The Last Dreamer (15 page)

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “So I ruined your life and you ruined mine. So what’s left for us now?”

She went to the bed and zipped up her overnight bag, then placed it on the floor. “I’m leaving,” she said.

She walked out of the room and went downstairs. When she got to the bottom, she sank down on the bottom step. She had meant that she was leaving the room. But for one split second she thought she was telling him that she was leaving for good.

In the hallway, she reached over to the wall and raised the temperature on the thermostat three degrees. Then she sat back down. The weather had been warmer that weekend. But suddenly she was freezing.

Chapter 15

Tuesday morning found her in a cab heading toward LaGuardia Airport.

She had barely slept all night, worrying about the trip: Was the cab coming early enough? Would there be traffic? Or long lines at security that would make her miss her flight? Had she allowed herself enough time? But now that the cab was sailing over the Whitestone Bridge in the gray of morning, and the digital traffic boards indicated a quick shot to the airport despite the wet and slushy roadways, she realized that her nerves had nothing to do with travel at all. Her stomach felt like an elevator that was stuck several inches above the uppermost floor of the building. She felt unsafe, but because she couldn’t pinpoint what exactly the threat was, the sense of physical danger was even more acute. She tried to reassure herself that all was fine. She was in a cab, with her seat belt fastened, driving to LaGuardia, taking a flight to LAX—things that millions of people safely did every day. The only threat, she told herself wryly, was a massive coronary because of how fast her heart was beating.

At the airport, she pulled herself out of the car. The adrenaline pouring into her bloodstream made her legs feel warm and the bones soft, like they might not support her, so she squeezed her fists twice and began to silently and methodically direct herself through the next steps in her trip. Pay the driver. Grasp the handle of her overnight bag and begin wheeling. Find her gate number. Take off her shoes. Proceed through security. Reclaim her stuff. For a moment she wished it were Thursday morning and the trip was over, that she was arriving home instead of taking off. She felt guilty for leaving her kids, guilty for walking out on Marc to spend two days with another man, guilty for not appreciating the good life she had at home. But then she angrily told herself to get a grip. She had put a lot on the line for this trip, and the last thing in the world she wanted to do was wish it over. Had she forgotten already how difficult the last few months had been? This trip was the best way she had of reclaiming the identity that she longed for, of making some kind of meaningful impact.

Her seat was next to the window. Opening her shoulder bag, she dug inside for her iPad so she could find something to read. But the sight of the notebooks and pens she had raided from Matthew’s and Dara’s desks made her eyes fill. She had kissed them both on their heads before heading out of the house, and she now pictured the way Dara looked, warm and cozy under her pink comforter. For a moment she wished she were still home, so she could take off her shoes and climb into bed with her, like she used to do when Dara was little. But then she decided there was no way she was going to spend the whole flight missing her kids and crying about it. So she ordered a screwdriver from the flight attendant and let the alcohol put her to sleep.

At LAX, however, it was a different story. Refreshed from her nap and invigorated by the energy of a busy airport, she wheeled her bag purposefully through the secured area and into the terminal. She had traveled often for
Business Times
to visit the corporate headquarters of retailers or check out trade shows and preview new product lines in apparel or home furnishings. It had made her feel smart and important, that the magazine thought enough of her to spend a couple of thousand dollars each month sending her to press conferences or product launches, wanting only her written observations and impressions in return. She recalled that feeling now, and it added a confident rhythm to her walk. Looking around at the other business fliers in the terminal, she felt part of an important club—each person a success story who had flown across the country to transform someone or create something. She was excited about seeing Jeff here in LA, about what they would talk about, what he would reveal, what she would discover, and how she could shape it all into something new and salable and irresistible.

She followed the signs for ground transportation and before long was in a taxi, marveling at how sprawling and powerful the freeway looked, with its green overhead signs and its lanes aligned like racehorse gates, its gray cement barriers and bridges. The New York she had left behind had cramped highways broken up by potholes, and commercial roads that looked narrower than usual because of patches of old, dirty snow along the sides. She had been in LA only once before, when she and her college roommate had traveled here for a vacation after graduation, and they’d been confused by the freeways, the way the exits came on both the left and the right. They frequently ended up in the wrong lanes, getting off the freeway when they didn’t mean to and having to drive around until they found a way back on, and they’d laugh hysterically each time it happened.

She took off her blazer, straightening out her sleeveless black blouse. She was glad she had decided not to take her winter coat with her. The sky was blue and cloudless, and the sun was strong. She tilted her face to the sun and shook her head. The breeze from the open window mingled with her hair.

“Hey, California agrees with you.”

It was finally the next morning, and when she stepped out of the elevator, Jeff was right there in the lobby. He was leaning against a marble column, his legs crossed at the ankles, smiling his trademark smile. He strolled over leisurely, his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and she savored the last few moments of anticipation until he reached her. It had been a rough night. She had felt lonely and misplaced. To make the time go faster, she had meandered around the hotel bar and gift shop and had run on the treadmill in the fitness center. When it was finally dinnertime, she called for a salad from room service and ate it while watching
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
on one of the cable networks. She called the house to say a quick goodnight. Marc had barely said hello before giving the phone to the kids. The time change worked in her favor, so she was exhausted by eight o’clock. She fell into a restless sleep.

But this morning when she woke up, she was excited for what the day held. She realized with a smile that it was just like she used to be every Thursday in middle school, when math class and science class weren’t a bore but a delicious tease, a sweet obstacle she could easily overcome. The periodic tingling in her arms and chest would grow more and more intense as she drew closer to evening and a brand-new episode of
Guitar Dreams
. It was fun to have that feeling again.

