Fair Play

by Deirdre Martin

  CHAPTER 14

  How did it feel seeing Michael again, Theresa?

  Sitting at a small table in Cafe Des Artistes, Theresa imagined the deliberately neutral calibration of Dr. Gardner’s voice. She imagined her own response. I felt tense. Sad. Uncomfortable. I felt . . . desire.

  Speaking to Michael on the phone was one thing.

  But coming face-to-face with him at the “Mangia” shoot was another. She was unprepared for the conflicted feelings that poured out of her when she walked into Dante’s and there he was, all alone in the chilly dining room, inspecting a glass from a nearby table. How handsome he looked, much more rugged than the picture she’d been carrying of him in her mind’s eye. Desire for him had rippled through her like an unexpected breeze kicking up on still water, catching her by surprise. Peeling off her coat, she had tried not to be too obvious about checking him out. But even the most furtive of sidelong glances revealed to her how sad he looked. All she could think was: You did this to him. You kicked him in the teeth, and now look at him. But then she’d remembered Dr. Gardner saying guilt was anger turned inward, and she started to get mad.

  It wasn’t her fault that things ended with a bang, it was his.

  Wasn’t it?

  Seeing him at the shoot, she had zigzagged madly between extremes of emotion. She didn’t want to talk to him. She wanted to spill her guts. She wanted to ask who the hell he thought he was, humiliating her at Met Gar. She wanted to apologize for jerking him around. She pictured her emotions as a waterfall in reverse, feelings flowing back into her where she could dam them up once and for all.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy.

  She got the impression that seeing her was hard for Michael as well. Usually assertive, he was tentative, his amiability turned down a few notches. Theresa thought that had she been warmer in her responses, Michael would have loosened up and they might have had a friendly conversation. But she had kept him at arm’s length. So that neither of them would get hurt.

  Besides, there was Reese to consider.

  Ever since he’d returned to New York, they’d been seeing a lot of each other, though physical contact between them was minimal. He rarely did more than hold her hand, or press his lips lightly to her forehead at the end of an evening. Since she was still grappling with the shadow, this was fine with her. “Taking it slow” was Reese’s motto. But after eight weeks, shouldn’t they be taking their relationship to the next level? Maybe that’s why he called today, and told her to meet him here, at one of the most romantic restaurants in the city, saying he had something important he needed to discuss?

  She massaged the back of her neck and checked her watch. Reese was always late. Her parents would say it showed a lack of respect; that it was a sign he didn’t care enough to get there on time. But her folks didn’t understand how easily someone with an artistic temperament could get caught up in something else. She knew he worked too hard, and that his head was often in the clouds, thinking about photos he wanted to take.

  Even so, she’d been sitting alone for forty minutes.

  Peering through the subdued, romantic lighting at one of the lush, gorgeous wood nymph murals, a thought appeared like a flash on a blank screen: Michael would never make you wait for forty minutes. These comparisons happened all the time. Theresa did her best to get rid of them, especially since they always favored Michael. Why did the man who’d yelled at her in public and pushed relentlessly always fare better? Dr. Gardner would claim Theresa knew the answer. And maybe Dr. Gardner was right. But Theresa knew one other thing: Reese could provide her with the life she’d always dreamed of.

  Whether it made emotional sense or not.

  Fifteen minutes later, Reese came strolling into the dark-paneled room, his blond hair wind-whipped, the shoulders of his camel hair coat dusted with snow. In his left hand he carried a single white rose. Theresa watched as he deposited his coat at the cloak room and deftly made his way through the maze of closely packed tables buzzing with discreet conversation.

  “I know, I know, I know,” he sighed regretfully, handing her the rose. “We had to finish up the last minute details of an acquisition.”

  “I was about to abandon all hope.” Theresa lifted the delicate bud to her nose. What mattered was he was here now—and he’d been considerate enough to bring her a flower. A rose, no less. Surely that canceled out his tardiness?

