“I don’t see Reese Banister wooing you with homemade pastries and sweet little notes.”
“That’s because Reese isn’t desperate and insane.” Once again, the image of Michael in his “Italian” outfit came to mind and against her will she found herself suppressing a smile.
“What?” Janna pressed.
“Nothing.”
Janna snatched the muffin basket from the center of the table and held it hostage. “Tell me or the carbs are history, baby.”
In her best bored voice—because, really, it was a boring little story, and kind of pathetic when you thought about it—she told Janna about Michael’s sensitivity lesson.
“He went through the effort of finding hideous jewelry and clothing and you won’t even have a cup of coffee with the guy?” Janna couldn’t believe it. “Jesus, Theresa. You are heartless.”
“And you’re relentless. Stop shilling for Michael Dante. He’s a nice guy, but he’s not my type. Repeat: Not. My. Type.”
“Because—”
“Yes,” Theresa cut in tersely, “and because he’s simply not what I want in a man.”
“Okay,” Janna conceded, backing off. She put the muffins back in the middle of the table. “You know what’s best for you.”
“Thank you for acknowledging that.” Theresa took another bite of her muffin. “Maybe you and Ty and Reese and I could go out for dinner sometime.”
“Actually, Ty and I are planning on having a small cocktail party in a couple of weeks, nothing fancy.”
“Can I bring him?”
“Why do you think I brought it up?”
Happy thoughts filled Theresa’s head until she realized who most of Ty’s associates were. “Will Michael Dante be there?” she asked.
“No. Nobody from the team is coming. Well, only Kevin Gill and his wife, and maybe that new rookie van Dorn and his girlfriend so Ty can build him up a bit, help him acclimate to New York. Otherwise it will be Lou and his wife, and my sister Petra and her girlfriend. As soon as we have a definite date in mind, I’ll let you know.”
“Then I can’t wait,” Theresa said, relieved. “I know once you get to know him, you’ll really like him, Jan. Wait and see.”
CHAPTER 07
“I’m sorry, miss. Mr. Banister appears to be out.”
Theresa blinked twice, staring at the doorman as if he’d just spoken Esperanto.
“I—that’s not possible. He told me to meet him here at six.”
The doorman raised his palms plaintively. “You saw me buzz his apartment. There’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No, I’ll stop back in a little while. Thank you.”
Stunned, Theresa walked out the lobby and headed west on Eighty-ninth toward Central Park, wondering what to do. Reese had invited her to come by before Ty and Janna’s cocktail party, so she could see some of his photos.
Yet here she was at the appointed hour being told he wasn’t in.
Could he have forgotten?
The question bit at her as she tightened the silk scarf around her neck against the cool breeze. Now October, the nights were getting colder. Soon it would be time to break out the hats and gloves.
Where the hell was Reese?
Walking down the quiet, tree-lined street, oblivious to everything around her, she came up with a couple different scenarios. The most obvious was that he’d completely forgotten. She found that hard to believe; they’d spoken just two days before, and Reese had sounded so enthusiastic. But what if it had slipped his mind? If that was the case, then he was a jerk. Especially since coming uptown was out of the way for her. A few choice Sicilian curses bubbled at the back of her throat, eager for voice, but she squelched them.
Another possibility—something had happened to him. Something bad. He’d slipped in the shower and cracked his head. He was lying in the tub right now, blood and water mingling as they trickled down the pristine white porcelain towards the drain. Oh, God! Panic rattled her until she convinced herself she was giving in to her overactive imagination. Imposing calm, she tried to construct more rational, less violent explanations for Reese’s absence.
He was in the shower and didn’t hear the doorman buzz.
He was on his way home from an errand that had run late.
He was so distracted crossing the street on his way home from his late-running errand that he’d been struck by a psychotic cab driver.
She reined in her thoughts, taking notice of where she was. She’d walked to Fifth Avenue and was standing in front of the Guggenheim. She had to stop spinning scenarios and do something. She could go into the museum and distract herself in the gift shop, or grab an overpriced cup of coffee in the cafe. Or, she could try calling Reese herself. Bingo.
Whipping out her cellphone, she dialed his number.
It was busy.
Mild relief pulsed through her. See, he was home. He must’ve been in the shower when the doorman buzzed. Or, maybe he’d been out running errands and they’d just missed each other. Theresa dialed her own number to see if he’d left some kind of message. He hadn’t. Clearly he was still expecting her. Proud of her powers of deduction, she turned and started walking back toward Reese’s building.
The breeze was blowing across her face now, but she minded it less, finding its touch invigorating. She was tempted to sprint the remaining distance to Eighty-ninth and Park, but didn’t want to risk turning an ankle in her heels, or worse, appearing overeager. What if he happened to look out the window and saw her jogging up to his building? No, slow and steady won the race. Besides, there was no reason to hurry. He was there; that was all that mattered.
Reese’s building was a magnificent old limestone edifice, clearly prewar. Breezing back into the lobby, Theresa ignored the irked look that flitted across the doorman’s face and marched right up to him. “I’m here to see Reese Banister,” she said, repeating word for word the statement she’d made less than twenty minutes earlier. “My name is Theresa Falconetti.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen Mr. Banister come in since you were last here,” the doorman replied in a condescending tone.
