Fair Play (34 page)

“Since when do you smoke cigars?” Michael wanted to know. He knew Anthony had been smoking cigarettes since he was twelve, introduced to them, perversely, by Nonna Maria, a master of blowing smoke rings. But stogies?

“Angie turned me onto them,” Anthony revealed, puffing contentedly.

“Angie the cop smokes cigars?”

“A lot of women do nowadays,” Anthony replied knowingly. “It's very chic.”

“Pop would kill you if he saw you with a cigar,” Michael pointed out, hopping off the stool to slip behind the bar and fix himself a Dewar's on the rocks. “Remember? He always said that was what killed Grandpa Dante.”

Anthony made a disparaging face. “Old age killed Grandpa Dante, not cigars. He was, what? Ninety-six? C'mon.”

“Still.”

“Don't lecture me on health, Mikey, 'cause I'll cut your greasy heart out, I swear to God I will.”

“You've been threatening to do that for years.”

“Doesn't mean I won't make good on it one day.”

Michael laughed easily as he sat back down beside his brother. His first sip of Dewar's went down nice and smooth, coating his throat and stomach with soothing warmth. He'd have to watch it, though, drink it slow. He was already feeling punchy with weariness. If he drank too fast he'd wind up snoring with his head on the bar.

“So.” He peered down into his drink, ice cubes tinkling as he shifted the glass restlessly. A sense of inevitability had hung over his head all evening. Now he was going to bring it to its needed conclusion. “You want to talk?”

Anthony shot him a sidelong glance, wary. “About what?”

“Don't yank my chain, Anthony, I'm too tired.”

“Fine, we'll talk,” Anthony muttered resignedly.

All night long, while eating, schmoozing and trying hard not to be acutely aware of where Theresa was every second, Michael had rehearsed this speech to his brother in his head. But now that the moment was finally here, and with it Anthony's obvious reluctance to discuss what couldn't be avoided any longer, all the fancy words and explanations he'd so meticulously thought out fell away. It was down to honesty, pure and simple.

Which unnerved him.

He and Anthony had never, truly, had a heart-to-heart.

“I'm sorry I've been stepping on your toes,” Michael began. “That was never my intention.”

“You made me feel like a moron, Mike.” Anthony's voice was terse with repressed emotion. “You made me feel like I was an idiot for being content with the way things were.”

Michael looked away with a grimace, not knowing how to deal with the pain in his brother's voice. Men in physical pain, he could deal with. But this was psychic pain, the kind men spent their whole lives trying to cover up,
especially
men like himself, who made their living trying to prove their invulnerability. How was he supposed to deal with
that?

“I never intended to make you feel stupid,” he murmured, feeling the inadequacy of his response. Being open and honest with his brother was so much harder than he thought.

“What
did
you intend?”

Their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar. Anthony's gaze was confused, expectant. Michael struggled to come up with words that would appease as well as explain.

“All I wanted . . . was Dante's to be the best it could be. I'm a professional athlete, Anthony. I compete for a living. I strive to be the best. I can't help it. It's who I am. It's
what
I am.” He looked at Anthony hopefully. “Remember how Ma always said that? ‘Be the best you can be.' I knew we were sitting on a winner here and that with a little PR, we could turn Dante's into the gold mine it never really was for Mom and Dad.”

“But—”

Anthony halted.

“What?” Michael prodded. “You can say it. C'mon.”

“It wasn't yours to decide that, Mike.” Anthony sounded resentful. “I mean, yeah, I know, legally the restaurant is half yours. But you're not the one who's put his guts into it. While you were in juniors, I was here, day in, day out, seven days a week, learning to cook from Ma. Dad taught me the ropes while you traveled around in the minors. By the time you made it into the NHL,
I
was the one running this place.” He stubbed out his cigar. “This isn't a hockey game, Mike. It's a restaurant, and it's my life. The way you just came in here and imposed your will . . .” He shook his head, unable to continue.

Michael looked down at his feet, ashamed. “I did it because I was scared, Anthony.”

There. He did it. Finally said aloud what he'd been feeling but was too afraid to give voice to, even to himself. But now that he'd put it out there, he felt a burden lifted, accompanied by a sense of clarity that was liberating.

Anthony peered at him in bewilderment. “Huh?”

Pain settled on Michael's chest, real as someone kneeling on it. “If I'm lucky, I've got two, maybe three years left to play, and then I'm through.” He looked around the restaurant: at the table he used to do his homework at after school; at the picture of JP2 his mother had bought at a church rummage sale. “Dante's is my
future
. That's why I wanted the expansion and the prestige. I wanted it to be the best because this is where I'm going to wind up.”

“Yeah, but you're not here
yet,
” Anthony pointed out. “What the hell are you worrying about that shit now for? Focus on hockey, for Chrissakes.”

“I intend to,” Michael replied, fully aware of the irony of Anthony's words. He took a sip of Dewar's. “From now on, you're not going to have to deal with any of the selfish, self-motivated crap I've been laying on you for the past eight months.”

“Yeah?” Anthony looked doubtful.

“I promise. I'll pop in like I always did, schmooze, bring the guys back here for meals, whatever. But for the rest of the season, I am officially out of your hair. That is, if you'll release me from our agreement.”

“Hell, yeah,” said Anthony, polishing off his Sambuca.

“I do need to know one thing, though.”

Anthony's eyes hooded with suspicion. “What?”

“Now that we've expanded, and you've been featured on TV, and we've run the weekly special, and we're finally
making a real profit,
aren't you glad I was such a pushy pain in the ass?”

Anthony muttered something indistinguishable, prompting Michael to cup a hand behind his right ear.

