A Winter Dream: A Novel

by Richard Paul Evans

“Thanks, Kim,” Timothy said.

  Potts looked angry and tired, like he hadn’t slept. I think he was also surprised to see me. As we sat down, he said, “What have you got?”

  Timothy said, “You wanted something colloquial, but credible, catchy—”

  “Just show me,” he said irritably.

  “All right.” Timothy stood, lifting a sheet. “Only one bank understands all your financial needs. BankOne. Friendly clerks? You can bank on it. Low fees? You can bank on it. Federally insured? Bank on it. BankOne. Bank on it.”

  Potts sat motionless as he digested the concept, then he held out his hand, gesturing for the pages. “Let me see,” he said.

  Timothy handed him the layouts and Potts shuffled through them.

  “Bank on it,” he said. He looked up. “Who came up with this?”

  “J.J.”

  He looked at me without expression. “Okay, let’s see if they salute.”

  We walked out of the office. “I can’t read him,” I said.

  “You could have if he didn’t like it,” Timothy said.

  A little after noon Timothy took me to lunch at a pizza restaurant a half mile from the agency, called Uno.

  “You always walk this far for lunch?” I asked.

  “No. I usually eat at my desk. But since you’re new, and we’re almost celebrating, you had to try Uno. This is where the first deep-dish pizza was baked. The guy who invented it was named Ike Sewell. That’s his name there,” he said, pointing out the window to a street sign. We were at the corner of Ohio and Wabash, but the city had put up a sign that said IKE SEWELL BLVD.

  “He never even called it Chicago-style pizza—people called it that after they copied him and took it outside the city. Another testament to the power of a good idea.”

  After we’d been served, I asked Timothy, “How well do you know my brother?”

  “Not too well,” he said. “But he obviously made an impression. He was one of the few sane ones on that Sears account.” He looked at me. “You flinched when I mentioned his name yesterday. Bad blood?”

  “He forced me out of the agency.”

  Timothy pursed his lips. “That would explain why he was so eager for me to bring you on.” He took a bite of his pizza. “I can see why.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a rising star. He’s got to feel threatened. Self-preservation and ego are a powerful combination.”

  I took a drink of my Pepsi. “Unfortunately, my father didn’t make the situation any easier. I was his favorite and he didn’t care who knew.”

  “I know that pain from the other side. My younger brother was a high school football star. State quarterback no less. Made my life hell. I was the guy who won the school spelling bee.

  “When I told my father I wanted to go into advertising, he told me to get a real job. Today, I’ve won more than a dozen national awards, my work is seen by millions, and I’m moving billions of dollars of products each year while my quarterback brother does magic shows for kid parties and works as the night manager of a 7-Eleven.

  “Not that any of that matters to my father. When we’re together at holidays, my father still wants to relive my brother’s glory days. It’s pathetic, really. He can’t even comprehend what I do. All he knows about advertising is what he learned from Darrin Stephens and Larry Tate on Bewitched.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he replied. “My life is golden. Stressed, but golden. I feel sorry for my brother. That’s quiet desperation for you, knowing your best days are behind you. Imagine, peaking in high school.” He looked down at my plate. “Good stuff, isn’t it? Real deep-dish pizza. Nothing better.”

  I nodded. “We had a Chicago-style pizza place in Denver.”

  He shook his head. “There’s something wrong about that.”

  We both went back to eating. After a few minutes Timothy said, “I think you’re going to do well here. Who knows? Maybe your brother did you a favor.”

  “Time will tell.”

  Timothy nodded. “Time is a snitch.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with a napkin, then put them back on. “Do you know anyone in Chicago?”

  “Other than you and Leonard? No.”

  “If you need anything, just call. What’s your cell number.”

  “I don’t have a phone,” I said. “I had to leave it behind. I was going to pick one up yesterday after work, but that didn’t happen.”

  Timothy said, “There’s a Verizon store just over on Michigan Avenue. I could write down directions if you want.”

  “Thanks.” I suddenly smiled. “Actually, I do know someone. I met a woman over at a diner near my apartment. She offered to show me around town.”

  “That sounds promising,” he said.

  “She was really . . . kind. And beautiful.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In the Polish area, near Jefferson Park.”

  “I’ve been there. Those Polish women. They say that the Polish women are the most beautiful in Europe, and, even better, they don’t know it.”

  “I don’t think she’s Polish,” I said.

  “Well, good luck anyway.” Timothy glanced down at his watch. “It’s almost one-thirty. The jury should be through deliberating. Let’s go check the verdict.”

  “Nervous?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I was born nervous.”

  A brisk wind blew down Wabash as we made the hike back to the agency.

  “Is it always this cold?” I asked.

  “Lake effect,” Timothy said. “Cuts to the bone.”

  It took us fifteen minutes to make it back to the Leo Burnett Building. Kate approached us as we stepped out of the elevator. She looked frantic. “Any word?”

  “I don’t know. We just got back from lunch,” Timothy said.

  “Where’d you go?” she asked.

  “Uno.”

