy. She was pleased that Allie Paulson had liked her query and suggested she send it to Julius Criss.

“The New York editor thinks the story may work in the magazine,” she said. “She loves the idea of bringing in your past. ‘Love that he was an old teen heartthrob,’ that’s what she said.”

“
Old
heartthrob, huh?” he said, as he pantomimed taking a bullet to the chest. “Boy, you sure know how to hurt a guy.”

“No—I mean, it sounded better coming from her—”

“And here I thought we were friends! Let’s change the subject. What else is doing in the big world of journalism? Interview anyone interesting lately?”

“I did go to a cocktail party recently,” she answered. It was the only out-of-the-ordinary thing she had done. She realized that in answering his question, she was back to twisting the truth. She knew the magazine was still a long shot, but she desperately hoped it would work out and she’d soon be able to stop all the lying. “Spoke to someone from one of the big Broadway casting offices. I thought I might get a scoop about Hugh Jackman in talks about a new Broadway show. But she wouldn’t confirm it.”

“That’s too bad. But don’t be discouraged. Go back and butter her up. Or better yet, hound her until you get what you want. That’s what I do.”

“Somehow I don’t buy that. You were quite smooth with the Bloomingdale’s crowd, as I remember,” she said.

He grinned. “Guess you’re right about that.”

“But it wouldn’t help anyway,” she said. “She’s leaving her job. To move with her fiancé. To Cleveland.”

“Sounds like you don’t approve,” he said. “Got something against Cleveland?”

“What I’ve got something against is her abandoning this great career. Women always think they have plenty of time and they can switch things up later, but it’s not always so easy. They get caught up in the day-to-day, letting their calendar get filled up with chores, knowing the months and years are passing by but not doing anything to
 . . .”
She looked up and saw him watching her. “What? Did I say something stupid?”

He leaned back in the booth, clapped his hands, and laughed. “Just burst my bubble is all. Never again will I think of journalists as open-minded and nonjudgmental.”

“I didn’t insult you, did I? I mean, your wife works; you told me that, didn’t you?”

“Catherine? She’s practically my boss. I wouldn’t have a business without her. But don’t worry, I like that you have strong feelings. Hey, I have lots to show you today. I’ll be crushed if I don’t get at least a few strong reactions.”

He got up, took his wallet from his back pocket, and pushed her shoulder playfully as he walked toward the cash register. “Come on, stop being embarrassed and let’s get going. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

Outside, he zipped his jacket all the way up, bracing himself against the cold. “That’s my car,” he said, nodding toward a blue, older-model BMW in the parking lot. “The house is only about ten minutes away, but there are a lot of turns. So you can follow me.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Here’s something to inspire you. Or make you curious. Either one.”

He took out a small photograph and extended his arm to give it to her. The wind suddenly kicked in, blasting against her back, but she grabbed the picture just before it could blow away, and took a long look. It was a picture of the Dreamers, one of the earliest, if not the
earliest, she had ever seen. The boys all looked young, not much older than Matthew, and their heads were tilted upward, as though they were watching someone on a high platform right in front of them. Terry was sitting on a stool, his curls falling into his eyes, and Jeff and the other two boys stood behind him. They all looked somber, as though they had gotten mixed up in something they weren’t sure they wanted. Jeff’s mouth was open, with the bottom tip of one of his top teeth showing.

“You look scared,” she said.

Jeff looked over her shoulder, blocking her from the wind, hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “No, not scared,” he said. “Just full of
 . . .
astonishment, I guess. It was our first day on the set. And I was about to take off on the ride of a lifetime. See how we’re all looking up?”

She nodded, looking behind her at him.

“We were looking at the crew. They were all around, on ladders, on scaffolds. There were literally dozens of them. And their only job was to make us soar.”

In the car, Iliana followed Jeff out of the parking lot and onto a long, two-lane stretch of road. Eventually he made a few turns that led through a small town, and then they came to a residential neighborhood with split-level houses and a concrete sidewalk. Iliana assumed they were just passing through, but soon Jeff slowed and parked near the curb. Iliana pulled in behind him and watched him get out of his car, wondering why they were stopping. Did he need to tell her something?

She rolled down her window and he leaned down toward her. “Welcome to the headquarters of Downs Textiles,” he said with a laugh. His breath came out as steam. “Pretty corporate, huh?”

