Fair Play

by Deirdre Martin

  Michael nodded at what Ty said and skated back out onto the ice.

  The coach was right: He wasn’t focused at all today. Instead, his mind was on the meeting he was having later in the day in Brooklyn. He wanted Theresa and Janna’s PR help to bring in more customers to the restaurant he and his brother, Anthony, had inherited from their parents. Unfortunately, Anthony was the patron saint of sullen, older siblings. He was also the head chef at the restaurant and was horrified at the idea of changing anything. To him, change was bad, period. Anthony had had the same hairstyle for twenty years and had held on to his ’70s threads for so long, they were now back in style. Michael loved Anthony, but his narrow-mindedness and inflexibility often drove him to despair. He knew that when he got to the restaurant that afternoon and told Anthony they’d be sitting down with a PR person, his brother would start foaming at the mouth. Pots and pans would be hurled and the sanctity of their parents’ vision invoked. Michael could deal with that later. Right now, he had to deal with muscles screaming for relief in his legs.

  Joining his teammates, he gave it his all as they sprinted up and back, up and back. . . .

  Theresa muttered to herself as she hustled down Eighty-Sixth Street on her way to Dante’s on Twentieth Avenue. She was feeling guilty that she was in Bensonhurst, but had no intention of visiting her parents. She kept imagining bumping into her mother coming out of Cuccio Brothers Cheese or Santoro’s Pork Store. After feigning a heart attack, her mother would launch into a tear-jerking soliloquy about how her only daughter had time to come to Brooklyn for work, oh yes, but God forbid she see her family more than one Sunday a month. The fantasy encounter was so real Theresa had started defending herself out loud. If that wasn’t a testament to how easy it was for her family to get under her skin, she didn’t know what was.

  Dante’s. She could have put her foot down and demanded Janna do it. But Janna seemed so stressed of late. Not that she wasn’t stressed herself. The idea that their agency might not make it kept her up at night watching bad TV, sucking her into the twilight world of infomer cials and square-headed, self-righteous televangelists. She sighed. There were worse things in life than meeting with professional athletes. Unemployment was one of them.

  Rounding the corner of Twentieth Avenue, she marveled at how little it had changed since she was small, the mom-and-pop stores of her childhood still intact. Dante’s was the same as she remembered it, a veritable Bensonhurst institution with a decent-sized dining room and an ample, traditional menu that featured everything from spaghetti and meatballs to osso bucco. Up until her father was diagnosed with lung cancer eight months ago, her parents used to go to Dante’s every Thursday; their “date night” as they called it. But now Poppy was too tired and too sick to go anywhere. Once again, guilt gripped her. Maybe she would stop by the house when she was done and surprise them.

  She pushed open the large, carved wooden door to the restaurant and slipped inside, out of the warm September air. The lights and air-conditioning were on, but there was no one behind the long, polished wood bar, and every linen-covered table in the large room was empty. Trying hard to ignore the bad paintings of Venetian gondoliers and photographs of local priests gracing the red walls, she loudly called out, “Hello?” A minute later, Michael Dante appeared through the swinging steel doors of the kitchen. He was scowling, but upon seeing her, the tensions melted from his face, replaced by a big smile. Here it comes, thought Theresa.

  “Theresa. It’s great to see you.”

  Theresa smiled politely. “Nice to see you, too. I see you’re wearing all your teeth today.”

  “For you, a full mouth,” he kidded back. Theresa noticed him subtly checking her out and bristled. Get over it, ice boy. I’m through with your kind.

  “So . . .” she began, eager to get the ball rolling so she could leave as quickly as possible. “Should we wait for your brother to arrive?”

  Michael’s scowl returned. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, ushering her to a table for two adorned with a red and white checked tablecloth. “You want anything to drink? Pellegrino, a glass of wine?”

