Her father made a pooh-poohing motion with his hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m tough as an old mountain goat.”
“And twice as nasty,” Theresa teased lovingly.
From downstairs, she could hear the doorbell ring. Reese. Thank God. She squeezed her father’s hand excitedly. “My new boyfriend is here. Are you up to meeting him?”
“No, no,” her father wheezed. “I don’t want him seeing me like this.”
“Dad, he knows—”
“No, cara mia. Let a man have his dignity. Please.”
“Okay,” Theresa promised, backing off. It disappointed her, but she understood. If there was a just God, Reese would meet her father another time. She kissed her father’s hand. “I guess I should go downstairs.” And head Phil off at the pass.
“Go,” he urged.
“All right.” Leaning over she tenderly kissed his forehead. “I’ll come back up before I leave.”
Eyelids drooping, her father nodded. Theresa was halfway across the bedroom when she heard him weakly call her name. She turned.
“Yes, Poppy?”
“He’s late,” her father rasped. “I don’t like that. It means he doesn’t respect you enough.”
“I’ll tell him that,” Theresa returned quietly, making her way back down the stairs. She hated that he was dying, and that he might be right.
Madonn’, could it get any colder? Turning up the collar of his bomber jacket against the slicing February winds, Michael hurried along Eighty-sixth Street on his way to the Falconettis. The Sunday before, when he was again stuck taking Nonna Maria to the early bird Mass because Casanova had spent the night with Police Woman, he’d run into Phil, who told him the old man wasn’t doing too well. He decided then and there that he would surprise the family with another box of Anthony’s fresh cannolis. There was no possibility of running into Theresa, since she visited her folks the first Sunday of every month, which was still a week away. A week in which Dante’s would close its doors for a month of renovation.
Seeing her at the “Mangia” shoot had been tougher than he thought. Until then, he was pretty sure he had a handle on his feelings. But after the shoot, there was a big black, Theresa-sized hole inside him that he didn’t know how to fill. It bugged him that she barely gave him the time of day. Maybe she was pissed he hadn’t apologized for ripping into her at Met Gar? Well, she could stay pissed until hell became the fifty-first state. Her excuse for ditching him was bullshit and he’d meant what he’d said.
So how come he missed her so badly his guts actually hurt?
He bounded up the front stoop and rang the doorbell, hoping he wasn’t interrupting their Sunday meal. There was a slight delay before the door swung open and Phil appeared.
“Hey, Phil.” Michael held up the box of cannolis. “I thought I’d surprise your mom, see how your dad is doing.”
“Uh . . .” Phil glanced behind him uncomfortably. “This isn’t really a good time, Mike.”
“Philly? Who’s at the door?”
Mrs. Falconetti was heard before she was seen, elbowing her way past her son to see who he was talking to. “Michael! How wonderful to see you! Come in, come in. It’s been too long.”
Stepping inside, Michael hugged Theresa’s mother before handing her the box. “These are for you, some cannolis from the restaurant.”
“You’re so considerate, Michael,” Mrs. Falconetti beamed. “Such a good boy. Take off your coat.”
Michael obeyed, wondering what the hell was wrong with Phil. He hadn’t moved from his place at the door and was gesticulating wildly while mouthing things behind his mother’s back. “What?” Michael hissed when Mrs. Falconetti momentarily stepped away to hang up his coat.
“Theresa’s in there,” Phil hissed back. “And she’s got some putz with her, a real esoso.”
“Merda.” Before Michael had a chance to escape, he was being dragged by the wrist into the dining room, barely given a chance to say hello to Phil’s kids who were sprawled on the sectional couch in the living room watching a video. There at the table, looking as uncomfortable as Michael was feeling, sat Debbie, Phil’s wife, juggling the baby whose name he could never remember on her lap; Theresa, who looked like she’d just been whacked in the head with a shovel; and some sun-kissed blond preppie whom Michael disliked immediately. He was like an older version of Paul van Dorn.
“Look who decided to stop by,” Mrs. Falconetti cooed, pulling out a chair for Michael.
“I don’t believe you,” Theresa said to her mother. She turned to Michael. “I don’t believe you, either.”
“I didn’t know you were here, Theresa.” Michael noticed the blond guy’s face was handsome, but cold. He appeared to be detached, an observer holding himself above the fray, politely watching the theatrics. Wanting to get it the hell over with, as well as find out who he was, he extended his hand to the stranger.
“Michael Dante.”
“Reese Banister.” He narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. “Your name sounds very familiar to me.”
“I play for the New York Blades.”
“Soccer?”
“Hockey,” Michael corrected, trying not to sound annoyed.
Reese shrugged, absently twirling a coffee spoon. “I’m not a sports fan.”
“That’s too bad,” replied Michael.
“I’ve never felt as if I were missing out on anything.”
“Well, you are.”
Reese lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry, what’s your connection to this family?”
“Michael is a friend of Phil’s,” Theresa interjected pointedly, her eyes burning a message into Michael’s. “Aren’t you, Mike?”
“Michael and Theresa used to go out,” Mrs. Falconetti revealed before Michael could answer.
“Really.” Reese turned to Theresa questioningly. “When was this? Back in high school?”
“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 mot
her 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.
CHAPTER 15
“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 thi
s 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.
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