“No, but he and I spoke on the telephone,” Theresa lied. “Please buzz him.” And wipe that supercilious look off your face while you’re at it.
The doorman did as he was told. Theresa was gratified to see his surprise when Reese responded to being buzzed and told him to send her up.
“He’s on the fifteenth floor,” the doorman said with a small frown. “Apartment A.”
Thanking him, Theresa rode the elevator up. The doors opened onto a roomy marble foyer decorated with a large oval table flanked by two Queen Anne chairs. Atop the table sat a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers. To the right was the door to Reese’s apartment. To the left, the door to the only other apartment on the floor. Theresa tried not to think about how the furniture in Reese’s hallway was nicer than the furniture in her living room and rang his bell. Tiny sparks of anticipation kissed her skin, making it tingle. A second later, Reese answered, clad in a bathrobe, hair tousled. Theresa’s sparks fizzled away.
“Reese?”
“I’m so sorry you came all the way up here. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m coming down with the flu or something, I’m not sure. I’m afraid I can’t go with you tonight.”
“Oh.” Theresa worked hard to keep the disappointment she was feeling from showing on her face.
“Don’t be mad,” said Reese.
“I’m not,” Theresa insisted. Her hand moved to massage a pain that had suddenly appeared in her neck. “I just wish you’d called me.”
“I tried to leave a message, but there’s something wrong with your answering machine. It won’t pick up.”
Liar. “It does that sometimes,” she said, trying to remember if it ever had. Unsure of what else to say, she looked down at her shoes.
“Theresa?”
She lifted her head. �
��I’m sorry. I was looking forward to tonight, that’s all.”
“Me, too.”
She paused, waiting for him to invite her in for a moment. When he didn’t, she boldly took the initiative. “Since I’m here, couldn’t I see some of your pictures?” she suggested. “I won’t stay long.”
Reese looked uneasy. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I don’t want to get you sick.”
“I understand,” said Theresa, even though she didn’t. She backed up slightly. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m so sorry,” Reese apologized again.
“Don’t worry about it,” Theresa told him. “Feel better.”
“I’ll try.” He reached out, giving one of her curls a tug. “Okay if I call you Monday?”
As let down as she was feeling, this small, affectionate gesture lifted her spirits a bit. “That would be great.”
“Okay, then. Well, have fun at the party. And give my apologies to the hosts.”
“I will.”
“Bye now,” he said softly, closing the door.
Numb, Theresa stood in the foyer. Something was wrong. Yes, that was the word. Something felt wrong with this whole scenario but she couldn’t quite place what it was.
No, she knew.
She just hated that she was thinking it.
She took a step forward with the intent of pressing an ear to his door, then stopped. She would trust him. Walking back to the elevator, she pressed the button to go down. The doors peeled back instantly and she stepped inside, the trip to the lobby a slow, harsh ride down to reality. She could feel the doorman’s superior gaze as she left the building and headed back outside to—what?
Theresa checked her watch. Half an hour until the party, if she arrived promptly at eight. Right now she didn’t want to arrive at all. Who wanted to be the lone single duck in an apartment full of couples? Dejected, she slumped against the side of the building.
If she didn’t show, she would never hear the end of it from Janna.
“I swear on Nonna’s eyes, Mikey. You leave now and I’m gonna cut your greasy heart out. We had an agreement.”
Michael tried to take the glinting tip of the filleting knife Anthony aimed at his chest seriously, but it was hard. His mind was on fire, burning bright with just one miraculous word: Theresa.
Theresa. Theresa. Theresa. Finally!
Ty had tracked him down at Dante’s and asked if he wanted to come to a dinner party at his house tonight. As he strained to hear above the noisy din of the restaurant, the hairs on the back of his neck had stood up. Ever since he’d seen his cousin, he’d been carrying the moonstone around in his pocket like some kind of good luck charm. Just two nights earlier, he’d given in and lit the candles she’d given him, feeling like a total jackass. Now look what had happened: That woo woo crap Gemma had talked him into had worked!
Even though it was a last-minute invite, he’d accepted. It was a small gathering, and Theresa would be there—Ty had said so. That could only mean one thing: He was wearing her down. He knew Theresa. There was no way they would have invited him if she hadn’t agreed to it. Which meant she had. In fact, maybe she had finally come to her stubborn senses and specifically requested he be there. Hurriedly jotting down the address on a napkin from the bar, he’d promised to be there in forty-five minutes.
It wasn’t until he hung up that he’d realized he’d forgotten about one very moody, quick-to-anger obstacle.
“C’mon, Ant,” he cajoled. No one on the kitchen staff blinked twice over the fact their boss was brandishing a knife at his own sibling. Obviously, they were used to his brother’s dramatics. “I’ve been waiting two years for this. Two years! Cut me some slack here. And lower the knife while you’re at it.”
“Suppose the woman of my dreams called me and wanted me to leave?” posited Anthony bitterly, putting down the knife as requested. “Would I be able to just run out?”
“Don’t bust my balls, all right? You know it’s different.”
