Fair Play (30 page)

“No, in December,” Michael answered.

Theresa looked like she wanted to kill him but he didn't care. She'd already stomped on his heart and now, sitting here with this snooty, tight ass
gavone,
she was kicking him in the teeth to boot. What was the worst she could do? Cut him out of her life? Surprise: She already had.

Reese, meanwhile, seemed taken aback by Michael's statement. He studied Michael as if he were a bacterial specimen under a microscope. “You don't seem Theresa's type,” he pronounced slowly.

“Neither do you,” Michael shot back.

“Stop!” Theresa hissed.

“Coffee, Mikey?” Mrs. Falconetti trilled.

“Mikey?” Reese echoed disdainfully.

Phil jutted his chin out defiantly. “Yeah, Mikey, as in Mikey D, one of the best wingers in the NHL.”

Theresa put her head in her hands. “Enough.”

“It's all right,” Reese assured her, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulder.

The sight of it made Michael want to puke. He felt as if someone had cranked the thermostat in the room and he was smothering, a molten band of tension and pain tightening around his head. Phil was right: This guy was a major
cafone.
He was obviously upper class, and arrogant, and he was with Theresa.

That was the part he couldn't get over.

Michael hated him.

She'd dropped him like a hot potato for
this?
If his ego wasn't already in the sewer, it was headed down the toilet now. What the hell was wrong with her? Couldn't she see what a
poseur
this guy was? At least she wasn't hanging on his arm and cooing in his ear. There was comfort in that—that, and the fact her mother had obviously dragged him in here on purpose with the intention of getting under this guy's skin. He could see Mrs. F and Phil disliked Fleece or Meese or whatever the hell his name was as much as he did. Which begged the question: What the hell had gotten into Theresa, that she would hook up with a
sfacciato
like this?

Well. It wasn't his place to ask her. Nor was it his place to be here, either. Michael rose from the table.

“Look,” he said to Theresa's mother apologetically, “I shouldn't have just dropped by. I'm sorry for disrupting your dinner. I'm gonna take off, okay?”

“I think that would be a good idea,” Reese said.

Mrs. Falconetti drew herself up imperiously. “Excuse me. This is
my
house.”

Reese looked mortified. “I—”

But Mrs. Falconetti wasn't listening. She was beside Michael's chair, her hand on his shoulder. “Stay,” she implored. “At least have a piece of cake.”

Michael's eyes darted to Theresa's.
Go,
they begged.
Please.

“I think I should go,” Michael said quietly. He gave Theresa's mother a peck on the cheek. “Give my regards to Mr. F. Either Anthony or I will stop by during the week with a nice plate of ziti and gravy for him, okay?”

Mrs. Falconetti nodded, crestfallen.

Though it killed him to do so, Michael regarded Reese. “Nice meeting you,” he said. Reese said nothing.

“Good-bye,” Theresa said politely, looking grateful.

Michael gave a quick nod in response.

With Theresa's brother in tow, Michael walked through to the living room to pick up his coat.

“Jesus Christ, Mikey, I'm sorry,” Phil was blubbering. “I tried to tell you at the door—”

Michael clasped his shoulder. “I know. Don't sweat it.”

He was halfway into his jacket when Theresa appeared.

“You should have called,” she said, walking him to the door while Phil skulked away, clearly afraid of the fire-works.

“Yeah,” Michael said ruefully. “Sorry about that.” He zipped up his coat. “So this
boyfriend
of yours—I guess being linked in the gossip columns with him might
help
business?”

Theresa was silent. He pushed open the front door. “Take care of yourself, Theresa.”

“I'll call you before the grand reopening to review strategy,” she said.

“Whatever,” Michael replied, walking down the steps. He heard the door close softly behind him and then he was alone, on the sidewalk, walking back up the same street he'd hurried along fifteen minutes earlier.

Sometimes that was all the time it took for your life to go under.

“Sounds like it was a total disaster, Theresa.”

Janna had been listening patiently about the previous day in Brooklyn. They were in her office, going over their schedules for the week. After Michael left, things went from bad to worse. Prior to his arrival, her family didn't want to give Reese a chance because he was fifteen minutes late and he wasn't Italian.

After, they froze him out because he wasn't Michael Dante.

Her mother blamed Reese for Michael's departure and sulked theatrically, conveniently forgetting that Michael had shown up without an invitation. Phil rabidly seized onto Reese's lack of interest in sports with the intensity of a terrier and tried to start an argument with him. By the time she and Reese left, Theresa was furious as well as mortified. Her family knew how important Reese was to her. Couldn't they have at least
tried
to be gracious?

She considered Janna's statement carefully before responding. “I wouldn't say it was a total disaster.”

“No?” Janna looked surprised as she sorted the mound of papers on her desk into neat piles. “What was good about it?”

“Well.” Theresa paused thoughtfully. “The family did get to meet Reese—”

“And they hated him.”

“They didn't
hate
him,” Theresa insisted, irritated by Janna's penchant for hyperbole. “They just didn't warm up to him.”

“Theresa.” Janna's voice was chiding. “It sounds like they hated him.”

“They didn't give him a chance,” Theresa continued, refusing to cast the day in such black-and-white terms. “Especially after Michael appeared.”

“Poor Michael,” Janna murmured sympathetically.

“What do you mean, poor Michael?” Theresa retorted. “How about poor me? Do you have any idea how awkward it was when he showed up?”

Janna appeared cautious. “It doesn't sound like Reese was very nice to him.”

“Michael wasn't very nice to Reese, either.”

“Can you blame him?”

Janna was her best friend, but sometimes . . .
How could she defend Michael's being rude to Reese, but not Reese's right to be rude in return?
Rather than risk a discussion she didn't want to have, Theresa steered the conversation toward business.

