Fair Play (10 page)

But he wasn't dressed casually in jeans and a tennis shirt.

This time he was wearing tight black polyester pants and a sleeveless white undershirt known in some circles as a “wife beater.” Around his neck was a giant, gold Italian horn. On his left hand, an ostentatious pinky ring. On his right wrist, a braided gold bracelet thick as a dog collar. His hair was slicked back and a toothpick dangled suggestively from his lips.

“Hey, babe,” he crooned as she approached the table. “What took ya so long?”

Theresa bit her lip, but it was no use; she burst out laughing. “What on earth—?”

“Wha? I'm an
Italian
guy, right? So I figured I'd bedda start lookin' and actin' da part.” He slouched down his chair, opening his legs wide. “Lookin' good today, sweet-cakes. My wife's working late. Wanna go out dancin'?”

“Stop it,” Theresa begged.

“Stop what?”

“Fine.” Theresa slid into the seat opposite him. “I was wrong. Now cut the wiseguy act. You're giving me the creeps.”

“Okay, baby. Anyting for you.” Michael straightened up in his chair, removing the toothpick from his mouth. “Better?”

“A bit.” Theresa found herself smiling. “You need your head examined,” she told him.

Michael grinned. “It got a reaction out of you, didn't it?”

“I suppose,” Theresa admitted begrudgingly.

Michael noticed her eyes do a circuit of his body, pausing to admire his bare biceps. He held up his right arm, making a fist and flexing his arm. “You wanna cop a feel, baby? Be my guest.”

Giggling, Theresa reached out to briefly touch the rock-hard muscle.

“Nice and hard, huh?” Michael asked.

“Oooh, very hard,” Theresa snorted, playing along.

“Just the way the ladies like it,” Michael confided. “Wanna touch the other one?”

Theresa started to speak, then stopped, heat rising to her cheeks.
Stop,
a voice in her head warned.
Stop now. This is exactly the kind of behavior that got you in trouble in the first place. Stop flirting. Stick to business.
“Let's discuss the restaurant instead, shall we?” she returned lightly. But even as she said it, she was having a hard time keeping her eyes off his body. And that bracelet! “Where did you get that jewelry?”

“The horn is Anthony's. The ring and the bracelet belong to my cousin Paul.”

“Or Paul
ie
,” Theresa replied quickly, “as he's probably known.”

Frowning with disappointment, Michael slouched again and shoved the toothpick back between his lips. “You're doin' it again, angel.”

“Sorry,” Theresa muttered grouchily, relieved when he grabbed a flannel shirt off the back of his chair and covered up the well-sculpted arms and shoulders she'd never noticed before today.

Divested of his toothpick, he smiled playfully. “So, now that you know what an innovative, witty, and non stereotypical Italian male I am, will you have coffee with me?”

“Let's talk business first, all right?” Theresa craned her neck past him to peer at the kitchen doors. “Will your brother be joining us?”

“No, Lurch is hiding in the kitchen waiting for you to leave. Later, I'll tell him what we discussed, and he'll curse me for tampering with the purity of our parents' vision.”

“Sounds like you two have a great relationship.”

“We do. In between the name calling and occasional fist fights.” Michael gazed at the walls of the restaurant. “Let me guess: The first thing you want us to do is build a big bonfire, and torch the pictures of Frank, the Pope and the gondoliers.”

“Nope,” Theresa replied cheerfully. “I want you to keep the decor.”

“You do?” Michael pushed back in his chair, surprised.

“Yup. It's homey, which is how we're going to spin the restaurant: as an unpretentious family place where customers can get good, traditional Italian food at decent prices.”

Michael peered at her dubiously. “Are you yanking my chain?”

“No.” Theresa laughed, smiling. “Look, there's a trend right now toward comfort food. People want stuff they remember from childhood, or from their imagined childhood: meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, spaghetti and meatballs, you name it. You guys are going to become
the
name in Italian comfort food.”