  “What are you drinking?” Reese asked.

  “Merlot.”

  “I guess I’ll get the same.”

  He flagged down a waiter, got his drink, and raising the glass to his lips, drank deeply. “Mmm. That hits the spot.” He looked around the room, eyes carefully taking in the other patrons as well as the lush, playful murals before his attention came back to her.

  “So, how was your day?”

  “Boring,” Theresa replied.

  Which was true. She’d spent much of it catching up on E-mail and making follow-up phone calls to press kit recipients, both chores she hated. She preferred meeting with clients or the challenge of putting together a campaign.

  “Maybe this will help,” Reese offered, reaching down into his ever-present leather satchel and presenting her with a small silver box tied with a red ribbon.

  “Reese.” Theresa’s voice was gently chiding. Perhaps to make up for the lack of time they were able to spend together, he was always buying her gifts. Last week it had been a hand-tooled leather journal with her initials on it. The week before, an original first edition of Wuthering Heights. When he was out of town, he sent flowers so often that Janna joked the office was starting to smell like a funeral parlor.

  “Open it,” he urged, eyes crinkling up as he gave that crooked, boyish smile that she adored.

  Theresa tugged clumsily at the red ribbon, holding her breath as she lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a beautifully wrought, sterling silver cable bracelet.

  “Do you like it?” Reese asked anxiously. “It’s David Yurman.”

  “I love it,” Theresa murmured, slipping it on her wrist and admiring it.

  “Good.” He sounded relieved. “I noticed you wear silver a lot, and the bracelet reminded me of you, it’s so delicate.”

  “Thank you,” Theresa whispered, overcome. “You know, you don’t have to buy me presents all the time.”

  He sweetly chucked her chin. “Maybe I like to.”

  She blushed. “I’d better start returning the favor.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Being able to spend time with you is present enough for me.”

  Reese’s expression was watchful as he took another sip of his wine. “So, not to change the subject too abruptly, but I was wondering: Have you given any further thought to . . . ?”

  He didn’t finish, because he didn’t have to. It had become somewhat of a running joke between them, his asking about the buyout and her refusal to discuss it.

  “I thought we agreed that subject was off limits,” Theresa reminded him.

  “Just looking out for your interests,” Reese murmured, cracking open his menu.

  “Janna and I are big girls. We can look after ourselves.”

  Opening her own menu she wished to God the waiter would come by with some bread, crudités, anything. She was dying of starvation.

  And curiosity.

  Why were they here?

  Reese made her wait through dessert before explaining, and by the time coffee was served, she was too nervous to even taste her apple tartin.

  “So, the big announcement.” There was a hint of self-deprecation in his voice.

  She braced as his hand reached across the table for hers. Warmed from wine and, she hoped, good conversation, his flesh was soft, supple, his long, tapering fingers curling around hers with confidence. His hands are so delicate, Theresa thought to herself. Not like Michael’s, which were strong, broad—Stop.

  She waited.

  “I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Reese began, his thumb nervously tracing b
ack and forth over hers. “And I know you’ve been wondering what, exactly, is going on between us.”

  Theresa felt a small blush rising to her cheeks as she recognized how easily she’d been read.

  “Well,” Reese said, pausing to take a slow, deep breath. “I brought you here tonight because I wanted to say that I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  Theresa pitched back slightly, colliding with the hard wood of her chair. His words felt swift as a blur, impossible to get a hold of. In love? She had expected something else, a declaration of intent, maybe, but not this.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  She disliked when people said that, especially men, especially in the context of a serious discussion. “What?” she challenged.

  “You’re thinking ‘How can he say he loves me when he’s barely touched me?’ ”

  Theresa’s eyes dropped down to the table. Either Reese was a mind reader or she was transparent as glass. Perhaps it was a bit of both. Looking back to him, she was surprised to note his expression seemed unusually blank. Was he afraid she was going to bolt if he betrayed too much emotion? Or was he waiting for a gesture, an acknowledgment of what he’d said so far, before he continued?