  “Pellegrino would be great,” said Theresa, watching his back as he sauntered away and slipped behind the bar. Objectively speaking, he was not unattractive: black, tousled hair, tan skin, and green-blue eyes, which seemed to change color depending upon what he was wearing. A decent body, too: strong arms and a muscled chest tapering down to a perfect V at the waist.

  Filling two glasses with ice, over which he poured mineral water for both of them, Michael tried to hide his disappointment at the change in Theresa’s appearance. She was still gorgeous, but looked nothing like he remembered—or fantasized about. Clad in black from head to toe, her long, wavy hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, and her eyes were obscured by those chic, heavy-framed glasses all the hip people seemed to favor nowadays. Her manner was different, too. Polite, formal. How could this be the same woman who, just two short years ago, was fun, flirty, and enjoyed cursing at him in Italian? Maybe she wasn’t The One after all.

  “Here you go.” Michael handed Theresa her Pellegrino and slipped into the chair opposite her. “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  “You look nice today,” he noted.

  “Thank you,” Theresa replied politely, having been taught from a young age that when someone pays you a compliment you acknowledge it, whether you like the person or not. “So, what can I do for you?”

  Michael opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly thinking better of what he intended to say.

  “My brother and I need your help. We want to turn Dante’s into an upscale, Manhattan-style restaurant.”

  “Okay,” said Theresa, intrigued as she took out a legal pad and pen. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

  She listened carefully as he outlined the reinvention he envisioned. Just as she was about to ask him if they planned any renovations—boom!—one of the kitchen doors flew open and out stormed an older, 1970’s version of Michael, pointedly glaring at them as he strode across the restaurant and out the front door.

  Theresa turned to Michael questioningly. “Was that—?”

  “My brother?” Michael supplied. “Yeah, that was him, all right.”

  “He doesn’t seem very happy.”

  “He’s not. He thinks upgrading the restaurant is a cardinal sin on a par with jarred gravy and Godfather III.” Michael shook his head dismissively. “Don’t worry about him. I’ve got him covered.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “You can ask me lots of personal questions.”

  Theresa squirmed. “If upgrading the restaurant is going to cause your brother to throw an embolism, why do it?”

  Michael looked uncomfortable. “Because it’s time. My mom died last year, and she always talked about how she wished the place was just a little bit . . . better. I’ve been waiting to see what Anthony would do, but it’s obvious that if I don’t step in, things are never going to change. So here I am.” His expression was playful as he leaned toward her. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  Theresa pushed back out of range, hoping he got the message. “Why do you want FM PR to represent you?”

  “Well, for one thing, it’s all in the family, so to speak.” Theresa assumed he was referring to his connection to Ty and Janna and not, she hoped, some imaginary union between them in the future. “Plus, Eddie James Jackson told me that you, personally, were the best at spinning PR straw into gold.”

  Eddie James Jackson. Now there was a name from the past. Jackson was an actor on The Wild and the Free when she was still with the show. Theresa managed to convince the soap press he was the daytime equivalent of Robert DeNiro—no small feat considering Jackson had the emotional range of a wood chip, and his character was an alien masquerading as a nightclub owner, sent to earth to hunt new breeding stock for his planet.

  Theresa chuckled. “You know Eddie?”

  “He’s a big hockey
fan.” His eyes held hers. “Big fan of yours, too.” Theresa looked away. “Guess I’m just one of many.” Dante smiled.

  “Don’t,” Theresa admonished, concentrating on her legal pad. Easing the conversation back to business, she posed the question she’d meant to ask before they’d been interrupted. The answer was they were planning to expand both the dining area and the banquet room within the next couple of months.

  “What about decor? What have you got in mind there?”

  “I don’t know.” Michael looked around the restaurant blankly. “Some more paintings, I guess. A couple more pictures.”

  “If you want to attract a more upscale clientele,” Theresa began gently, “the restaurant may need a more . . . polished . . . look.”

  “Okay.” Michael drained his Pellegrino like a man needing fortification for what might come next. “What else?”

  “Staff.”

  “What about them?”