“So we don't have to change the menu?”

“Not exactly.”

Michael looked confused. “How are we going to pull in new customers if we don't have a new look or a new menu?”

Theresa beamed. “Specials.”

“Specials,” Michael repeated blankly.

“You're going to have something special two or three times a month, tied to the calendar. The first Friday night of every month could be family night; kids eat free and adults have unlimited salad and breadsticks. In December you could offer a big, traditional Italian dinner on Christmas Eve. January? A Superbowl party. Romantic candlelight dinner on Valentine's Day. A Mother's Day special in May.” Theresa found herself getting excited. “We'll tie specials into the community. Next September, you could run a special connected to the Santa Rosalia festival. There will never be a holiday or local event for which Dante's isn't doing something special.”

“Starting when?”

“Now.” She checked Michael's expression, hoping to see the enthusiasm she was feeling reflected back at her. Instead, he looked like he was suffering from a bad case of indigestion. “What's wrong?”

“When you say specials . . . will Anthony have to make special dishes?”

“Sometimes, like for Christmas Eve and Valentine's Day. In the summer, you guys could make up special picnic baskets to go with biscotti, cured olives, some panini.”

Michael looked doubtful. “I don't know.”

“I do,” Theresa said confidently.

“This will bring in the real foodies?”

“In time. I'm going to start by sending out a press kit to every magazine and newspaper writer under the sun who has anything to do with food. I've already compiled a list of about three hundred.”

“Three
hundred
?”

“And that doesn't even include radio and TV personalities who we want to try to get in here to review the restaurant. I'm telling you: One thumbs-up from Joan Hamburg at WOR and you'll have a line out the door, guaranteed. When's the construction being done for the expansion?”

“March, I think. We're open in April.”

“Hmmm.” Theresa nibbled the tip of her pen. “That means we might miss the chance to do Easter dinner here, depending on when it falls. We'll have to check the calendar.”

She stopped talking, giving him time to let it sink in. Michael remained silent.

“You look shell-shocked.” She laughed.

“Don't get me wrong,” Michael answered carefully. “Everything you're laying out sounds great. It's just Anthony. He's going to blow a gasket. I can hear it already: ‘Mom and Pop never ran monthly specials, yada yada yada.' ”

“You said you could handle your brother.”

“Oh, I can. I was just hoping I wouldn't have to resort to firearms.”

They both laughed, and for a split second, it struck Theresa how ruggedly handsome he was. But as quickly as the thought came, she made it disappear. She had blonder fish to fry.

Theresa hesitated. “There is one more thing.”

Michael waited.

“You need to update your wait staff.”

Michael stared at her.

“You need to get some younger waiters and waitresses to reflect the diversity of customers you'll be pulling in.”

“Theresa, all the guys who work here worked for my dad, they—”

“I know that, Michael. They're all old men.”

“Why can't that be part of the restaurant's old-world charm?” Michael challenged. “If you want me to convince Anthony to put together picnic baskets and prepare baccala on Christmas Eve and Christ knows what else, we have to leave the wait staff alone.”

“We'll talk about it another time,” Theresa placated. She glanced down at the notes she'd typed up. That seemed to cover everything for now. “Any questions?”

“Is there anything
I
can do?”

“Actually, there is. Since you're the man about town, you need to start talking up the restaurant every chance you get. And if you know any Italian celebrities who might be willing to come to the reopening, that would be great as well.”

“I'll see what I can do.” Michael ran his hand through his hair, grimacing when it came away greasy, which made Theresa grin. “Did you enjoy the pastries I sent you last week?” he asked casually.

Theresa decided to tease him, just a little. “Those were from you?”

“Did you like them?”

She couldn't lie. “Yes.”

“Good.” Nervously, almost distractedly, Michael began playing with the toothpick lying on the table in front of him. “When would you like to go for coffee?”

