Wishing on a Dream

by Julie Cannon

  My phone rang, and I hit the send button to whisk my speech across the hall to Angela. “Kiersten Fellows.”

  “Kiersten, darling, how are you?”

  It was my mother, and her greeting always sounded more like “daaling” than darling. Why she called me darling was anybody’s guess. I thought that endearment was for lovers, not parent and child, but what did I know. She’d called me that my entire life.

  “Hello, Mother.” Not Mom, but always, always Mother.

  “I called to see if you’d bought your dress for Ray and Judy’s party next week.”

  I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be there,” I said instead. I’d received the invitation to the annual benefit gala in Boston from my parents’ closest friends three weeks ago. I’d tossed it on Bea’s desk the next morning, knowing she’d take care of everything. I hadn’t checked, but I was certain my flight was confirmed, a car service booked, and a hotel room secured for the event. If she could shop for me, I’m sure she’d do that as well. Instead I’d received a call from Joyce, my personal shopper, who had asked my preferences for the event, and two days later a box containing a dress, shoes, and accompanying jewelry arrived at my office. It wasn’t necessary for me to try anything on. Joyce had my measurements, but I reminded myself I should just in case. I’d had no appetite for the past few weeks, and my clothes felt more than a little loose.

  “Are you bringing a guest?” That was my mother’s way of asking if I had a date.

  “No, Mother. Not this time.” I’d made it sound like on previous occasions I had and this time was an anomaly. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

  “Now, Kiersten, you know you’re welcome to bring anyone to the event.” That was my mother’s way of telling me it was okay if I brought a woman as my date.

  “Yes, Mother, I know, and I appreciate it.” I did, really. My parents were completely supportive of my choice in dates, which was the complete opposite of my choice in careers.

  The oldest of five, I was expected to follow in my father’s footsteps. I was programmed at an early age to study law at Harvard and join his firm as an associate partner, working my ass off filing briefs and muddling through boxes of boring tax documents until I became partner. I never had any interest in the law, other than staying out of jail, and thankfully the heat was off when my brother Marcus took my place.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” That was my mother’s way of asking when I was getting married. All four of my siblings had tied the knot years ago, and to a woman like my mother, any woman over the age of thirty who wasn’t married was, well, it just wasn’t right. She was more than okay with the whole gay-marriage thing, but considering I was thirty-six my mother was quite concerned.

  “Nobody special.” No one actually, but again, I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “Kiersten, I worry about you. Do you have your sights set too high?”

  My sights set too high? What the fuck was that? Maybe I was living in a fantasy world, but I thought the person you fell in love with, married, and spent the rest of your life with wasn’t someone you lowered your sights to get.

  “No, Mother. I’ve just been really busy.” I cringed, knowing that was the wrong thing to say.

  “You have to make time. Your brothers and sister did. Life is more than nine-to-five, sweetheart.” I wish I could remember the last time I worked nine to five, or even seven to seven.

  “I know, Mother, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m perfectly happy with where my life is right now. I meet people and go out, but my focus is on JOLT right now.” That and the fact that by the time I do get home, I’m exhausted. The last thing I wanted to do after a long day was make small talk to a woman who only wanted to get me into bed, however frightening and exhilarating it might be. I might think about sex all the time and need to get laid, but on most days the effort was just overwhelming. I made a note on my pad to research escort services, then quickly scribbled over it. However easy that would make my life, I certainly didn’t need to get caught up in a sting and have my face plastered all over the web.

  “It’s just that your father and I worry about you.”

  “I love you, and Father too, but I’m fine.”

  “Really, darling, you work way too hard.”

  “I don’t really have a choice, Mother. It’s my company.” The argument was common and old. We hadn’t had it in a while so I wasn’t surprised. It typically occurred around some sort of family event. The last time was when I missed my niece’s christening. There was a dock-worker strike, and thousands of pallets of JOLT were sitting idle on a ship in Long Beach.

  “But can’t you assign things to somebody else?” my mother asked naively. She was clueless when it came to business, and that suited her just fine. Her job was to be a wife, mother, socialite, and philanthropist, all of which she performed exceptionally well.

  “No, Mother,” I replied, much more patiently than I felt. “I have people to do things, specialists in their field, but the overall responsibility of JOLT is mine. I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll see you next week.” I hoped God didn’t strike me down for lying to my mother, but I could take only so much of her. And today that glass was full.

  Chapter Four

  “Tobin, where have you been?”

  My back stiffened at the tone of Jake’s question. He was my manager, not my mother. One I paid to do things for me, the other to stay away from me.

  Jake Richards had been my agent from the day I landed my first recording contract. One of the guys in my band recommended him, and the rest, as they say, is history. And did we have history. Jake bailed me out of jams, set up my concert tours, and negotiated everything from the lease on my coach to the percentage of the concession revenue at each concert. He kept my family out of sight and my name in the headlines. He was my right- and left-hand man. Except for a few key, personal details, he probably knew me almost better than I knew myself. He was five feet three inches tall, balding, and commanded a room like a charismatic politician.

