Fair Play (36 page)

“Mama—”

She couldn't finish. Before the words were out, the sobs she'd been holding back erupted. Blinded with tears, she rose from the prie-dieux and fled.

 

 

Watching Theresa hurry
from the sitting room, her beautiful face smeared with tears, Michael struggled with whether or not to jump up and go after her. Maybe she wanted to be alone, and the last thing she wanted to deal with was him hovering? But something inside him wouldn't let him just sit there. She needed him. He could
feel
it. He excused himself from his conversation with Phil and went in search of her.

He found her sitting in her car in the funeral parlor parking lot, the windows rolled up and the radio blasting to drown out the sound of the sobs rattling her body. Not wanting to startle her, Michael gently tapped on the driver's side window.

No response. He tapped louder.

Swiping at her eyes, Theresa rolled the window down a crack. “Go away, Michael,” she pleaded. “Please.”

“Forget it. Not when you're this upset.”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah, and—could you turn the radio down? It's louder than a jackhammer.”

Sniffling, Theresa turned the radio off.

“Thank you. As I was saying, I'm not leaving you alone when you're this upset.”

“I'm fine,” she repeated, with a pathetic smile. She went to roll the window back up but Michael thrust his left hand into the small gap.

“C'mon, Theresa. Let's take a walk. You'll feel better.”

Like a child, she reluctantly got out of the car. “Where do you want to go?” she asked woodenly, rubbing her arms.

“Let's go to Eighty-sixth Street,” Michael answered.

The temperature had dropped over the course of the afternoon, the cheering rays of the sun now obscured by mean, swift-moving clouds that threatened rain. Taking off his jacket, Michael draped it over Theresa's shoulders, half expecting a yelp of protest. None came.

Silent, they began walking, past store windows both of them had grown up peering into.

Where the hell's Fleece?
Michael wondered to himself.
He should be here, taking care of her, comforting her. What the hell kind of a boyfriend is this guy?

“You staying at your mom's tonight?” he asked, trying to make conversation.

Theresa nodded numbly. “'Til after the funeral.”

“That's good. Anthony said he'd be at the second viewing later tonight.”

“That's good.”

“You want to talk?”

“What's there to talk about?” Theresa asked quietly. “My poppy's dead. End of story.”

Michael hesitated, trying to come up with appropriate words of comfort. “I know the pain feels so big right now that it will never go away. And in a certain way, it never does. But you learn to deal with it. Believe me.”

Theresa swallowed. “Thank you.”

They walked on. Michael reached for her hand, surprised by how thin and cold it felt. He stopped, and taking both her hands between his, began rubbing them vigorously to warm them.

“You want to go back?”

The misery that flashed in her eyes made his heart catch. She looked so scared and vulnerable, not at all the smart-mouthed, wisecracker she often seemed.
If I could,
he told her silently,
I would take all your pain away.

Theresa looked down at her feet, then off into the distance. “You know what my mother told me?” she asked into the wind. A storm, a bad one, was definitely on the way.

“What?”

Her face contorted with grief. “She told me my father was proud of me.”

Pulling her hands from between his, she covered her face and began to sob.

“Sshh,
c'mere, it's okay.”

As gently as if he were coaxing a skittish colt, Michael drew Theresa into the safe haven of his arms. Her body was stiff at first, almost as if she were determined not to succumb to the protection being offered. But Michael held on tight, stroking her hair, whispering any words of comfort he could think of.
Can't you see how much I love you?
he asked her silently, her anguish ripping him apart.
That I would do anything for you?
He wished he could say the words of his heart aloud. Let her know that as long as he drew breath, she would never be alone, or afraid, or neglected.

But it wasn't the time.

“I'm so stupid,” Theresa wept, giving herself over to the pain consuming her. “I thought my parents were so provincial, so Brooklyn, so simple because they never wanted anything more out of life than to love each other and raise a family.
I'm
the one who's pathetic. The books you read, your zip code, going to art shows, none of it matters. What matters is your family. The people who love you.” She turned her tear-streaked face up to his. “Why couldn't I see that? Why?”

“You're seeing it now,” Michael murmured tenderly, carefully wiping her tears away. He drew her closer. “It's okay,” he promised, gently rocking her where they stood. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“Don't let go,” she pleaded.

“I'm right here,” he whispered in her ear as the first rain drop fell. “And I'm not going anywhere.”

Theresa stormed past
the spluttering receptionist at Banister & Banister and ploughed straight into Reese's office. She found him on the phone, laughing jovially. Seeing her, his eyes went wide and his face turned the color of chalk. He reminded Theresa of a cartoon character.

“Sutton, let me get back to you, all right?
Ciao.
” His voice was smooth as untrammeled silk.
Like always,
Theresa thought bitterly.

Hanging up the phone, he sauntered out from behind his desk. “This is a surprise.”

“So was your absence at my father's funeral yesterday.”

The pain of the statement lodged in her throat. He had promised to be there. She left him a detailed message with the time, place and directions. Yet he never showed. Phil, when he wasn't sobbing, had asked repeatedly where her “hot shot boyfriend” was. Michael didn't say zip about it, even though he must have been wondering, too.

It was Michael who helped keep her mother upright beside the open grave.

Michael
who acted as her rock when it should have been
Reese.

Before Reese could respond, the receptionist, a barrel-shaped older woman, appeared in the doorway with a security guard. “There she is,” she declared, pointing dramatically at Theresa.

The guard's concerned eyes sought Reese's. “Everything all right, Mr. Banister?”

“Everything's fine, Raymond. You and Elinore can get back to what you were doing.” Clearly deflated that Theresa wasn't going to be arrested, Elinore disappeared behind the massive bulk of the guard, who failed to close the door.

