Fair Play (12 page)

Keeping it as simple as he could, Michael outlined Theresa's plans for monthly specials. Unnervingly, Anthony's eyes never wavered from his face. Michael wasn't even sure he blinked. When Michael was done, Anthony spoke one simple word.

“No.”

Michael steeled himself. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, no, N-O, I'm not going to do this.”

“Anthony—”

“A traditional Italian dinner on Christmas Eve,” Anthony jeered. “Forget it. Christmas Eve is sacred, Mike. You know that.”

“It can still be sacred.”

Anthony snorted in disbelief. “How, if I'm in the kitchen up to my ass in fucking squid?”

“Easy. We close at ten. That still gives everyone enough time to get to Midnight Mass and eat dinner.”

“Oh, and when am I supposed to cook our family dinner? In my sleep?”

“Aunt Gavina could do it this year.”

Anthony bit down on the knuckle of his left index finger, horrified. “God forbid.” He shook his head. “This isn't gonna work, Mike.”

“Yes, it is, Anthony.” He could hear the stubbornness creeping into his voice and struggled to remain focused on Gemma's advice. “It's not really that big of a departure, Ant. All it takes is a little planning.”

“And a lot of hard work.” Anthony was incensed. “What the hell makes you think I want to stand in the kitchen on Valentine's Day, preparing flourless chocolate cake for some fucking Park Slope yuppies, no offense? Does this PR lady have any idea how long it takes to prepare a Christmas Eve feast? Does she know how long it takes to cure those olives she thinks we should put in summer picnic baskets? I don't have time for this, Mike.”

“So we'll hire some additional staff.”

“Fine, me, I'll lay out the money, how's that?”

Anthony was unyielding. “Fine, since you're the one who seems hell bent on messing with a good thing.”

“Good things can turn into great things with a little care and planning,” Michael retorted. He stared at his pigheaded brother. “I don't understand you. I don't understand why you don't want the restaurant to get the recognition it deserves.”

“Because unlike you, I don't need the approval of the public. I love to cook. The restaurant lets me do that. I don't need it to be the most popular restaurant in the world.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I do,” Michael replied warily. He took another sip of coffee, making a sour face. It was losing heat. He liked his coffee hot or not at all. Disgusted, he put the cup down on the coffee table. “I can't do this without you, Anthony.”

Anthony laughed bitterly. “No shit.”

“Can we at least give it a try?”

Anthony's expression was cool. “On one condition.”

“What's that?”

“If you expect me to slave away in the kitchen, turning out little orange and black Halloween cupcakes and fuck knows what else, then I expect you in the front of the house whenever you're in town and don't have a game, making sure everything is running smoothly. And when you do have a game, I think you should get your ass back to Brooklyn as soon as you're done at Met Gar to help me.”

Their eyes locked. One second, two seconds, three. Finally Michael broke contact.

“After games is off limits,” he informed his brother. “I need time to unwind. Plus I'm entitled to a life.”

“Glad one of us is,” Anthony muttered.

Michael snorted derisively. “How's the weather up there on the cross, Anthony?”

“Screw you, Mike.”

“Have we got a deal?” Michael repeated.

“Yes,” Anthony assured him. “You mentioned you were off today, so you may as well come down to the restaurant.” Wicked glee twinkled in his eyes. “That won't be a problem, will it, Mike?”

“Nope.” Michael stood up, afraid if he stayed a second longer he'd grab Anthony in a headlock and throttle the life out of him. “Gotta run, Ant,” he said hurriedly as he zipped up his bomber jacket. “Places to go, people to see.”

“Toodle-ooh, Mikey. See you later.”

Smiling tersely, Michael leaned over and patted his brother's shoulder. Maybe he was crazy, but Michael could have sworn he heard his brother laughing as he closed the front door.

