Fair Play (17 page)

Theresa blinked in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Coffee. C'mon, Theresa. You just let me kiss you, you let me drive you home . . . are you telling me you're
still
not going to let me buy you
coffee
?”

“This
was
coffee, Michael. This whole evening—
clearly
—was in lieu of coffee. Get it?”

“Ah ha!” Michael exclaimed. “So you
did
ask Ty and Janna to invite me!”

“What color is the sky in your world, Dante? Because clearly, you are living on a completely different planet. On
my
planet, tonight counted as our coffee date!”

“Oh, no. No way.” He was shaking his head obstinately. “The rule book states you can't substitute a party for a one-on-one situation.”

“Well, obviously you don't have the most up-to-date version. My edition says substitutions are fine.”

She could see the hard set of his jaw in the dim yellow lamplight flooding the car.

“You're not playing fair, Theresa.”

“I'm not playing
at all,
Michael. The sooner you get that through your head, the better.”
The nerve! I let him kiss me and he still has the
cogliones
to assume he's going to get a coffee date as well? Relentless little—

“It's getting late,” Michael snapped, stepping on the gas to make the engine roar.

“Fine,” Theresa snapped back. She couldn't wait to get out of the car and be free of this—
baccala.
What the hell had she been thinking?!

Mother of God,
she
was the
baccala.

Meanwhile, Michael was staring straight ahead, unwilling to look at her. “So I guess the next time we see each other will be to go over stuff for Dante's?” he said through clenched teeth.

“I guess.” Theresa opened the car door and stepped out onto the curb. “Have fun at church tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, right.”

She went to close the door, but at the last second Michael leaned over, holding it open. “I'm not giving up on you, Theresa,” he declared.

Ignoring him, she pushed his arm away, slamming the car door shut.

She meant to tell him to drive safely, but it was too late: He had already peeled away from the curb.

It was so
hot in St. Finbar's, and the drone of the priest was so boring, Michael feared he'd pass out and smash his forehead on the pew in front of him.

He'd conveyed Nonna Maria to church by seven-thirty, as directed, but she wasn't the only one there early to stake her claim. Michael counted at least twenty nearly identical old women filing into the church at the same time, all legging it as fast as they could up the center aisle to grab “their” spots. He wondered what would happen if one of them found someone else sitting in their personal seat. Would they all band together and force the interloper to move? The image of a band of rosary bead-wielding grannies menacing a poor, unsuspecting worshipper amused him.

Hell, he needed
something
to laugh about, didn't he?

Arriving home the night before, the first thing he'd done was throw Gemma's moonstone out the window. Next, he tossed the candles in the trash. Even now, the temptation to scowl at the figure on the cross and mutter “Thanks for nothing” was strong. He resisted, fearing outright sacrilege.

One minute Theresa was letting him kiss her, the next she was telling him their relationship was strictly business. It didn't make sense.
She
didn't make sense. He'd locked lips with a few women in his time, and he could tell when someone was into it. Theresa was definitely into it. Aware of her past, he'd deliberately held back, not wanting to push her. He didn't want to do or say anything to make her feel pressured or trapped. He sensed she appreciated it, though—

Ouch, Madonn'.
“Jesus, Nonna!” A sharp poke in the ribs knocked him out of his daydream. Everyone else in the church was on their knees.

“Sorry,” he whispered to his grandmother, whose disapproval he couldn't bear.

He knelt down beside her, knowing his knees would regret it later. He was relieved when Nonna closed her eyes and seemed to lose herself in prayer.

Maybe he
had
pushed.

Maybe asking her out for coffee right after the kiss was too much for her to handle. He knew pushiness was a problem of his. Something would stick in his mind and like a dog with a bone, he couldn't let it go. Dogged determination was the reason he'd made it into the NHL. The reason he was still on the third line and that effing—
Sorry, Jesus
—moron van Dorn remained out of the lineup. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he knew how to back off.

But if he wanted to get Theresa, he might have to learn.

A sharp pinch to his arm let him know it was time to sit back in the pew again. Grimacing, he slid back, his knees throbbing with pain. Talk about penance. People were rising from their seats and walking towards the front of the church to receive communion. His grandmother eyed him expectantly but he shook his head no. He knew it disappointed her, but in this case, it was too bad. It did-n't feel right, especially since he'd been sitting here feeling angry with God.

He watched the parade of parishioners slowly make their way towards the brass altar railing, where they waited patiently for the priest to feed them their wafer and wine. He
had
pushed, he decided. He'd ruined a perfectly romantic moment by nudging that one extra inch.
Gavone,
he chided himself.
When are you going to learn?
But he'd meant what he'd said about not giving up on her. The tarot cards had explicitly said—
okay, maybe not explicitly
—that she might be The One. It was going to take a lot of time, patience and energy, and there would be lots of obstacles to overcome. Maybe this was just one of the minor setbacks predicted in the cards; the universe telling him “Cool your jets, buddy boy, take it slow.”

“Psst, yo Mikey.”

The stage whisper made him turn. There was Theresa's brother Phil and his two oldest kids shuffling up the aisle. Not wanting to disturb other parishioners, some of whom were obviously deep in contemplation, Michael just winked. “Meet me outside after,” Phil continued, his daughter rolling her eyes at her father's irreverence during a solemn moment. Michael nodded yes, waving to little Vicki, who happily waved back. He waited for his grandmother to return to her seat.

The rest of the service passed in an interminable blur.

 

 

“Phil, Little Phil
, Vicki, I want you to meet my grandmother, Maria Grimaldi.”