They stood before each other, and she hesitated, not quite knowing what to do. They were out of the office, out of New York, away from spouses with their own agendas. It was as though they were standing without a script on an empty stage. What were they right now? Business partners, friends, something else? It felt silly to extend her arm for a handshake, as she would to a business colleague she was meeting for the first time or hadn’t seen in a while. She felt paralyzed. Finally, Jeff shook his head, as though willing the awkwardness away. He reached over to hug her.

She closed her eyes, slipped her arms beneath his, and hugged him back. She could smell the cleanness of his aftershave. She could feel the warmth of his body, a little bit of stubble touching the side of her face, his plaid shirt against the palm of her hand. So many things to take in, and she knew it would be over in an instant. She held on to him for a moment longer than she thought she should, and she felt him holding on, too. She told herself she was trying to seal the perceptions into her memory so she would have them if she needed to use them in her writing, but the truth was, it felt good to hug him.

Then they separated. He looked more relaxed. “How was your flight?” he asked.

“Fine. Long,” she answered. “How were your meetings?”

“Good. Even better than the Bloomingdale’s meeting in New York. Seems there’ll be lots of fleece blankets in Southern California soon. I hear the nights can be bitter cold.” He pretended to shiver.

“They don’t really need them here, do they?” she asked, as though she had finally gotten a joke.

“Oh, come on, everyone can use a good blanket.” He gave her a playful push on the shoulder. “I didn’t know you were all into the investigative reporter thing already. You have to give a guy some warning.”

She smiled. “Got my notepads right in here.” She patted her shoulder bag.

“Very impressive. Very prepared. But then, I’m prepared, too.” He pointed to a white bag on the concierge counter. “Two coffees, one with milk only. And I was taking a chance here—blueberry muffin?.I seem to remember that you ate blueberry muffins when you took your son to the park years ago.”

“That’s right,” she said. “I love blueberry muffins.” And she loved that he remembered the story she told him at the restaurant, about taking Matthew to Central Park when he was a baby. It felt rare to have someone pay such close attention to her.

“Well then, we’re ready to go—oh, except for one more thing.” He leaned in closer. She felt herself instinctively pull back. “You’re flying home tonight, right?”

“That’s right, the red-eye.”

He sighed. “I thought so. Look, I was able to arrange a surprise for you, but it’s not going to happen until tonight. Any chance you can stay until tomorrow?”

Iliana felt her mouth drop open. “I wish I could, I really do—”

“Come on, if you take a late flight, you’re not going to get home until tomorrow anyway. What’s a few more hours?”

“It’s just—there’s a meeting I’m supposed to be at tomorrow.”

“Can’t you cancel it?”

She had promised Marc she’d be back for the Connors session. It was the linchpin in her case that her trip to Los Angeles wouldn’t inconvenience him or hurt him in any way. But it killed her to say no to Jeff. What kind of a surprise could he have for her? She couldn’t even imagine, and the suspense was as strong as if she were a kid looking at a wrapped birthday present.

“Come on, Ms. Fisher,” Jeff said. “Say you’ll stay. I’ve made an eight o’clock dinner reservation at one of the best Italian restaurants in the city, and I’ve got this incredible surprise for you.”

She knew she shouldn’t do it. She had given Marc her word. And yet here Jeff was, looking at her with his beautiful brown eyes. He was smiling at her with that shy, tight-lipped smile that she had always loved, that was seared in her head as the smile of a guy who thought she was smart and special and always wanted to hear what she had to say.
“I want to know what Iliana’s thinking.”
At the moment New York and Marc and Jena Connors seemed a world away. Would it be so terrible if she missed the first Connors session and went to the other two?

“I
 . . .
I’ll have to make a phone call,” she said tentatively, looking at her watch. It was late morning in New York.

“No problem,” Jeff said. “Give me your plane ticket, and while you make the phone call, I’ll get the concierge to change your flight.”

“It’s a nonrefundable fare—”

“Don’t worry, the hotel has ways of working this out. If there’s a fee, it’s on me.”

She opened her bag, found her ticket, and handed it to him. He took it and went to the concierge desk. She walked a few steps farther into the lobby and pulled out her cell phone. She hoped Marc would be away from his desk and she could just leave a message on his voicemail or with his secretary—but no, she thought. He deserved a direct conversation. At any rate, she didn’t have to decide. There he was, on the phone.

“Marc Passing,” he said.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Oh. What?”

He was still mad. And, she knew, he was about to get madder—with good reason. She would be letting him down, and she hated doing that. He had been counting on her. But she would make it up to him when she got home! She would go to the next two workshop sessions, and she would be enthusiastic about them. People often had to cancel their plans, didn’t they? Surely she wouldn’t be the only one who had to miss a session. Jena Connors probably wouldn’t even think twice about it. And it was probably better to miss the first session than either of the other two. By the time the third session came around, nobody would remember she had missed the first.

“Marc, I have to talk to you,” she said calmly. “I’m going to stay in California an extra day. I’m changing my flight to tomorrow morning. I’m sorry, but I won’t be home in time for the first session with Jena Connors. I’ll make every other session, I promise.”

There was silence on the other end. “Tell me I didn’t just hear that,” he finally said.

“Marc, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“No. No way. You’re coming home tonight, understand?”

He sounded like he was talking to one of the kids, but rather than getting defensive, she felt herself grow more assertive. “I’m not,” she said. “I already changed my ticket.”

“You promised you’d be back—”

“But now I have to stay. I’ll apologize to her, and I’ll make it fine.”

“It won’t be fine. I told you already. If you don’t go, it will hurt my chances of making exec.”

“I’ll be there for two of the sessions, and I’m sure other women will need to miss one, too. It’s not that terrible. Things come up. But Marc
 . . .”
She hesitated, then went ahead and said exactly what she was thinking. “But Marc, how is it that my plans have so much influence over your promotion? Isn’t it this swimwear contract that really matters?”