When she and
Janna were roommates, Theresa could always count on getting the unvarnished truth about her wardrobe. If a pair of pants made her normally slim legs look like tree trunks, Janna told her. If a blouse was too low cut, or a pair of shoes not quite right, Janna always came up with the perfect alternative. It was a service Theresa performed for Janna, too, making it rare for either of them to walk out the door looking anything less than expertly put together. But now that Janna was married, Theresa was forced to rely on her own judgment, which suddenly felt shaky.

It had been ages since she'd been out with a man.

She didn't want to send the wrong message.

She wanted to look polished yet casual. Attractive yet not provocative. After staring into the abyss of her closet for what felt like hours, she'd finally narrowed it down to two outfits. One was super casual: chinos, flats, turtleneck and her favorite suede jacket. The other was a bit more urban: a knee-length black satin skirt, channel quilted with red stitches and trimmed in red contrast stripes. Theresa loved this skirt, not only because it hugged her in all the right places, but because it was lined in red satin, making her feel just the slightest bit sexy without anyone else knowing. It was sporty without being slouchy, especially if she topped it with the tight, black, cable-knit sweater from DKNY that Janna had given her for Christmas the previous year.

Still undecided, she perched on the edge of her bed with a sigh of resignation.

Ridiculous, the way women tortured themselves over what to wear. God knows most men never gave it a second thought. The image of Michael Dante in his
guido
getup flashed through her mind, and she chuckled to herself, wondering where he'd come up with those awful polyester pants. Was it possible they were
his
? No, they could-n't be. In real life, he seemed to dress okay: tennis shirts and jeans. Chinos and pullover sweaters. She closed her eyes, trying to recall the sight of him in a tux at Ty and Janna's wedding. She vaguely remembered thinking he looked sort of handsome, but then, all Ty's teammates had that day. The formal wear lent even the goofiest of them an air of dignity.

Annoyed to be thinking about Michael, she turned her thoughts to Reese, feeling an ache of anxiety in her chest. They were meeting at the Harvard Club. The Harvard Club! Talk about upscale and exclusive, not to mention
impressive.
She imagined herself on the phone with her mother a few weeks from now, boasting about her new smart, successful boyfriend. “He graduated from
Harvard Law
,” she heard herself saying, proudly. Apart from his not being Italian, there wasn't much with which her parents could find fault.

Still, Theresa found his pedigree unnerving. She was plagued by a vision of walking through the doors of the club, only to set off an alarm and an announcement sounding eerily like John F. Kennedy that blared, “Non-blue blood on premises. Non-blue blood on premises. Eject. Eject.”
Stop,
she scolded herself.
You're being ridiculous. Being a graduate of NYU ain't exactly peanuts.

Truly anxious now, she rose from the bed, and picking up the chinos, held them against her with one hand while plastering the turtleneck against her chest with the other, examining her image in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. Too casual? Glancing back over her shoulder, she looked at the shoes she'd picked out to go with the outfit. The suede jacket, too. The outfit was laid back but confident. It said:
I like myself and I hope you do, too.
Or, perhaps it said:
I don't think enough of you to get dressed up.

Groaning, Theresa threw the pants and shirt back on the bed and went to inspect her makeup for the third time. It looked fine. Grinning like a hyena, she checked her teeth for rogue seeds or flecks of spinach. Her teeth were fine. She was fine. All she had to do was stop her brain, put on her damn clothes and get out the door.

She hustled back to the bed and forced herself to make a decision. “Sorry,” she told her chinos and turtleneck, returning them to the closet. She was going with the outfit that would make her feel the most confident. That meant the skirt and sweater.

Once dressed, she did a final inspection of herself from head to toe. She had to admit, she looked pretty darn good. Her hair seemed extra full and curly, her complexion rosy-hued and healthy from a nice, long run in Central Park earlier in the day. Her mother always complained that her glasses obscured her beautiful eyes, but Theresa didn't agree. If anything, the sophisticated, super chunky frames drew more attention to them. So what if she didn't really need them? They made her feel safe. That's what mattered.