  “How many, how old.”

  “I’m not sure how many,” he admitted. “I’ll have to ask Anthony. As for how old, most of them are probably in their sixties now. A few might even be in their seventies. They all started working for my father when they were young men,” he finished proudly.

  Sensing that this might not be the time to tell him the staff might need some renovating as well, Theresa turned to the most important issue of all: the menu. “The food has got to be exceptional if you want to draw from the other boroughs.”

  “It is.”

  “You’re sure it is or you hope it is?”

  “It is,” he repeated. “You know it is. You’ve eaten here.”

  “That was over a year ago.” At Ty and Janna’s wedding, when you were such a noodge pestering me to dance I wanted to stuff a piece of lasagna in your mouth just to get you to shut up and leave me alone.

  “Well, nothing’s changed. If anything, the food’s gotten better.” He jumped up from the table. “Hang on a minute, I want you to taste something.” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a small dessert plate that he placed in front of her.

  “What’s this?” Theresa asked suspiciously, staring down at puffy pancakes drizzled with honey.

  “Just try it,” Michael urged. “Go on.”

  Uncomfortable with being watched, but trapped, Theresa reached for a fork and cut off a small piece of the pancake, popping it in her mouth. It was good. Okay, it was very good. No, she had to be honest, it was great. If he wasn’t there she’d scarf down the whole thing.

  “Well?” Michael folded his arms across his chest, awaiting her reply.

  “BTS,” she declared rapturously.

  “BTS?”

  “Better than sex.”

  Michael laughed. Now that was the Theresa he remembered: blunt, funny, unself-conscious . . . obviously, the girl who haunted his dreams was still in there somewhere, lurking behind the crisp, clipped demeanor. Hopeful of bringing out more of her real personality, he leaned toward her.

  “Careful. Your roots are showing, and I’m not referring to your hair.”

  Theresa’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Your Brooklyn accent,” Michael said affectionately. “It was there in full force just a moment ago. As for BTS,” he added with a devilish grin, “are you sure about that?”

  Theresa’s expression darkened. “Zoccolo! Come sei sciocco,” she muttered under her breath, just loudly enough for him to hear.

  Michael’s heart swelled. She’d called him a tasteless clod! In Italian! God, he adored her. “I try,” he replied.

  “You succeed,” she snorted, putting her guard back up. She took another small bite of pancake, unable to resist.

  “What are these anyway?”

  “Ricotta fritters. My maternal grandmother’s recipe. I’ll have to tell Anthony you enjoyed it.”

  “Is he the pastry chef?”

  “He’s the everything chef.”

  “Well, he’s got a winner here; I have to hand it to him. No wonder my mother loves the desserts here.”

  Michael looked confused. “Your mother—?” He tilted his head this way and that, studying Theresa. “Wait a minute,” he said, light beginning to break behind his eyes. “Falconetti? Natalie and Dominic are your folks?”

  “Yup.”

  “I never made the connection. They haven’t been here for a while.”

  “No,” Theresa said, her chest constricting as she thought about why. “My dad’s sick.”

  “Jesus, I’m sorry to hear that,” Michael said, sitting back down. The way he was looking at her, so full of compassion and concern, was unnerving. She much preferred when he gazed at her like she was a centerfold. “Give them my and Anthony’s regards, will you?” he continued. “And if there’s anything we can do . . .”

  “Thanks,” Theresa said quietly, afraid that if they stayed on the topic of her father, she might tear up. “I need a copy of the menu, if you can spare it.”

  “No problem.”

  The front door of the restaurant opened and Anthony reappeared, his demeanor still surly.

  “Hey, come over here a minute,” Michael called out to him in a coaxing voice as his brother stormed back towards the kitchen.

  “Vaffanculo!” Anthony shouted back over his shoulder before disappearing once again through the swinging steel doors.

  Theresa winced. “Ouch.”

  “Sorry about that,” Michael apologized, looking mortified that his brother had just told him to do the physically impossible in mixed company. “Anthony can be overly emotional.”