  She nodded, then turned to me. “Did you love it?”

  “What’s not to love?” I said.

  “You said it.” She turned back to Timothy. “Potts has been on the phone since he got back.”

  “Are you spying on him?” Timothy asked.

  “Of course I am.”

  Timothy leaned forward and whispered to her, “I’ll let you know.”

  We walked back to our desks. I was just settling into my cubicle when my phone rang. “Potts wants to see us,” Timothy said.

  Timothy tilted his head at Kim and she nodded. Timothy smiled. I took this as a good omen, though seeing Potts’s face put doubts back in my mind. He still looked angry. He was leaning back in his chair, glaring at us. We sat down before he asked us to.

  “They liked it, didn’t they?” Timothy said.

  Without smiling, Potts said, “They loved it.”

  “I knew they would,” Timothy said.

  “They still need to focus-test,” he said.

  “Bring it on.”

  “What were their comments?” I asked.

  Potts’s gaze focused on Timothy. “They said, ‘Next time bring us the good stuff first.’ ” He looked us over. “Now get out of here. You’ve got work to do.”

  We both got up to leave.

  “Jacobson, you stay.”

  I glanced at Timothy. He raised his eyebrows then walked out, shutting the door behind him.

  Potts gazed at me for a moment. “Sit.”

  “Yes, sir.” I sat back down.

  “So that was your concept.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You pulled that off pretty fast.”

  “I come from a small firm. We rarely had the luxury of time.”

  “As it should be. Some of our people have lost that mentality. Production takes time, but a great idea can come in a millisecond. Where are you from?”

  “A small Denver agency. Jacobson.”

  “Jacobson. That’s your last name.”

  “My father was the founder.”

  “Family busi
ness,” he said. “Why did you leave?”

  I thought over how much I wanted to tell him. “The pond was too small.”

  “I understand,” he said. “Big fish need room to swim. Did you have any management experience at Jacobson?”

  “Some. It was a small firm, but I was over two other copywriters.”

  “Good. Because I’m putting you over the BankOne creative team. I want you to inspire them. Right after I fire Leonard.”

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  Today was a good day, which gives me hope that there might be others. I don’t know if this is the beginning of a new season or the tenuous, tranquil eye of the hurricane.

  Joseph Jacobson’s Diary

  Friday night I had a dream about April. I don’t remember anything about it, just that she was in it. It had to have been something good, though, because for the first time since I left Colorado I woke without dread, which might not be the same thing as waking happy, but under the circumstances, I’d take it.

  I checked my watch. Eight o’clock. I showered, using the last of the paper towels to dry myself. Then I dressed, put on my parka and walked down the street to Mr. G’s.

  The diner was crowded and the line of people waiting to be seated stretched out the door.

  Turning sideways, I slid past everyone and walked inside. The place was nearly as frantic as the New York Stock Exchange. There were four waitresses at work, including April, who was standing behind the counter making a cappuccino. She smiled when she saw me. “Good morning. You made it.”

  “You doubted me?”

  “No,” she said, then slightly cocked her head. “Maybe.”

  “You’re really busy. Are we still on for today or do you have to work?”

  “We’re always busy on Saturday mornings, but I’m off. I was just helping out until you came. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I’ll get you something.” She handed me a menu. “Have a seat at the bar. I’ll be right back to get your order.”

  I took the menu and sat down at the only available seat in the diner. I pondered my choices while April delivered coffees to a table.

  “Anything look good?” she asked.

  “It all does,” I said. “What do you recommend?”

  “The feta omelet is my personal favorite. But only if you like feta.”

  “Sold,” I said.

  She took my menu and walked back to the kitchen. She returned a moment later. “It will only be a few minutes.” She leaned forward on the counter. “So I have a full day planned for us. It’s going to take a bit of walking. I hope it’s not too cold for you.”

  “I’m used to cold,” I said.

  “Of course,” she replied. “Denver. But I think it’s a different kind of cold here. Denver is pretty dry, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here, the dampness just cuts through you. I’m still not used to it. That’s why I brought my big coat. And my mittens.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Not my mittens. Just the coat. Do people still wear mittens?”

  “I do,” she said. “I knit them myself.”

  “You are a rare woman,” I said. She laughed. “So, I’m betting lunch that you really don’t know all the people you have hanging on the wall.”

  “Bring it on,” she said.

  “Okay, who is that?” I said, pointing to a color photo of a woman.

  “Dorothy Hamill. Olympic ice-skater.”

  I pointed to another woman, a picture in black and white. “And her?”

  “Kim Novak. I think she was an actress.”

  “She was in Hitchcock’s Vertigo with Jimmy Stewart.”

  “Hitchcock?” she said.

  “Alfred Hitchcock,” I said. “You know, the director of The Birds. Psycho. North by Northwest.”

  She just shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

  I looked at her quizzically. “Really?”

  “I told you I’m not much into movies,” she said, taking a step back. “I’ll check on our breakfast.”

