Fair Play (27 page)

“What do you hope to achieve by returning to therapy, Theresa?”

Finally, an easy question. “I want to stop running. I want to stop feeling afraid. I want to be in control of my life.”

Dr. Gardner smiled.

“You've come to the right place,” she said.

 

 

Back at work,
the pain in Theresa's skull was so severe she was forced to lie down on the couch in Janna's darkened office while she waited for her to return from lunch. The therapy session had drained her more than she thought possible. She'd forgotten about that: how tired you were afterwards, as if spilling your guts were a strenuous activity. It had been months since she'd had a migraine this bad. Like an idiot, she had forgotten to bring her pills with her in her purse. The slightest movement of her head made her feel as if a spike were being jabbed into her eye, and the accompanying nausea didn't help. As soon as she filled Janna in on her accounts, she was going to crawl home and die.

A few minutes later, she heard the office door click open and Janna softly call her name.

“I'm on the couch,” Theresa moaned. The mere act of speaking had her wincing.

“Oh, Terry.” Janna's voice rang with sympathy as she sat down on the couch near Theresa's head. “Do you want a massage?” she offered. “Would that help?”

Theresa nodded, though it pained her to. She concentrated on relaxing as Janna slowly, deeply, began massaging her temples.

“You missed your calling,” Theresa said.

Janna chuckled appreciatively. “Ty says the same thing. He thinks if I ever decide to switch careers, I should become a massage therapist.”

“He's right.”

“What brought this on?” Janna asked, concerned.

“Therapy,” Theresa answered, her body loosening ever so slightly as Janna's fingers worked their magic. Initially, the small circular motions Janna employed seemed to make the pounding worse. But then the pain receded ever so slightly, granting Theresa some leeway to expand on her answer without fear of throwing up. “I'm seeing Dr. Gardner again.”

“Oh.” Janna sounded neither shocked nor surprised. “First session?”

Theresa nodded, regretting it immediately as daggers of pain sliced through her head.

“Those are always the worst,” said Janna.

“Tell me about it,” Theresa murmured.

“Is it because of what happened at Met Gar the other day?” Janna asked.

Theresa remembered something Janna had told her ages ago: Jocks were the worst gossips on earth. Word of her verbal altercation with Michael must have traveled around the locker room at lightning speed. By the time Ty got home from the game that night, he must have told Janna everything. “Yes. But that was three days ago, Janna,” Theresa pointed out quietly. “How come you didn't mention it until now? ”

Janna's answer was simple and direct. “I figured if you wanted to discuss it, you'd bring it up.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You know that if you ever need to talk to me about anything, I'm here, right?” she reminded Theresa.

“I do know that. And I appreciate it, believe me.”

“Good.”

She could feel Janna's own relief coming through the pads of her fingertips as they relaxed their pressure. The massage was working: The pain in Theresa's head was beginning to abate. Now if the nausea would only follow suit.

“Are you up to talking business?” Janna asked gently.

“I can try.”

“Then shoot.”

“First up, Notorious Devil D. When I'm feeling better, we should probably talk about whether we really want to take him on or not.”

“Okay,” Janna agreed.

“What's up with the Mets' Alomar?”

“I think he's about to join the FM PR family,” Janna said confidently.

“Great.”

“I know.” Her fingers carefully kneaded their way back and forth below Theresa's hairline. “Reese Banister called here twice for you this morning.”

Theresa almost sat up. “He did?”

“Yup. Didn't want to talk to me. Only wanted to talk to you.”

Theresa flushed with pleasure. “I guess I better call him.”

“I guess so.”

There was an edge to Janna's voice Theresa didn't care to dwell on. Pressing hard, Janna slowly ran both her thumbs the length of Theresa's jawline and back up again, stopping to massage the space right below her ears. “How's the Dante's account going? If it would make things easier, we could switch. I could take that account and you could take Piazza.”

“No, I'll be fine,” Theresa assured her. “I can handle seeing Michael.”

“No kidding, “ Janna said knowingly. “The question is: Can Michael handle seeing you?”

Five minutes. That's
all Michael was going to give Anthony before he hopped in his car, drove over to the house and dragged the giant
idiota
down to the restaurant by his ears. Yeah, it was early. Six A.M. on a Sunday morning was very early. But if Michael could be on time after playing a game
and
closing out the restaurant the night before, and Aunt Gavina could rouse herself to take Nonna to Mass as a favor to “you boys,” then there was no reason Anthony couldn't get his sorry ass down to Dante's, too.

Two weeks earlier Theresa had called him with some incredible news: the Food Network was doing a special called “Mangia: The Joy of Italian Cooking,” and she had convinced the producers to include Dante's. The plan was for Anthony to cook one of the restaurant's signature dishes on camera before he and Michael were interviewed about it and the restaurant. Hearing the enthusiasm in Theresa's voice had made him tense; not only because he missed her, but because he knew he'd have to convince Anthony to do it.

When Michael related the good news, Anthony yelled. He snarled. He threw pots and pans, imploring various dead relatives to help him avoid this personal hell. Michael waited for the theatrics to finish before pulling out his ace-in-the-hole. In the five months since they'd hired Theresa, bookings had nearly doubled. They'd had to add more tables for which they'd barely had room, since the renovation wasn't slated to start until the following month. They'd been written up in the
Daily News
and had received a positive on-air review from WOR's Joan Hamburg.