  “I was in my coach working on something and lost track of time.” I’d had my head immersed in a song that was struggling to get out when one of the stagehands had knocked on my door. “Why are you so upset?” I asked, looking at my watch. “Sound check for tonight’s show doesn’t start for another ten minutes.” My coach was my haven from the chaos of touring, and I hated any intrusion.

  “I heard back from JOLT.”

  Now he had my attention. I’d been after him for a meeting with the nation’s fastest growing energy drink to propose they sponsor my next tour. They were the hottest drink on the market, and I wanted to be a part of that.

  “What did they say?” I asked, sidestepping a roadie lugging a set of fat, black cables through the control booth.

  “No.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. “No?” I had dozens of companies wanting me, practically begging me to be their spokesman, but the one I wanted said no. How ironic was that?

  “Yep. Actually, it was more like thank you for your inquiry, but JOLT is not interested in sponsoring Tobin Parks at this time.” Jake used air quotes around his clarification, one of his habits that made me nuts.

  I have to admit I was surprised and said as much to Jake. “I would have thought they’d want to be with me on my next tour.”

  “I did too,” Jake said. “You’re the biggest in the industry, and any company would be lucky to have you. The publicity would be enormous. I told them that but not so directly.”

  “What was their reason?” I was still trying to wrap my head around this. In the last few years people had rarely told me no.

  “They didn’t give me one.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. They sponsor all kinds of events. They have their name on a NASCAR car, and I saw their logo on some half-naked volleyball players on ESPN last week. It’s not like they don’t do it.”

  “I don’t know any more than that,” Jake
replied, sagging against the control board.

  “Don’t sit on that,” I said sharply. “It cost almost a hundred grand, and we’d be shit out of luck if it broke.” The board, as my electronics guru Reggie called it, was the master control of the entire show. With the flick of a switch or a slight adjustment of a knob, he controlled lights, sound, and the video played on the massive screen at the back of the stage. Without it and him, I’d just be a singer with a guitar and a band. Those were the early days.

  I was stunned and more than a little disappointed. I wanted JOLT. I wanted my name on their product. JOLT personified the image I’d worked hard to create.

  I heard my name called over the walkie-talkie on Gerard’s belt. Gerard was my stage manager, a brutish man who towered over my five feet nine inches by at least ten of his own. His hands were like a catcher’s glove and his beard as dark as his face. He ran the stage like a choreographed play, and I wouldn’t be where I was without him. He was standing a few feet away from me and pointed to his watch, then the stage. I pushed my irritation with JOLT out of my mind when my lead guitarist strummed the first chord. It was time to get to work.

  *

  Several hours later, back in my coach, I let my mind wander off the song I’d been working on and onto JOLT. Why had they turned me down? I thought for sure they’d jump on the Tobin Parks gravy train. I reached for my laptop and opened my Google browser.

  Eight thousand, four hundred, thirty-nine hits came up, and I started with the most recent. Kiersten Fellows scheduled to speak at the National Beverage and Container Conference in Montana. I read the headline out loud. “Ms. Fellows, thirty-six, the founder and CEO of JOLT, the nation’s number-two energy drink, is expected to talk about…” I skimmed the rest of the article and focused on the accompanying image. Even in a flat, one-dimensional photo, Ms. Fellows was stunning. Her blond hair framed her face and was tucked behind one ear. It looked thick and luxurious, and I wondered what it would feel like to run my hands through it. It was obviously a professionally shot photo, and she was looking directly into the camera lens. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue, and I felt like she could actually see me. My pulse skittered a whole lot more than it had with the woman after tonight’s show, or many other nights for that matter.

  Kiersten was leaning against a pallet of JOLT, her arms crossed over her chest. Her head was cocked just a little, and her entire body said, “This is me, take it or leave it.” This was not a canned CEO head shot. She was wearing khakis and a purple polo shirt with the JOLT logo positioned over her left breast. She wore a large watch and no rings, but a glint of something at her ears alluded to diamond studs. There was beautiful and there was hot. Kiersten Fellows was definitely the latter.

  I read several other articles and discovered that she’d had the fairy-tale life I didn’t. She had one sister and three brothers, where I had two fewer brothers, thank God. From what I could find, they were all married and had great jobs, or their spouses did. My good-for-nothing siblings would rather scam society or mooch off me than get a job. Her parents were part of the upper crust of Boston society. Not my phrase, but the authors of several articles seemed to like it. My parents were welfare-cheating, trash-TV aficionados and drunks. We couldn’t have been more different.

  But it was the article about JOLT’s charitable contributions that caught my attention. An astonishing thirty-five percent of the profits were donated to various children’s charities. I couldn’t find any particular reason why that was. Kiersten definitely didn’t grow up that way. She had to have a reason other than a hefty corporate tax deduction, and this was why I wanted JOLT as my sponsor. I reached for my phone. It was the middle of the night, but fame has its privileges.