  Surprised to find her hand trembling slightly, Theresa reached for the security of her coffee cup.

  “You’re right,” she admitted quietly. “Go on.”

  The coffee was lukewarm, but she drank it anyway. She would have gulped down Drano if it promised to quell the feeling of unreality burgeoning inside her.

  “I haven’t touched you because I’m falling for you,” Reese explained ardently, the fervor in his voice snapping Theresa to attention. His free hand tapped out a nervous beat on the table. “I have an aunt named Letitia MacGeorge; she’s a psychotherapist. I assume you’ve heard of her?”

  Letitia MacGeorge . . . the name sounded vaguely familiar to Theresa, but for some reason an heiress kept coming to mind, not a therapist. Theresa shook her head. “No. Haven’t heard of her.”

  Reese looked surprised, but continued. “Well, be that as it may, when I started to develop feelings for you, I spoke with her about what happened to you.”

  A lump came to Theresa’s throat. “You talked to your aunt about me?”

  “Yes.” His eyes scanned hers for approval. “I knew you’d been traumatized, and I didn’t want to risk doing anything that might make it worse.”

  “I see.” She could feel her voice slipping away in the undertow created by impending tears and fought to hang on to it. “And what did your aunt, the famous psychotherapist, say?”

  If he caught the touch of defensiveness in her voice, he didn’t let on. “She said I should let you tell me when you were ready, or needed, to be touched.”

  “And—?” Theresa prompted. There was more. There had to be.

  Reese sighed. “And that it might be months, maybe even years, before you were whole again.”

  She was struck by the words he chose. He understands a part of who I am was stolen. He sees I need to heal, to be restored. Reese cares so much he actually spoke to a professional about me. In other circumstances, such a discussion might have infuriated her. But given how Reese claimed to feel, it was clearly a gesture of love. She stared at her lap, warding off tears. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say that even if you don’t feel the same right now, you’ll keep the door open.”

  “I will,” Theresa promised. She lifted her head and reached out to touch his cheek, surprised when he flinched slightly. “What?” she asked, concerned.

  “I don’t want you thinking you have to touch me.”

  “I want to. Honestly.”

  He gave silent assent as she repeated the gesture, his cheek a natural fit in the cup of her hand. This time he seemed to relax into it. This was what she wanted, had wanted, all along. Everything happens for a reason, her mother often claimed. Well, this was the reason she and Michael Dante didn’t work out.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, she lowered her hand.

  “Are you all right with all this?” he asked, reaching for his coffee cup.

  “It’s a bit overwhelming,” Theresa admitted. “But I can handle it.”

  “Good.” He scanned her face, seeming to look for doubts. “So now what?”

  Theresa broke into a slow smile. “Now you meet my family.”

  As she sat at her parents’ dining room table two weeks later, trying to ignore the quiet disapproval emanating from her mother, it occurred to Theresa that she should have lied to Reese about what time he was expected.

  She’d told him three.

  What she should have done was fib and tell him two-thirty.

  That way he’d have made it on time. Better yet, she should have arrived with him, thus insuring punctuality. But no; she’d been so excited about showing him off that when her mother insisted they come to dinner, and Reese said he was so nervous he could only handle coffee, she didn’t think twice about going out to Brooklyn before him. The way she saw it, it would give her a chance to talk him up before he actually arrived.

  Now he was fifteen minutes late.

  And with every minute that passed her family liked him less.

  “So,” her mother began, the word clipped as she pulled the ciambella she’d made for the occasion towards her. “Doesn’t Mr. Wonderful own a wristwatch?” Without asking, she began slicing up the cake.

  Theresa clenched her teeth. “He’ll be here, Ma.” He’d better be, she added to herself.

  “What does he do again?” her brother Phil asked, reaching right in front of her to grab the first piece of cake.