  “They have pills for that now, you know.” When her quip didn’t even register a smile, she decided to be direct. “Is he going to be okay with my developing a PR campaign for you guys?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Michael replied in a voice taut with self-control. Theresa didn’t want to think about what was going to happen when she left the restaurant. She could already see the headline: HOCKEY STAR DROWNS BROTHER IN VAT OF OLIVE OIL, GOES ON LAM WITH NOTHING BUT DENTURES AND FRITTERS. It was going to be ugly.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, surprising herself.

  “Fine,” Michael replied brusquely. He jerked his head in the direction of her legal pad. “So, what are your services going to cost me?”

  She wished he hadn’t used the phrase “your services.” It made her sound like a hooker. “Well, normally we’d charge thirty-five hundred dollars a month, but since you’re a friend of Janna and Ty’s, I’ll make it twenty-five hundred.”

  “So that would be thirty-thousand for a year.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s enough for a down payment on a house.”

  “Do you want to buy a house, or do you want the best PR services money can buy?” she asked suggestively.

  His mouth curled into the hint of a crooked grin. “So you’re the best, huh?”

  “Buy my services and see.”

  Michael chuckled appreciatively. “With a sales pitch like that, how can I resist?” He extended his hand across the table to shake hers.

  “You’re on for a year, Ms. Falconetti.”

  As delicately as she could without appearing impolite, she withdrew her hand from his. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  CHAPTER 02

  Michael found Anthony in the kitchen, at the far end of one of the two long, stainless-steel tables in the center of the room, mincing walnuts on a giant cutting board with a full-size mezzaluna. It was bad enough Anthony made such a jackass out of himself, storming in and out of the restaurant, Michael fumed. But telling me to go screw myself when I’m trying to conduct business? And in front of a woman? That was crossing the line.

  The rest of the kitchen staff were happily chatting among themselves while they prepped for that night’s menu. Michael’s ire cooled temporarily as he took in the swirl of intoxicating scents around him: sauce cooking, foccacia baking . . . nourishing smells he associated with the sweetness of childhood, when both his parents were alive and running the show.
Jesus, he missed them. Especially now, when he could use their help dealing with his bullheaded big brother. His eyes shot briefly heavenward. Mom, Dad, give me the strength not to snap and bust his jaw.

  “Anthony.” His tone was a call out, though he hadn’t meant it to be. He tried to sound more casual. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  Anthony shrugged, not bothering to make eye contact. “Talk away.”

  “Alone.”

  “We’re working here, Mike. Some stuff’s got to be ready when we open at five-thirty.”

  “I KNOW,” Michael replied, ignoring the implicit jibe. “All I’m asking for is five minutes.”

  “I don’t have five minutes.”

  “Make it,” Michael threatened.

  Sighing theatrically, Anthony put the mezzaluna down. “Yo, listen up everybody.” The staff stopped what they were doing. “Everyone take five so my brother the hockey star can talk to me in private.”

  Michael saw the questioning glances exchanged by the staff, but all did as they were told, trooping one by one out of the kitchen. Anthony sauntered over to one of the massive industrial stoves and began absently stirring one of the huge vats of sauce with a giant ladle.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Good. Number one, I didn’t appreciate your immature behavior when I was trying to conduct business.”

  “Business I want no part of,” Anthony reminded him, putting down the ladle and moving along to the wall of ovens, forcing Michael to follow.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute. Number two: Don’t you ever curse at me like that again, especially not in front of a woman. Where the hell were your manners?”

  Anthony smirked. “I guess I forgot them.”

  “Yeah, well, next time remember them or I’m going to kick your rude ass from here to Hoboken.” Michael watched as Anthony carefully tipped open the door of an oven to check on the foccacia. “Ma always said you shouldn’t open the oven while the bread was baking.”

  The oven door slammed shut. “Who died and made you fucking head chef, huh?” Anthony snapped.