  Chapter Five

  “Thank you.” I stepped back from the podium and gave a slight wave to the audience. According to the timer on the monitor facing the stage, I’d just spent twelve of my allotted fifteen minutes talking to over eight hundred of my peers, competitors, and beverage suppliers. I loved coming to these events. It kept me connected to the industry, enabled me to keep up on new, innovative products, and let me see old friends and make new ones.

  As I made my way down the stairs, several people were waiting for me. The next session wouldn’t begin for fifteen minutes, and judging by the number of people milling around me, I knew I probably wouldn’t make it to the bathroom before I needed to be somewhere else. The attendees at the conference were primarily men, with a few women scattered here and there. If I did get to the ladies’ room, I might just have it all to myself.

  Finally, after a very long day, I got back to my hotel room. The door hadn’t even closed behind me before I slipped out of my heels, had my suit jacket off, and untucked my blouse. I headed straight for the minibar and grabbed two cordials of Crown Royal and a can of Coke. I’d called ahead to room service, and a bucket of ice and a tuna sandwich and chips were waiting for me. I hadn’t had much opportunity to eat much during dinner, or lunch for that matter, my table mates asking me questions practically nonstop. While I talked, they did eat, thus my late-night snack.

  I turned on the TV to CNN and tossed my pants and hair clip on the bed. Sitting in front of the handsome Anderson Cooper in my underwear, I ate my dinner, drank one of my cocktails, and started on the second. I pulled my MacBook onto my lap and clicked the little envelope at the bottom of the screen.

  After I sorted the one hundred forty-three unread emails I’d received today by sender, I started plowing through them. I started with those from my staff. They often needed an answer or an approval for them to move forward or they had an FYI to keep me out of trouble or from being blindsided. Bea always contacted me by text if it was something critical, and today my phone had been blissfully quiet. Next in the line of priority was one from Daniel.

  Kiersten—

  Tobin Parks has asked to meet with you Wednesday evening. She suggested dinner at a restaurant just down the street from your hotel—The Stockmen’s Club. She’d like to talk with you about the sponsorship.

  A flash of anger burned. I didn’t want to talk with Tobin Parks, and Daniel should have handled this. Why was he bringing it to me? He was probably an adoring fan who couldn’t see beyond her stardom. What was up with that? I read on.

  She called me personally when she couldn’t get past Bea. And IMPO I think you should reconsider your position. Tobin has the exact fan base that is our target market. We would benefit significantly if we were to partner with her.

  Tobin will be at the restaurant at 7:30.

  J

  Now I was really irritated. First, I hated when Daniel used stupid shorthand. When did people stop using words like “to” and “be” and “in my professional opinion”? Why couldn’t he communicate like everyone else? Maybe it was because he was twenty-eight and not in his mid-thirties like me. Second, he sounded like a groupie. Third, Tobin Parks was pretty presumptuous that I’d agree to meet with her without my RSVP. And what in the hell was she doing in Bozeman, Montana? But most importantly, something about Tobin Parks just made me uncomfortable. I hit the Reply button.

  I’ll think about it.

  I hit the Send button and moved on to the next email but not before changing the channel to a baseball game. The Seattle Mariners were playing the Arizona Diamondbacks and were losing four to two in the top of the sixth inning.

  That was another thing that drove my mother nuts, my love of baseball. I attended as many White Sox games as I could and offered my seats behind home plate to fans in my office when I couldn’t. I had long ago stopped worrying what my parents thought and, even longer than that, trying to please them. Yawning, I moved on to the next email. It was going to be a long night.

  During the workshops the following two days I was uncharacteristically distracted. I couldn’t focus and had to force myself to concentrate when I was on my assigned panel. I was embarrassed when I missed a question directed to me.

  The conference over, I drove my rental car to the stores
that stocked JOLT. As the miles passed I wondered how Tobin Parks traveled from city to city. Did she fly in a private jet? Surely she didn’t fly commercial? What a scene that would be in every airport in the world. When I should have been looking at stock levels, shelf space, and promotional displays, I was imagining all the logistics that went into a Tobin Parks show. When I should have been paying attention to the content of the briefing from my district sales manager, I was comparing how the woman seated at the far end of the table looked a little like Tobin. And I won’t even mention my dream last night. Or was it a nightmare? I wasn’t sure which, but if dreams were reality I’d say the latter.

  I didn’t finish until after six and was on my own for dinner. I’d had dinner with my sales manager last night and refused to subject her to two nights with the boss. I was driving back to the hotel when a sign on the other side of the median caught my attention.

  Stockmen’s

  Quality Beef and Brew

  For some reason I didn’t want to think about too hard, I made what was probably an illegal U-turn and pulled into the parking lot. I exchanged my keys for a valet ticket and opened the heavy front door. It was cool inside, and it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the low light.

  “Ms. Fellows?”

  I was surprised when the hostess addressed me by name.

  “Yes.”

  “Ms. Parks is expecting you. This way, please.”

  Ms. Parks is expecting me? I was half tempted to turn around and leave Ms. Parks sitting alone and watching the clock. But I was already here, hungry and curious if she was as confident in person as she was presumptuous.