“What was that? I couldn't make out what you said.”

“Yeah, I'm glad,” Anthony barked.

“I thought so.”

Anthony smiled with self-deprecation. “You know how I am, Mike. Set in my ways. The last thing I wanted was you changing things around. But now that you have . . .” His eyes traveled around the restaurant wistfully. “I see that change can be good.” He wagged a warning finger in Michael's face. “But I still don't want you hanging around here all the time.”

“I won't.” He wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulder affectionately. “Dante's is yours, Anthony. It's half mine in name, but the restaurant is truly yours. And always will be.”

Anthony coughed, choked up, as he grabbed his brother in a bear hug. “Thank you, Mike.” Breaking apart, a wicked smile pierced Anthony's solemn demeanor. “Hey, I just remembered you owe me.”

“What?”

“Remember when you were in the corner talking to Gemma?”

Michael nodded. Gemma had been telling him a hilarious story about some guy who'd come into her store wanting information about putting a hex on John Tesh, for whom he had an irrational hatred.

“Well,” Anthony continued confidentially, “Theresa came over to me, and she was very curious about who you were talking to.
Very
curious.”

Michael's weariness suddenly faded. “And—?”

“I told her Gemma was your new girlfriend.”

Michael was silent for a second. Then he began to laugh.

“Did she look upset?”

“I thought she was gonna toss her clams right there on the floor,” Anthony related, giggling madly like a school-boy.

Michael raised his left hand, slapping Anthony's in a high five.

“I was happy to be able to twist the knife a little after the way she treated you,” Anthony added.

“I always knew you were a good brother, Ant.”

“I try,” Anthony concluded philosophically, sliding off his seat with a sigh. “Time to clean up.”

“I'll leave that to you.”

“Not unless you want me to cut your greasy heart out.”

“Well, in that case . . .”

“Oh. My. God!!!”

Sitting in the sun with Reese on a blanket in Central Park's Sheep Meadow, Theresa was eagerly perusing the local papers for restaurant reviews. “Listen to
this
!” She shook Reese's arm as she read aloud from the
Post.

She put the paper down, covering her face with her hands while excitedly fluttering her outstretched legs.

“Are you all right?”

The disapproval in Reese's voice made her lower her hands from her face.

“Do you understand how important these reviews are?”

“Yes,” said Reese. “But there's no need to have a seizure.”

“Oh, boo to you,” Theresa frowned, sticking her tongue out at him. “They just gave Dante's three and one half stars! Out of four!” She picked up the
Sentinel
and quickly looked through it. There was nothing about Dante's, the bastards. Thumbing through
Newsday
's “Eats” column, she found another review that said Dante's had, among other attributes, “a pleasant and casual atmosphere offering quality, authentic cuisine.” Buzzing from the praise, she whipped out her cell phone and called both Michael and Anthony. She got their machines. She left a message for Janna, too. And Terrence. Her parents' line was busy.

“I wish you'd been there,” she said to Reese, lying down on the blanket.

“So you've said.”

“Now I just have to wait to see if that picture of Aiello and Gandolfini makes it onto
New York's
‘Scene' page, or even
People's
‘Star Tracks.' ”

“That would be good,” Reese murmured, sounding distinctly disinterested.

Theresa turned her head to look at him, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He sat cross-legged on the edge of the blanket, engrossed in the latest issue of the
National Review.
Did he really not care? She was tempted to say, “I'm carrying an alien's baby” to see if he was paying attention, then thought better of it. He would say she was being immature. Maybe she was. A tiny breath of desire for him whispered through her, at least when she looked at his face. His legs were another matter. They were more spindly than she had hoped. Between that and the blond hairs, they looked almost adolescent. Theresa liked men with strong, muscled legs. Athletic legs.
Michael probably has good legs,
she thought.

She turned her face up to the sun. Michael had been on her mind more than she'd care to admit. Perhaps it was because so much of her energy and attention had been focused on Dante's. But she kept returning to the image of Michael talking to his girlfriend, their happy, laughing faces haunting her mind. The worst part was seeing the ease with which the woman interacted with his family. Michael's grandmother had grabbed the girlfriend's face in her hands and kissed it repeatedly. Clearly they'd all met her and had liked and approved of her.
How serious are they?
Theresa wondered uneasily.
Is he thinking of marrying her?

Disturbed, she turned back to Reese. “Am I ever going to meet your family?”

“Mmm?” His nose was still buried in his magazine.

Theresa heaved a sigh of frustration. She repeated herself, only louder this time. “Am I ever going to meet your family?”

“Eventually.”

“Do you think you could put the magazine down? You're giving me an inferiority complex.”

Reese appeared initially not to hear. Annoyed, Theresa was about to reach over and snatch it from his hands when he finally closed it, putting it down on the blanket beside him. “There. Done. You were saying?”

“I was wondering when I was going to meet your family.”

“And I said eventually.”

“What's the delay?”

Reese contemplated a distant line of trees as he pushed his slipping sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I guess there isn't any, really,” he said, sounding reluctant.

“You don't sound too enthused,” Theresa noted.
What was his hesitation?

“You know I like to tread carefully when it comes to these things,” Reese explained.

Theresa looked over the top of her sunglasses. “These things being—?”

“Serious things.”

Like affection,
Theresa thought. She nodded her understanding, noting Reese's tacit, almost relieved, acceptance of her response.
Is he embarrassed by me? Am I not good enough?
These questions set off alarm bells in her head. But no sooner had she silenced them than an even more disturbing question appeared. One Dr. Gardner had asked her:
Why are you with someone who makes you feel badly about yourself?
Determined to avoid an answer, Theresa turned over onto her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows to people watch.