“You’re a co-owner of the restaurant. You have a responsibility.”
Michael could feel his teeth clenching. “It’s one night.”
“Which will turn into two, then three . . .” Anthony folded his arms across his chest and shook his head gravely, a gesture so like their mother’s that Michael felt himself going cold with goose bumps. “This is why I told you to stick to hockey, Mikey. It’s all or nothing in this biz.”
“Look.” Michael was growing impatient. Every minute he spent debating Anthony was a minute less he’d spend with Theresa. “I’ll do anything you want, okay? Anything.”
“Anything? You swear?”
“Anything.”
“Okay. From now on, if you’re in town on a Sunday morning and you don’t have practice, you take Nonna to Mass.”
Michael could feel his face fall.
“You said anything,” Anthony reminded him, wagging an annoying finger in his face.
Bit by deliberate bit, Michael realized, Anthony was dismantling any semblance of a life he had. It was his own fault: He never should have agreed to spend his nights off at the restaurant. The guys on the team had already started poking fun at the way he was only allowed to “come out and play” after road games. Man about town? Ever since he began working on Anthony about PR, effing maitre d’ was more like it.
But this bargain involved Theresa. Anthony had him by the short and curlies, and knew it. “Fine, I’ll take Nonna to Mass,” Michael capitulated. “Now can I get the hell out of here?”
“Sure,” Anthony assured him. “No problem. Remember: Nonna prefers the eight A.M. Mass to the one at ten. Pick her up around seven-thirty or so tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, Mike.”
“Right, right, right,” Michael grumbled. “You were saying?”
“Pick her up at seven-thirty,” Anthony continued calmly, “because she likes to get to church early to get her seat on the aisle, third pew on the left. Afterwards, bring her to Aunt Gavina’s.”
“Third pew, Aunt Gavina, got it. Anything else?”
Anthony’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Have fun tonight.”
“I will. And Ant?” This was the truly hard part, but Michael knew he had to do it.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Theresa, finally. Theresa, finally.
That’s all he could think on the drive over. Eyes momentarily leaving the road, he quickly glanced down to make sure what he was wearing was okay. Chinos, nice blue blazer, striped shirt, tie . . . yeah, that worked. Good thing he’d been working the front of the house, greeting customers and making sure everyone was satisfied. He drove on a bit more before abruptly raising his left arm to his nose and sniffing, fearful he might show up smelling like a plate of fried calamari.
Thankfully, he smelled just fine.
He wondered if he’d feel weird being at the coach’s house. He’d socialized with Ty before, all the guys had, but never at his own place. He wondered if any of the other guys from the team would be there. Gilly, probably. No, definitely. Ty and Gilly were best friends; they went back years. He pressed his index finger to his lips, then touched it to the St. Christopher medal dangling from his rearview mirror that his mother had given him when he’d first earned his license. Thank you, God. Next he gave the moonstone in his pocket an extra rub for luck. What the hell? It couldn’t hurt to have all the bases covered.
Theresa had to hand it to Janna: When it came to creating a relaxed atmosphere, she was a master. She’d covered nearly every flat surface with candles of all different sizes and shapes, suffusing the room with a warm, intimate glow. Quiet, classical music provided a subtle, relaxing undercurrent to conversation, while the food was laid out on the dining room table buffet style, allowing guests to pick at will and sit where they pleased.
Which was good. Since she was alone.
Theresa knew full well that although Janna said nothing when she arrived wi
thout Reese, at some point in the evening her best friend would drag her off to some remote corner and ask what the story was. Well, the story was simple. Reese was sick. Would Janna believe it? Did she believe it herself? What she needed was a nice glass of wine. And some food. She’d stay for an hour and head out.
She approached the dining room table, trying to decide whether to be good, and pile her plate high with salad, or be bad, and cut a big slab of lasagna. Considering Reese punted on her at the last minute, she felt she deserved the lasagna as a consolation prize. She had just started cutting when the doorbell rang. The voice she heard call out greetings in the living room made her freeze mid-slice.
Michael Dante.
Panicking, she picked up her empty plate and made a beeline for the kitchen, where Janna stood at the counter, serenely arranging a plate of crudités.
“I want a divorce,” Theresa announced.
Janna glanced up at her. “What?”
“I want a divorce. You’re not my best friend anymore. It’s over.”
Bemused, Janna put down the matchstick-size carrot in her hand and turned to her friend. “What’s going on, Terry?”
Theresa began to explain but was silenced by the sudden appearance of Janna’s sister, Petra, who had stuck her head around the kitchen door.
“Got any ice?” she asked. Her eyes lit on Theresa. “Hey, Terry! Long time, no see. How’s it going?”
“Great,” Theresa replied. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Janna’s sister. “You?”
“Busy.” She reached out for the ice bucket Janna handed her. “Grab a plate and come sit with me and Denise.”
“Will do,” Theresa promised.
“You were saying?” Janna continued when it was back to just the two of them.
“Do you know who just walked through your front door? Do you?”
“Ed MacMahon? The cookie monster? Who?”
“Michael Dante,” Theresa announced dramatically.
Janna shrugged. “Oh.” She went back to piling carrots on the platter.
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