  “He’s a lawyer,” Theresa repeated patiently. “And a photographer.”

  “What does he take pictures of?” Phil crowed. “All the clients he bleeds dry?”

  “Jesus, Phil.” Theresa’s sister-in-law turned to her apologetically. “He’s such a retard.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Phil retorted, digging into the cake without waiting for anyone else to be served. “A lawyer and a photographer,” he garbled with a full mouth. “What, a professional athlete isn’t good enough for you?”

  Theresa caught the look of warning that flashed across her mother’s face.

  So. She and Michael had been discussed, probably often. Well, good. It was good they all realized it wasn’t going to happen, no matter how many novenas they prayed, or Sunday afternoon ambushes they planned.

  “Does he make a lot of money?” Debbie asked, indicating with her fingers that she wanted Theresa’s mother to cut her a bigger slice of cake.

  “I don’t know,” Theresa said, because she really didn’t, though she suspected the answer was “Yes.”

  “Of course he makes a lot of money,” her brother the expert told his wife. “He’s a lawyer. That’s what they do: They take other people’s money.”

  “Why is it in this family,” Theresa asked as she accepted a piece of cake from her mother, “success is something to mock rather than admire?”

  “What?” Phil asked plaintively, looking back and forth between his wife and mother imploringly. “What mock?”

  “Never mind.” Theresa stood up, certain she’d lose her temper if she didn’t get away from the table. “I’m going to peek in on Poppy and see how he’s doing.” Excusing herself, she padded up the thickly carpeted stairs to her parents’ bedroom. She knew Phil: He would keep making snide comments until she either exploded or their mother yelled at him to stop. Better to absent herself.

  Her father spent most of his days in bed now, too weak to make it up or down the stairs. Entering the room, Theresa’s spirits sank. The air was stale with the smell of sickness, her father’s shrunken form propped up against a small mountain of pillows. His bedside table was littered with plastic pill bottles. Phil had set up a small TV for him to watch on a snack table. Ironically, it was tuned to a hockey game.

  “Hi, Poppy,” Theresa said, sitting down beside him.

  With what appeared to be
great effort, her father turned his head in the direction of her voice. Seeing who it was, he smiled, slowly moving a hand out from beneath the thick layers of covers to clutch hers. “Just can’t tear yourself away from your sick old Papa, huh?”

  His voice was weak. The voice that once sang at the drop of a hat, yelled when homework wasn’t done, barked orders at construction crews—now thin and reedy, fading. Theresa’s eyes began to well.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked, gently stroking the fine silver hair which, up until recently, he had maintained religiously with a weekly trip to Ruggiero the Barber. It dawned on her that she’d never done this before. She’d been alive for thirty-three years and never, in all that time, had she touched her father’s head. Regret bubbled up, thick and lung clogging. She’d been so rigid, sticking to her once-a-month schedule of seeing the family, even as her father grew sicker. Now she could see she’d squandered the chance to spend more time with him.

  Her father shook his head, refusing her offer of dessert.

  “You sure?” Theresa continued. “Mommy’s cutting the ciambella. I could bring you a little piece with some espresso if you wanted.”

  “No, sweetheart, I’m fine. I have no appetite anymore, anyway.” A bitter laugh gurgled its way up his throat. “Bet you thought you’d never see that day, eh?”

  Despite herself, Theresa smiled. That was just like her father, making jokes while he lay dying. Up until now, she’d successfully warded off the reality of his situation, telling herself that he would improve, that he would beat it. But when her mother quietly mentioned hospice care while they set the table together, Theresa was forced to admit her fantasies of her father getting better were just that—fantasies. Everything happens for a reason, she thought angrily. Everything but this.

  Her father’s once bright eyes, now dulled to a lackluster brown, were studying her. “Something is bothering you. Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing,” Theresa lied, staring at the ornate silver crucifix hanging above her parents’ bed that had been there for as long as she could remember. She turned back to her father. “I’m just worried about you.”