Read Online The Last Dreamer by Barbara Solomon Josselsohn - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Solomon Josselsohn
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piece on your company . . . for New Yorkers who read . . . the New York section,” she said. “I heard about your blankets from . . . some of my sources, and I wanted to meet you and get the full story.”
“Great,” he said. “Who told you about us?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. When my sources talk about products, it’s not for attribution.” She was glad for that handy old Business Times line.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Then I’ll just get started, and feel free to interrupt if you have any questions. Let’s see . . . the big picture is, we’re a specialty blanket supplier with a full assortment of products. At the top end, we have our cashmeres and silk blends, and at the more affordable price points, we have our fleeces.” He cupped his head with his hands and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Fleece, as you may know, is a perfect blanket fabric. It’s warm but lightweight, it’s strong but soft. It wears well, takes dye well, and it washes beautifully. We’ve been very successful with that line in particular.”
“Yes, but fleece is a pretty basic product,” Iliana said, and as she pulled out her notebook and started to take notes, she finally started to relax. It felt great, being back in the game again. She was a tennis player finding the sweet spot, a pitcher catching the edge of the strike zone. She was a dancer moving in perfect sync with her partner. She had always enjoyed the pas de deuxshe danced with the people she interviewed, especially the handsome male ones: both parties on their best behavior, looking their best and performing at their peak. “How do you compete with the cheaper imports coming in from China?” she said.
“Well, we’ve got a thicker construction and our color palette is unmatched,” he answered. “In fact, our new spring colors are hitting the stores next month. Hey, Greg, throw me a couple of those fleeces.”
A bearded young man who was adjusting some display racks pulled two blankets off a shelf and tossed them to Jeff, who spread them on the table. One was a pale sage, and the other was lavender. Iliana ran her finger along a fold.
“Very pretty,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Our new colors are all great. We don’t have the complete line here, but you can get an idea from the catalog—I’ll show you.” He jumped from his chair and opened the top drawer of a nearby file cabinet.
“Let’s see, Rose was going to file them in here . . .” he said. As he shuffled through the folders, he started to whistle. Then he began to hum. Softly at first, and then a little louder.
Suddenly Iliana’s shoulders rose and she gave a little gasp as her hands, her fingers froze. She leaned forward, watching his back, straining to hear what he was humming. And then she knew. It was “The Best of Times.” At first it surprised her that he’d hum a song he had made famous decades ago. It seemed a little pitiful, like a guy who decorates his house with medals from his days as a high school athlete. But then she came to the conclusion that he wasn’t doing it consciously. He seemed to be just humming a tune out of habit, the way other people might bite their lip or click their tongue to fill the silence.
“Hey, I know that song!” she said.
“What?” He looked up.
“The song you were humming,” she explained quickly, regretting her outburst. She had meant to be subtler. Her thoughts started racing down a paranoid path: An actual Times reporter on assignment wouldn’t exclaim like that over some old pop tune. What if he started to be suspicious of her, because she said she knew the song? What if he demanded proof that she was writing for the Times ?
Jeff leaned against the filing cabinet and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “I was humming?” he asked. “I didn’t realize. What was I humming?”
She watched him, desperately hoping for a cue about how to respond. “You were humming ‘The Best
“Great,” he said. “Who told you about us?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. When my sources talk about products, it’s not for attribution.” She was glad for that handy old Business Times line.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Then I’ll just get started, and feel free to interrupt if you have any questions. Let’s see . . . the big picture is, we’re a specialty blanket supplier with a full assortment of products. At the top end, we have our cashmeres and silk blends, and at the more affordable price points, we have our fleeces.” He cupped his head with his hands and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Fleece, as you may know, is a perfect blanket fabric. It’s warm but lightweight, it’s strong but soft. It wears well, takes dye well, and it washes beautifully. We’ve been very successful with that line in particular.”
“Yes, but fleece is a pretty basic product,” Iliana said, and as she pulled out her notebook and started to take notes, she finally started to relax. It felt great, being back in the game again. She was a tennis player finding the sweet spot, a pitcher catching the edge of the strike zone. She was a dancer moving in perfect sync with her partner. She had always enjoyed the pas de deuxshe danced with the people she interviewed, especially the handsome male ones: both parties on their best behavior, looking their best and performing at their peak. “How do you compete with the cheaper imports coming in from China?” she said.
“Well, we’ve got a thicker construction and our color palette is unmatched,” he answered. “In fact, our new spring colors are hitting the stores next month. Hey, Greg, throw me a couple of those fleeces.”
A bearded young man who was adjusting some display racks pulled two blankets off a shelf and tossed them to Jeff, who spread them on the table. One was a pale sage, and the other was lavender. Iliana ran her finger along a fold.
“Very pretty,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Our new colors are all great. We don’t have the complete line here, but you can get an idea from the catalog—I’ll show you.” He jumped from his chair and opened the top drawer of a nearby file cabinet.
“Let’s see, Rose was going to file them in here . . .” he said. As he shuffled through the folders, he started to whistle. Then he began to hum. Softly at first, and then a little louder.
Suddenly Iliana’s shoulders rose and she gave a little gasp as her hands, her fingers froze. She leaned forward, watching his back, straining to hear what he was humming. And then she knew. It was “The Best of Times.” At first it surprised her that he’d hum a song he had made famous decades ago. It seemed a little pitiful, like a guy who decorates his house with medals from his days as a high school athlete. But then she came to the conclusion that he wasn’t doing it consciously. He seemed to be just humming a tune out of habit, the way other people might bite their lip or click their tongue to fill the silence.
“Hey, I know that song!” she said.
“What?” He looked up.
“The song you were humming,” she explained quickly, regretting her outburst. She had meant to be subtler. Her thoughts started racing down a paranoid path: An actual Times reporter on assignment wouldn’t exclaim like that over some old pop tune. What if he started to be suspicious of her, because she said she knew the song? What if he demanded proof that she was writing for the Times ?
Jeff leaned against the filing cabinet and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “I was humming?” he asked. “I didn’t realize. What was I humming?”
She watched him, desperately hoping for a cue about how to respond. “You were humming ‘The Best
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