Theresa did it for him.

She stared Reese down. “Well?”

Reese was cool. “Well what?”

“Why weren't you at my father's funeral? You said you'd be there. I needed you. What happened?” She was fighting to keep her voice level, but she wanted to curse and throw things.

“Didn't you get my message?”

“The one that said you were delayed in Miami?” she jeered. “Yeah, I got it.”

He shrugged. “Well, there you go, then.”

“
There you go, then
?” Theresa echoed incredulously. “Reese, you left that message
while
I was at the funeral, even though you knew what time the funeral was. Are you telling me you didn't do that on purpose?”

His mouth folded into a frown. “You're being ridiculous, Theresa.”

“There are more important things than business, Reese. This was one of them.” She shook her head. “You know, for someone who claims to hate what he does for a living, you sure as hell go above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Doing things right is important to me,” Reese returned coldly.

“Really? And what about doing the
right thing
?” Her heart was spasming in her chest, an erratic, rapid-fire rhythm. They were headed toward the moment of truth. “Reese?”

He leaned against his desk, feet casually crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest as a look of bored resignation played across his face. “You want to know the truth, Theresa?”

“Yes, please. I would find it a refreshing change.”

“The truth is that work is more important to me than some two-bit, goomba funeral.”

Theresa blinked as she sank down in a chair. She was beyond stunned. She was stupefied.

Reese was watching her intently. “Is that a satisfactory explanation?”

Theresa looked at him, at the cool, blue eyes she had once imagined her children inheriting, at the sandy blond hair that fell so boyishly across his brow, and she felt her insides turn to ice. “You've been using me,” she said, knowing suddenly that it was true. “You thought that if you wooed me long enough, you'd eventually wear me down and talk me into selling FM PR.”

“
Very
good.” Reese slowly, tauntingly, applauded her.

It all made brutal sense now: the foot-dragging, the evasiveness, the lack of affection. “How long were you prepared to carry on with this charade?” she forced herself to ask.

“As long as it took.”

“Didn't you think I would have figured it out eventually?”

“Who knows? It took you this long,” was his snide reply.

“And that night I came to your apartment before Ty and Janna's party and you said you were sick—?”

“What do you want to know? Her name, or how long we've been together?”

It took every ounce of self-control she had not to flinch. Or cry. Jesus, how she longed to cry. But she'd be goddamned if she'd give this bastard the satisfaction.

Reese slid back behind his desk. “I have work to do.”

There were a million questions crowding her brain, all of them jostling for attention, while in her heart, pain and anger vied for dominance. She looked hard at him, at this stupid fantasy man of hers that she'd spent hours deluding herself about, and felt nothing but cold, pure hatred.

“I want to know something. I want to know how you came up with this plan. I want to know why you picked the strategy you did.”

He looked put out by her question. “My uncle and I are professionals, Theresa. We thoroughly research every company we help Butler acquire, searching for weaknesses and ways to make inroads. Our research on you turned up the Lubov case.”

Theresa tensed. “And so—?”

“So we focused on you.”

“Why?” Theresa demanded sharply. “What inroad did you see in
me?
”

“Someone successful but over thirty and still single, and therefore open to being romanced. But carefully, because of her history of abuse.”

Theresa's head was spinning. “You heartless, unethical SOB,” she yelled, winging the bracelet he'd given her at him. “How can you stand yourself?”

Reese looked unperturbed. “All's fair in love and war. And when it comes to corporate acquisitions, it's war.” He chuckled lightly. “Although in your case, I must say I went ‘above and beyond the call of duty,' to quote you.”

“How so?”

“Meeting your family?” He sucked in his lips.
“Please.”

“I know,” Theresa agreed, in a sarcastic voice. “Don't they realize there's more to life than family dinners? Why, they don't even sail! Philistines!”

Reese narrowed his eyes. “Are you mocking me?”

This time, Theresa was the one applauding. “I'm mocking you, your values, your shallow existence—”

“An existence
you
aspired to,” Reese pointed out with a condescending smile. “Which made you such an easy target.”

“You're right,” Theresa admitted. “I did aspire to it. But you know what? I had a revelation the other night at my father's wake. I'd rather be at a Sunday dinner at my mother's house, playing with my nieces and nephews and listening to my mother and brother fighting, than swanning around Manhattan, making sure the right people see me. My family are kind, loving human beings, which is more than I can say for you. You're
pathetic.
You weren't fit to cross my parents' doorway, never mind sit down at their table and break bread—”

Reese yawned. “Are you done?”

“Almost.” Theresa crossed to his desk, her splayed hands firm on his neat little piles of papers as she leaned forward to get into his face. “Research this, asshole: FM PR will never sell out to Butler. Never. You got that?”

“Then you'd better be prepared to be battered into bankruptcy, because that's where you're headed.” He picked up his phone. “Butler will bury you.”

Theresa smiled. Tossing her hair, she strode toward the closed door of Reese's office and flung it open wide.

“Bring it on.”

 

 

Theresa's bravado began
fading within minutes of leaving Reese's office, just as she feared. She contemplated going in to work despite having taken the day off, but in the end decided against it. Instead, she spent the day at the library, a haven of her childhood and still one of her favorite places in the city. She read newspapers, magazines, journals. She watched people come and go as the sun faded and the day drew to a close. Finally, driven by hunger, she went home and fixed herself some dinner.

When she was done, she started walking.

She walked all the way from her apartment at Fifty-ninth and First down to Times Square, then back up again. Several times, seeing but not seeing, she banged into people on the street. “Sorry,” she'd murmur hastily, then keep walking.