As for perfume, she decided to forego scent until she knew Reese better.

If
she got to know him better.

With that simple prayer on her lips, she went to the Harvard Club.

 

 

She found him
standing beneath the club's crimson awning waiting for her. His face broke into a slow, pleased smile as he watched her approach.

“You didn't have to wait out here for me,” she said, not failing to notice the quick, appreciative sweep his eyes did of her body.

“I wanted the pleasure of escorting you inside,” Reese murmured, offering her his arm. “Some people find this place intimidating the first time they come, especially if they're not grads. I didn't want you to be scared off.”

Grateful, Theresa took his arm and allowed him to guide her inside to the main bar, with its memorabilia-packed crimson walls and gorgeous, horseshoe-shaped mahogany bar. So far, so good. Her presence hadn't triggered the JFK blue blood alarm. Even better, no one at the surrounding tables was looking at her as if she didn't belong. Theresa heaved a huge, inward sigh of relief.

“Martini?” Reese asked as he pulled her chair out for her at a small, square table.

“That would be great.”

Her gaze followed him as he walked to the bar to order for them, his gait relaxed but confident. How was it that he had anticipated her trepidation in crossing the threshold of this bastion of wealth and privilege? Was she that transparent? Or was he one of those rare, sensitive men acutely attuned to the feelings of others? Theresa suspected the latter.

Reese returned to the table with two tall martini glasses and a very mischievous smile.

“What?” Theresa prompted.

“I bought you a present.”

“Reese!” Theresa exclaimed, embarrassed. “You didn't have to do that.”

“I wanted to. Besides, I think you'll get a kick out of it.”

He reached down into the leather satchel at his feet and pulled out a book, handing it to her. It was Vincent Canby's
The New York Times Guide to the 1,000 Best Movies Ever Made.

“I believe
The Bridge Over the River Kwai
is in there,” Reese teased.

“Is that so?” Theresa flirted back, thumbing slowly through the pages. “I guess I'll just have to rent it and see for myself what all the fuss is about.”

For two hours they talked, conversation flowing effortlessly from one topic to the next with no awkward pauses, no long, stubborn silences, no well-placed coughs of discomfort. At first she thought the ease might be alcohol induced, but then she realized they were only on their second martini.

No, the chemistry had nothing to do with booze.

They were twin souls, artists, believers in love and beauty and truth. They were Hammett and Hellman, Stei glitz and O'Keefe. Spurred on by his unwavering interest in all she had to say, Theresa felt herself dizzyingly brilliant. She was witty and wise, a veritable Oscar Wilde with bon mots falling from her lips like gems. She was Dorothy Parker, Joyce Carol Oates and Susan Sontag all rolled into one.

“I can't believe how easy you are to talk to,” Reese eventually marveled.

The wonder in his words had Theresa purring inwardly like a contented cat.

Buoyed by his compliment, she returned one of her own. “You're very easy to talk to, too.” She paused, her fingers running up and down the stem of her martini glass. “This might sound crazy, but I feel as if I've known you for years.”

“I know,” Reese agreed, looking relieved. His hand moved out from beneath the table to cover hers. Theresa's immediate impulse was to pull her hand away, but she fought it. If she wanted a relationship, she had to learn to trust again. That meant being able to give affection as well as receive it. She kept her hand still.

“I've never told a woman so much about myself so early. I hope I haven't put you off. Or bored you.”

“Are you kidding?”

Reese appeared to be a lot of things—son of privilege, disgruntled neophyte lawyer, compromised artist—but boring wasn't one of them. Theresa had been held rapt by his stories of growing up the youngest of three sons in Upper Brookville on Long Island. She loved hearing about Harvard, and the atmosphere at the club certainly helped. It seemed only natural he would open up to her about his slow, painful journey from dreaming of being a photographer to succumbing to rationality and family pressure and going to law school.

“If you really hate practicing law, you can always do something else,” she suggested.