She turned from him and dipped her head to see the whole house through the opposite window. Was it some kind of a joke? She knew there were some very expensive areas in this part of the county, and she’d been expecting something much more impressive—a sprawling estate with a tennis court and a pool, maybe a round marble fountain with cascading jets of water, a huge front portico. After all, he had to have made a ton of money from the TV show, hadn’t he? Instead, they were parked beside the kind of modest house she saw advertised in the paper every day: four bedrooms, eat-in kitchen, family room, maybe a fireplace. He had never described his home, but she had come here with expectations she hadn’t even realized she had.

“Surprised?” he said. “I know. Pretty small and basic. But I gotta tell you, after all the glitz of Hollywood, Catherine and I wanted something scaled way back. And we’ve never regretted it. I was tired of the high life.”

She opened her door and stepped out of the car, wondering if it could be true that he really preferred a basic split-level. Or did he just want her to think that? Suddenly she wondered if he had been working all along to manipulate her impressions of him. How badly did he want this article she was hoping to publish? All his reluctance to talk about the Dreamers, and there he was waiting for her at the coffee shop, holding a photo to whet her appetite. Had he always been hoping for a full-length feature about himself? Had he been waiting to find a reporter he could charm into telling his story the way he wanted it told—and was that why he was always so nice and friendly to her?

“I just need to check the mail real fast,” he said, and she followed him up two concrete steps, through the front door, and into a small, red-tiled entranceway. There was a stairway to the right, with a basic tan carpet. To her left was the living room, with a white leather sofa, a square glass coffee table, and two club chairs. Ahead she could see one wall of the kitchen. The white countertop held the normal supplies of suburban living, a coffeemaker, a toaster, a mixer. It didn’t seem that anyone else was around, and she started to feel uncomfortable. Where were his employees? She didn’t think she’d been alone in a house with a man other than Marc since she was single. It made her wonder if maybe she had misjudged his intentions when he invited her here. Had he actually brought her here to try to sleep with her?

He picked up some envelopes on a small glass table and shuffled through them, and she instinctively moved several steps away from him and closer to the door. To her right was a ledge with a few framed photographs, and she leaned in to examine them. The one in front, a five-by-seven, showed three teenage girls leaning back on a wooden fence, a turquoise ocean behind them. Iliana assumed they were the daughters he had told her about at the restaurant. The older two, in halter tops and shorts that couldn’t have been any tinier, looked bored, their long hair in their faces, their shoulders slumped, their mouths slightly smirking. The youngest, a chubby girl with a large, fleshy face, was in a black midriff with spaghetti straps, her baby fat flopping over the waist of her too-tight jeans. She looked defiantly into the camera, as if daring the photographer to go ahead and shoot.

More relaxed now that Jeff was paying attention to the mail, Iliana thought about why Jeff and his wife had put this picture in the front hallway. Was this the best vacation picture they had? Was their perception so warped by years of living with sullen, moody teenagers that they actually thought the girls looked
happy
?
She had imagined Jeff’s life so differently. Maybe she had idealized him too much. After all, she had spent years knowing only what she saw on TV—an incredibly cute guy with great hair and a winning smile, playing the role of a boy who is liked by everyone and always gets the girl. She was the one who liked to figure out what made people tick. Maybe she should have realized that his real life would be more complicated than his on-screen one.

It made her wonder even more what else she might learn today.

Jeff tapped the stack of mail on the palm of one hand. Iliana could tell he was uncomfortable, too. “Okay, done. Now we can get started. The office is behind the house. This way.”

She followed him outside and down a path on the side of the house. Beyond the back lawn was a structure that looked like a small barn. “This whole area used to be one big estate, and when they subdivided it, they left some carriage houses,” he said. “We were lucky our property came with one. We thought it was a good idea to decentralize our operation—you know, focus the showroom completely on sales and marketing, without all the distracting administrative functions in the way.”

He led her up two small wooden steps and held open a painted green door. There was a small, dark entranceway that led directly to a steep wooden stairway. He gestured ahead, and she began climbing, aware of how closely her pants hugged her body. She wished Jeff would turn around and go back downstairs so she could, too, because it felt wrong to be alone in this dark stairwell with him. But she could hear his footsteps, clop, clop, clop,
closing in on her.