After a pointed barb from Father Clementine about how happy he was to see “this young man” back in church, Michael was finally able to escort Nonna outside, where Phil and his kids were waiting. Phil politely shook Nonna's hand while the two kids stood there, smiling nervously and backing away slightly, unsure what to do.

“We go to Gavina's,” Nonna said impatiently.

“I know,” Michael soothed. “It'll just be a minute.”

As if she didn't hear him, Nonna started toddling away, up Benson Street to where the car was parked.

“What's up?” he asked Phil hurriedly, keeping an eye on his grandmother.

“What are you doing two Sundays from now?”

Michael ran through the team's schedule in his head. “We're home. We've got an early afternoon game against Toronto. Why?”

“Why don't you stop by after the game for coffee and dessert? Debbie and I are giving Mom and Dad a break. Theresa's going to be there.”

Michael hesitated. “I don't think Theresa would be too happy to see me there. She didn't react too well last time.”

“Don't let her scare you. She's all bark and no bite. Whaddaya say?”

It didn't take long for Michael to make his decision. “Sure, why not? I'll call when it gets closer so you can tell me what I should bring.”

Phil clapped a hand on his back. “Good man.”

“I gotta run, Phil, my grandmother is trying to get into someone else's car.”

Waving his good-bye, Michael jogged off in the direction of Nonna, shouting for her to wait. Maybe accepting the invite was a mistake. Maybe it was pushy.

Or maybe Phil's being in church today was divinely ordained.

Pointing Nonna in the direction of his own car, Gemma's admonition to “have faith” seemed to resonate. He felt lighter, more confident; all previous traces of soul wrestling vanished into the frosty morning air. Once he'd dropped Nonna off at his aunt's, he would swing back to his place and check the gutter to see if maybe the moonstone had rolled into it.

Then he'd fish those candles out of the garbage.

 

 

Monday morning. Theresa
had contemplated calling in sick to avoid Janna's third degree. But she couldn't. They had too much work. Plus, it was simply postponing the inevitable.

The sooner she spilled, the sooner she could forget the whole evening.

Forgetting was high on Theresa's “To Do” list.

She'd spent most of Sunday working at home, putting the final touches on a press kit for an actress on
Jailbirds,
a new network comedy taking place inside a women's prison. The show might not last, but if Theresa did her job right, interest in her new client would. Revising the press release, she'd picked up the phone to call Reese a half dozen times, always deciding at the last second not to go through with it. Conversely, every time her phone rang, she tried not picking it up on the first ring to keep from seeming desperate.

Unfortunately, all that did was give her three-second respites from talking to her mother, her brother, and four different solicitors.

So much for self-restraint.

Arriving at work, she was surprised to find Terrence absent. The world's nosiest man was usually there before both she and Janna, tidying his desk and sharpening his barbs. Meandering down the hall, she could hear Janna's fingers flying furiously across the computer keyboard. Her door was open, so Theresa walked right in. Janna's fingers went silent as Theresa plopped down in the nearest chair.

“All right,” said Theresa. “What do you want to know first?”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yeesss,” Theresa replied slowly. She was surprised; she thought Janna's first question would be “Have you heard from Reese since Saturday?”

“So, have you heard from Reese since Saturday?” Ah. It was the second question. Janna wasn't slipping.

“No.”

Janna tapped a pen on the edge of her desk.

“Refresh my memory. What was wrong with him again? A bad case of bullshititis?”

“Not funny.”

“C'mon, Terry, lighten up.”

“People do suddenly get sick, you know.”
Though I didn't believe him either.

“I know,” Janna allowed. She stopped tapping and put her elbows on the desk, cupping her chin in her left hand. “You and Michael seemed to be having a pretty good time together.”

Theresa remained silent.

“Even Ty noticed it,” Janna continued, with a sly smile. “He thought you and Michael looked cute together.”

“So did Spanky and Alfalfa. That didn't mean they were a love match.”

“Why are you so touchy about this?”

“You
know
why.” A great jet of frustration was hissing up inside her. “Why does everyone treat me like an idiot who doesn't know her own heart and mind?”

Janna looked baffled. “What do you mean?”

“You, my mother, Michael—you all think he's The One for me and I'm too stupid to see it!” Hot, angry tears threatened. “I'm sorry,” she choked, trying not to cry. “I'm just tired of everyone thinking they know what's best for me.”
I'm tired of thinking I've found a nice man only to have him turn around and kick me in the teeth.

Janna slid out from behind her desk and, crouching beside Theresa's chair, wrapped a loving arm around her shoulder. “This is about Reese Banister, isn't it?”

“No!” Theresa yelped. “I—okay, I was disappointed he didn't come with me, all right? I really wanted you to meet the
real
him.”

“When did the
real him
call you to cancel?” Janna asked pointedly.

“Does it matter?” Theresa sniffled.

“Ladies?”

Theresa and Janna both turned to see Terrence standing in the doorway, holding aloft a gorgeous spray of flowers and a huge, gold box of Godiva chocolates.

“These arrived seconds ago for a certain Ms. Falconetti.” He rattled the chocolate box. “Come and get it, girl.”

Theresa flew from the chair and fetched the flowers and candy from Terrence. She opened the tiny white envelope pinned to the flower arrangement, all frustration and doubt fading away as she read aloud: “
Theresa. Sorry about Saturday night. Will call soon and we'll have dinner. Reese.”

“Well,” Terrence purred. “What's all
this
about?”

“Thanks,” Theresa said, ignoring his curiosity. “You can go now.”

“Would you like me to put those in water for you?” he asked politely.

“Oh.”
Flowers. Water. Right.
“Sure.” She handed them back to him.

“That'll be one Godiva chocolate, please.”

Theresa grinned. “Later. If you behave.”

“Define
behave,
” Terrence replied brazenly.