Groaning, Theresa cradled her head in her hands. “Michael.”

“It's not a difficult question, Theresa. All you have to do is say yes.”

“Let me think about it, okay?”

“What's to think about?”

Theresa bristled with annoyance. “Don't push, Michael. I don't like it.”

“Fine, I won't push. But I don't see what the big deal is.”

“Theresa?”

She forced a smile. “Sorry. I was zoning out.”

The disappointment shadowing Michael's face almost made her feel sorry enough to have coffee with him. Almost. But he was pushy. If she agreed to coffee, the next thing you know he'd be on her about dinner, and then . . . she shuddered.

“I have to go,” she said abruptly, gathering up her things. “I'll be in touch again soon. In the meantime, if you need any help with Anthony, let me know.”

“Sure, no problem,” Michael said glumly.

Theresa hurried out the door and back into the brisk air, where she could clear her head and concentrate on more important things.

Like what she was going to wear when she met Reese Banister.

 

 

“Mikey! What a surprise!”

Michael smiled as his cousin Gemma drew him into an embrace, crushing him against her as the overwhelming scent of her patchouli perfume, strong and musky, tickled his nostrils. Gemma ran the Golden Bough, a New Age shop in the Village. He'd come to see her because he was desperate for female advice.

Gemma was the black sheep of the family. Not only was she thirty-one and happily single, but she'd committed the cardinal sin of moving into the big, bad city, far from Brooklyn and all that was pure in this world, or so his family thought. Worst of all, she was a
stregh
—a witch. She'd explained it to him once, all about paganism and white magick and Wicca. Michael had teased her about worshipping furniture, but his feeling was that if it made her happy, who was he to criticize?

The rest of the family took a less charitable view. Gemma was rarely invited to family events for fear their sainted grandmother Nonna Maria might find out she'd “gone over to the dark side” and promptly keel on the spot. Anthony now made the sign of the cross whenever he saw her. None of it seemed to phase Gemma, who had always been Michael's favorite cousin, even if she was a bit, well, spooky. When they were kids, Gemma was always freaking him out, accurately shouting out who was on the other end of the line when the phone rang, or predicting things before they happened. One time, Gemma airily announced to him, “You're gonna fall and go to the hospital.” Five minutes later, he tripped and fell down the steps at Nonna's and had to get five stitches to his chin. At the time, he was certain she'd somehow made him fall. Nowadays he was content to admit some things simply defied explanation and leave it at that. It wasn't an area he cared to delve into too deeply.

“Sit down,” Gemma urged, leading him to one of the tall stools behind the counter. A few customers were silently browsing the book section, which Michael noticed carried books on everything from astrology to Zoroastri anism. He didn't mind the books. It was all the other stuff, the tarot cards and the crystals and the incense and the candles, that gave him the willies. Maybe it was a case of “You can take the boy out of Catholicism, but you can't take the Catholicism out of the boy.” He wasn't sure. All he knew was that just being there made him feel slightly uncomfortable, like he was doing something vaguely sinful. It was ridiculous, but he couldn't help what he felt. Or smelled. The cloying sweetness of incense wafting through the small store was so strong he knew that by the time he left he'd have a whopping headache.

He turned to his cousin, her forehead wrinkled as she concentrated hard on staring into his face, eyes narrowed.

“What?” he asked, alarmed.

She touched his wrist lightly. “You're in pain?” she asked with concern. “Someone's hurt you?”

“In a way,” Michael admitted. “There's this girl—I mean woman . . .”

He proceeded to tell her all about Theresa, pausing only when one of the customers came to the counter to pay for a book on Santeria. Michael jokingly asked if she'd read the sequels on the Nina and the Pinta, only to be punched in the shoulder by his cousin. The customer awarded him such a look of condescension that had he been a dog, he would have slunk away with his tail between his legs. When the shop was empty again, Gemma listened carefully as he finished his story, nodding thoughtfully.