Sure, there had been a few rough spots.

Anthony still hadn't forgiven him for keeping the restaurant open on Christmas Eve to serve the traditional Italian fish feast, referring to it melodramatically as “Black Christmas,” even though it was a huge success. And the inclusion of two younger, hipper waiters hadn't gone down too well with the older wait staff.

But just as Michael had hoped, Dante's was beginning to earn a real reputation across the city. More importantly, they were turning an incredible profit. “You never complain about
that,
” Michael pointed out to his brother, who muttered incomprehensibly then stormed away. When he returned, he agreed to do the shoot on one condition: He would not cook in some “fancy, schmancy Manhattan studio.” He would only cook in the restaurant kitchen. Much to Michael's chagrin, the special's producers agreed.

Checking his watch yet again, Michael watched as the film crew carefully laid out the ingredients Anthony would be using on one of the long stainless steel tables in the kitchen. Anthony had decided to make osso buco in bianco, or tomatoless braised veal shanks. “Does it take long to cook?” the director asked. At least Michael assumed it was the director, since he seemed to be the guy telling everyone else what to do.

Michael shrugged. “I don't know.”

The director turned away in disgust.

Certain he was in the way, he went out to the dining room, surveying the sea of empty tables with their shining cutlery and perfectly starched white napkins. He didn't want to think about how much time he spent here now. This was his life: the restaurant and hockey.

He picked up a random glass off a table for four, checking it for spots. The Blades were past the midpoint of the season now, and all across the league, it was becoming clear which teams were locks for the post season and which teams were not. The Blades were not. The team needed to kick it up a notch if they wanted into the playoffs. That was why Kevin and Ty had come to him shortly after New Year's to tell him they were shifting him to the fourth line. “We need van Dorn's speed on the third line, Mikey,” Ty had explained, never one to candy-coat. “We need his scoring.” Being a professional, Michael understood. But it still hurt. The only thing that stopped him from choking on his own resentment was throwing himself into the restaurant.

The front door opened.
Finally,
thought Michael. But it wasn't Anthony, it was Theresa, the tip of her nose red with cold as she hurried towards him.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said.

Michael felt a small pang of longing knock against his ribs as he watched her unwind a silk scarf from around her neck and toss her jacket over a nearby chair. Though they'd had occasion to discuss business on the phone—always polite, always detached—they hadn't seen each other since that day in December when she'd lowered the boom on him. Seeing her now, all his frustration came flooding back.

Pulling a clipboard out of her briefcase, she motioned toward the kitchen. “The crew setting up?”

“Yup. There's just one problem.” Theresa froze. “Anthony's not here yet.”

“Have you called him?”

“Twice.”

Theresa's expression was grim. “Tell me this isn't happening.”

“He'll be here,” Michael assured her. Tentative, hands in the pockets of his pants, he approached her. “So, how have you been?”

Theresa looked up from where she was peering at the clipboard. “Fine,” she said quickly. “You?”

“Good, good.” He cleared his throat. “How's your dad?” he asked, even though he knew. He had become friendly with Theresa's brother Phil, and thus knew almost everything there was to know about the Falconettis.

“He's hanging in there,” Theresa replied politely, clearly not wanting to talk about it. “I'll tell him you asked about him.”

“Thanks.”

Silence descended, awkward and obvious, a pink elephant of discomfort stampeding into the room.

“I'm going to go in with the crew,” Theresa announced.

Michael nodded as she strode purposefully through the swinging doors of the kitchen, leaving him alone with his ache for her and what he'd been so convinced should have been, but was not. He remembered the shock of pleasure on her face when he'd taken off her blindfold, the child-like wonder in her eyes as she danced in his arms. All dust now, all past.

His dejection lifted somewhat when finally—
finally
—Anthony appeared, whistling jauntily in a way that made Michael's nerves twitch.

“Where the hell have you been?” Michael demanded. “The film crew's all set up in the kitchen and waiting for you!”

“Sorry,” Anthony replied, though it was obvious he wasn't. “I was at Angie's last night. I overslept.”

Michael's head thrust forward in disbelief. “Angie Cal abrese the cop?”

Anthony nodded, smiling slyly.

“You and she—”

“You got it,” he purred, adding a wink for good measure.

Michael stepped back, dumbfounded. His nightmare had come true: Anthony was now the one with a life; he, Mikey D, had squat.
Sweet Jesus on the cross.
The only thing left to do was off himself.

Stunned, he followed his brother into the kitchen, trying hard to ignore the tension level which rocketed from zero to fifty the minute Anthony saw the way the ingredients were laid out. He and Theresa exchanged worried glances. Michael was positive it would take the intervention of a platoon of saints for this shoot to come off. But surprisingly, Anthony quickly rose to the occasion. He even seemed to be enjoying himself.
Amazing what a good screw can do,
Michael thought bitterly.

By the time Anthony was done cooking and the crew was ready to begin filming the segment about the restaurant, Michael got the feeling that the last thing the former Phantom of the Double Boiler wanted to do was share the spotlight.

“I can handle the segment on my own, Mike.”

“No, that's okay,” Michael replied testily. He sat where the director told him to sit, at a small round table in the center of the restaurant with his brother. They were instructed to look casual and relaxed while Sonia, the skinny blonde host ing the show, plied them with questions.

“So, how long has Dante's been around?” she asked, doing the best imitation of someone genuinely interested Michael ever saw.