“Let's talk about Notorious Devil D.”

“Let's,” Janna agreed, with relief. “What do you want to do?”

“Well, what are the pros and cons? Pros: He's a major artist; it would up our profile considerably; it would bring in the bucks.”

Janna nodded in agreement, adding, “Cons: He's a misogynist pig whose lyrics are morally reprehensible.”

Theresa leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin cupped in the palm of her left hand. “Do we have the right to be in an ethical dilemma about this?” she wondered aloud.

Janna looked at Theresa with interest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we're publicists, Janna. People pay us money and we peddle them to the public. D's willing to pay us
a lot
to peddle.”

“But do we want to peddle someone who appears to condone violence? Whose lyrics seem to say it's okay to hit women and call them names? Do we want to be associated with that?”

“No,” Theresa said without hesitation, “we do not.”

“So that settles it, then. We're not going to take the account.”

They both fell silent for a moment. Then Janna asked, “Right?”

Theresa started. “What do you mean,
right?”

“Right we don't want to take on this account even though it would be mega. Right?”

“Right,” Theresa reiterated. She bit her lip. “I mean, I guess,” she added lamely.

Janna let out a groan of frustration. “What do you mean, you guess?”

“You know me Janna, I could write up a campaign to make this guy sound like a boy scout if I wanted to. But I'm not sure I do.”

“You know what we need to do? We need to listen to our guts. My father always said the only time you ever go wrong in life is when you don't listen to your gut. So let's try to do that.”

Once again silence descended. Theresa even went so far as closing her eyes, the better to still the swirl of voices in her head clamoring for attention. She breathed deeply, waiting for them to die down. Finally, a clear voice emerged.

“Let me guess. You're both communicating with your spirit guides.”

Theresa opened her eyes. It was Terrence.

“Have you forgotten how to knock?” Janna asked.

“Begging your pardon, Miz Scarlett, but the door was
open.
” He held up a sheaf of papers, waving it at Theresa. “I pulled together all those names and addresses you wanted for the invites to the Dante's opening. Any other unpaid work you want me to do?”

Janna and Theresa exchanged guilty glances. “No, that's fine. You can leave the list on my desk.”

Terrence bowed deeply and disappeared.

“We need to give him a raise,” Theresa suggested tentatively, as soon as she was sure he was out of earshot.

“Using what?” Janna replied. “Monopoly money?” Worry clouded her eyes. “I know you're right. I just can't think about it right now.”

“I know.”

“So,” Janna resumed hopefully, “did you get any message from your gut?”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And—?” Theresa had a feeling she knew what Janna would say, but she was on tenterhooks waiting to hear it anyway.

“I think we should pass.”

“I agree.”

“You do?” Janna looked taken aback. “I thought for sure you were going to say the opposite.”

“Why, because a few minutes ago I played devil's advocate?” Theresa turned solemn. “No. When we started this company, we decided our motto would be ‘Integrity and Ingenuity,' remember? Taking on Notorious Devil D flies in the face of integrity if you ask me.”

Janna's shoulders sank in relief. “So do you want to call his manager or should I?”

“I'll call him, since I'm the one they met with. I'll tell him we've decided there's a conflict with an existing client and we can't take him on.” She sighed. “I think we're making the right decision, Jan. I know it means we have to hustle even more, but I don't think I could live with myself if we took him on.”

“Me, too. We'll be fine,” Janna declared confidently.

There was no guarantee of that, Theresa realized. But they couldn't afford to think otherwise.

 

 

Aweek later, Theresa stood in her kitchen doing something which months earlier would have been unfathomable: She was cooking for a man. Tired of always eating out, she'd invited Reese over for dinner.

Issuing the invitation was easy; preparing for the actual evening was not.

She and Dr. Gardner had spent an entire session on why she was so overwrought about the prospect of cooking a simple meal, what she was afraid would go wrong, and what concrete steps she could take if something did go awry. Theresa left the therapist's office convinced she had everything under control, an illusion which evaporated the minute she got home and actually started to prepare the meal.

“After the stew has been cooking for an hour or so,” she read aloud from the cookbook Janna had lent her, propped up on the counter by the stove, “add the onions. Continue cooking the stew, leaving it uncovered.”

“Hmmm. I can handle that.” She reached for the small white bowl of onions she'd already chopped and tipped them into the stew pot, giving the mixture a good stir. The aroma that wafted up to tickle her nostrils was hearty, making her stomach growl. She checked that the flame was on low, then glanced up at the clock. Reese was due in about half an hour, meaning she really had at least forty-five minutes. She still had time for a shower.

The shower felt good, the perfect way to unwind from a day spent steeped in domestic pursuits: shopping for food, cleaning the apartment, cooking. Janna had offered to cook something that could be popped in the oven shortly before Reese arrived—a casserole, maybe, or a quiche—but Theresa decided she wanted to make a meal for him from scratch. Going through Janna's cookbook collection, which she'd never once explored in all the years they'd lived together, she settled on a beef stew, with a sweet potato puree on the side and brownies for dessert. The brownies were already baked, and the puree, which had been a royal pain in the ass to make, sat within the microwave waiting to be warmed.

Everything
was
under control.

She was hustling from the bathroom to the bedroom when the shrill, unexpected ring of the phone stopped her dead in her tracks.
No. Please don't be canceling.
Holding her towel with one hand, she picked up the phone with the other.

“Hello?”

“Theresa? It's Michael.”

Theresa closed her eyes, hanging her head in defeat. The universe
would
arrange to have Michael Dante call her while she was running around trying to get ready to entertain another man. It was too awful.

“What's up?” she asked.

“I ran into Danny Aiello last night at a fund-raiser, and he said he'd be willing to come to the reopening.”