  She returned from the kitchen a moment later carrying a tray loaded with plates. She gave me my omelet with a side of hash browns, and a cup of coffee. She set her own meal, a cinnamon roll and a cup of cocoa, on the counter in front of her, then leaned against the counter to eat.

  “I’m a sugar freak,” she confessed, cutting into the cinnamon roll with a fork. “I’m glad I’m not diabetic. I’d kill myself on those peach gummy candies.”

  “Those might be worth dying for,” I said. “And those grapefruit ones . . .”

  “Yes!” she said. “I love those.”

  “You’re standing,” I said. I stood. “Come sit.”

  “No, I’m okay,” she said. “I’m just having a roll.” A broad smile crossed her face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I like that you’re a gentleman.” She watched me as I took a bite of my omelet. “What do you think?”

  “It’s good.” She looked pleased that I liked it. I took a few more bites. “So what’s the plan today?”

  “First, we’ll go downtown and start our tour at the Sears Tower. Actually, it’s not really the Sears Tower anymore, it’s the Willis Tower, but everyone still calls it that. I thought we could go to the top so I could show you how the city is laid out. Then we’ll go on a walk through Millennium Park. Then over to the Art Institute of Chicago. Then, if we’re not too tired, we can walk down by the Navy Pier.”

  “That’s a full day,” I said.

  “We’ve got a lot to do. So hurry and eat.”

  We took the Blue Line to the Clark/Lake station, then walked over to Wacker, passing in front of the Leo Burnett building.

  “That’s where I work,” I said.

  April looked up. “That’s a very tall building. Does your company use the whole building?”

  “We have sixteen floors.”

  “Wow,” she said. “What floor do you work on?”

  “The twenty-seventh.”

  She grimaced. “That’s too high.”

  We walked about eight blocks to the Sears building. The Sears Tower is the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere and the eighth-tallest in the world. From its top floors you can see four states: Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin and Indiana.

  We had been warned by Justyna, one of the cooks at the diner, to expect long lines for the Skydeck but, being winter, there wasn’t much of one. I bought our tickets and we got onto the express elevator in less than a half hour, crowded in with about twenty other people.

  With the elevator rising two floors a second, it took only sixty-six seconds to get to the Skydeck. A large television screen in the elevator kept us apprised of our skyward progress, informing us, with illustrations, when we’d reached the height of the Sphinx, the Eiffel Tower, and the Empire State Building.

  As we stepped out of the elevator, I noticed that April was clearly afraid. No, terrified. As I ventured toward the windows, she remained close to the inside wall. The floor was moderately crowded, and I stayed close enough to the windows to see out, but still near enough to April to talk.

  Along the north face of the deck was a series of glass boxes that extended out from the building. “Look,” she said. “They built ledges for crazy people.”

  I saw that if you entered a box, you could walk out over nothing, looking almost 1,400 feet straight down. “That’s really cool,” I said. “Let’s walk on it.”

  April shook her head, clutching onto the corner of a wall. “No, I hate heights.”

  “Come on, you know those could hold like five tons.”

  “I don’t care. I hate heights.”

  “Then why did you bring me up here?”

  “I wanted you to see the city.”

  “You’re terrified of heights, but you still came up here for me?”

  “Yes.” She continued to cling to the wall.

  Again, I was taken by her kindness. “Thank you. Would you mind if I walked out on
the ledge?”

  “No,” she said. “I might not look though.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Okay.”

  I had to wait for a few people in front of me, then I walked out onto the ledge, which, I admit, took a little getting used to. I looked back at April, but a large group had come between us. Instead, I took a picture of my feet with my new phone, then walked back to her.

  She looked relieved to see me. “Was it a thrill?”

  I grinned. “Yes.”

  “Good. Can we continue?”

  “Of course.”

  We continued walking around the deck with April staying as close to the inside wall as she could. Finally, I put out my hand. “Come here. That wall’s not going to do any good. You can hold on to me.”

  She swallowed, but still reached out to me. I took her hand in mine. “Now just tell me if we’re too close and I’ll back away.”

  “Okay.”

  We continued our walk around the deck, with me slowly inching closer to the perimeter as we walked. April never told me to stop, though I could tell when she was nervous, as she dug her fingernails into my hand. I never took her closer than ten feet to the window. When we approached the western-facing window, she said, “We live out that way.”

  “I can see the diner,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  She hit my arm.

  One thing I found peculiar was how many men stared at her. I caught at least a half-dozen of them, some with their wives or girlfriends, looking at her longingly. I wondered if she noticed the effect she had on those around her. I doubted it. I thought of what Timothy had said about Polish women and thought it applied to her as well.

  When we had walked the entire deck back to the elevators, I asked, “Had enough?”

  She nodded quickly. “Yes. Have you?”

  I would have denied it if I hadn’t. “Yes. Let’s go.”

  She still held my hand while we were in the elevator. Only when we were on the ground floor did she relinquish it.

  “I made it,” she said.

  “Thank you for taking me.”

  “You’re welcome. Before I came to Chicago, I had never been higher than a two-story building.”

  I looked at her quizzically. “Really?”