The shower felt good, the perfect way to unwind from a day spent steeped in domestic pursuits: shopping for food, cleaning the apartment, cooking. Janna had offered to cook something that could be popped in the oven shortly before Reese arrived—a casserole, maybe, or a quiche—but Theresa decided she wanted to make a meal for him from scratch. Going through Janna’s cookbook collection, which she’d never once explored in all the years they’d lived together, she settled on a beef stew, with a sweet potato puree on the side and brownies for dessert. The brownies were already baked, and the puree, which had been a royal pain in the ass to make, sat within the microwave waiting to be warmed.
Everything was under control.
She was hustling from the bathroom to the bedroom when the shrill, unexpected ring of the phone stopped her dead in her tracks. No. Please don’t be canceling. Holding her towel with one hand, she picked up the phone with the other.
“Hello?”
“Theresa? It’s Michael.”
Theresa closed her eyes, hanging her head in defeat. The universe would arrange to have Michael Dante call her while she was running around trying to get ready to entertain another man. It was too awful.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I ran into Danny Aiello last night at a fund-raiser, and he said he’d be willing to come to the reopening.”
“That’s great!” Theresa enthused. The more Italian celebrities they were able to line up, the better. But she didn’t really have time to talk about it. “I’ll get in touch with his people and arrange everything. Thanks, Michael.”
She hung up the phone. She knew it was rude, but she couldn’t help it. She still had to dress and make up and make sure the stew didn’t burn before Reese arrived.
An hour later, Reese showed up. He seemed distracted as well as edgy. But he’d been traveling all week, so Theresa tried not to take it personally. She poured him a glass of shiraz and sat down with him on the couch, doing her best to appear relaxed when in reality, her mind was on when she should microwave the puree to make sure it was done at exactly the same time as the stew. She barely registered Reese’s question about how work was going.
“What?” she asked distractedly.
Reese frowned with impatience. “I asked if anything exciting happened for you this week,” he repeated.
“Well, Janna and I stuck to our guns on an integrity issue,” she said proudly. She told him about Notorious Devil D. That was when she noticed the vein in Reese’s right temple throbbing wildly.
“Let me make sure I’m getting this straight.” His voice was eerily calm. “You and Janna turned down a major account any other PR firm would kill for because you don’t like his lyrics.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple,” Reese shot back. “How stupid are the two of you?”
Theresa slammed her wineglass down on the coffee table, the perfect aural exclamation point. “Excuse me?”
“Does what you did strike you as making good business sense?” Reese asked heatedly. “Does it?”
“Sometimes there are more important things than making money, Reese.”
“This isn’t about making money, Theresa. It has to do with prestige. Visibility. This would have put your firm on the map.”
“We are on the map,” Theresa insisted angrily.
“What map would that be?” Reese snorted derisively. “The map of boutique agencies headed for extinction?”
“Bucone!” Theresa snapped, snatching up her wineglass and storming into the kitchen.
Heart pounding, she gazed around haplessly, knowing Reese was going to appear any second wanting to continue their “conversation.” Well, Dr. Gardner, she thought frantically, we certainly didn’t plan for this, did we? She couldn’t believe the way he’d reacted. Especially since they had talked about issues like integrity way back when! She recalled him saying he sometimes felt he didn’t have any, working as he did for his uncle—maybe it hit too close to home? Reminded him of his own feelings of selling out? But to say what he said . . . Jesus.
Utterly rattled, she moved back and forth between the stove and the microwave, trying to figure out what to do. As anticipated, Reese appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking mildly perturbed.
“Did you just curse at me in Italian?”
Theresa ignored him. Her slip embarrassed her—even though he deserved it.
“Look, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”
“No?” Theresa stirred the stew furiously, flecks of brown spattering the stovetop. “Then what did you mean?”
“That maybe you and Janna could use some guidance,” he explained. He came toward her, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “This is just one more example of why I think it would benefit you to sell. You’d be under the wing of a large corporation experienced in handling this kind of thing.”
“Janna and I made the right decision.” Theresa jerked her shoulder away. “And if you bring up the Butler offer one more time, I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“Whoa.” Reese stepped back. “Someone’s quick on the trigger tonight.”
“Someone’s tired of the man who says he’s falling in love with her always twisting the conversation around to business.”
“Do I?” Reese looked genuinely surprised.
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t mean to. Sorry.” Clearly wanting to get off the subject, Reese leaned forward, sniffing the stew. “Smells good.”
“It’ll be a few more minutes,” Theresa replied begrudgingly, afraid that if she didn’t get her still pounding pulse under control, she’d work herself into a migraine.
“Is it a family recipe?”
“No. I got it from Janna.”
“How is your family?” he inquired.
Theresa, now at the microwave, glanced back over her shoulder. There was something in his voice, in the way he had emphasized the word is that irked her. But his face was guileless. Perhaps she was being oversensitive.
“They’re alright. I may go back out there tomorrow to give my mother a break, you know? She’s been run ragged taking care of my dad.” Her gaze turned hopeful. “Want to come? Keep me company? It would give them another chance to get to know you.”
“No offense, Theresa, but if I want to watch a family overeat and attack each other, I’ll turn on The Sopranos.”
This time Theresa turned around fully, unable to believe what she’d just heard. His words couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d punched her squarely in the gut. “How dare you?”
Reese laughed, confused. “What?”
“How dare you insult my family that way?”
“Oh, it’s all right for you to insult them,” Reese pointed out with a chortle, “telling me how much they smother you with that whole ‘Italian thing.’ ”
“That’s right,” Theresa cut in angrily. “Because that’s different.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is. It’s my family. I can say what I want. You can’t.” She went back to the stew pot and turned down the flame to give herself something to do, lest she really let him have it.
“I have an idea.” Reese’s voice rang with false cheer. “How about if I go outside and ring the doorbell and we start the evening all over again?”
“Fine,” Theresa agreed.
She waited while he went outside and rang the bell. When she reopened the door to him, he was standing there with a big smile.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
Theresa rolled her eyes. “Get your butt in here. Dinner’s almost ready.”
On the surface, their “Take Two” tactic seemed to work. She served dinner, and Reese seemed to enjoy it. But those two insults in less than ten minutes at the start of the evening cast a pall over the meal. Theresa could feel both of them straining as they attempted to keep conversation light and interesting.
“So, should we check out the Matisse/Picasso show when it comes to town?�
� Reese asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Good.” Reese paused. “You like both of them, I take it?”
“Yes.” Theresa smiled, in spite of herself. She’d always dreamed of finding someone urban and sophisticated with whom she could discuss art and culture. And now here he was. But things flared up almost immediately when she mentioned he didn’t seem to be complaining as often about the work he was doing for the law firm.
“What’s the point?” he snapped. “I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.”
“Reese?”
“Mmm?”
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “I mean—with us?”
Reese blinked. “No. Why would you think that?”
Theresa groped for the right words. “I don’t know. I just feel like no matter what we talk about tonight, we just keep rubbing each other the wrong way.”
“You’re being silly.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Come here,” he said, getting up and motioning towards the sofa.
A wave of excitement surged through Theresa as she followed him and they sat down next to each other. Now, finally, one of the gaps between us will be bridged, bringing us closer. . . . She inhaled slowly, wanting to savor the moment. But the lack of enthusiasm in his embrace, as well as in his prolonged, closed-mouth kiss, was disappointing. Theresa held on, waiting for the kiss to deepen and for his arms to draw her in safe, but she waited in vain.
“Reese, are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“I don’t understand why you keep asking that,” he replied in frustration.
She had to tread carefully. She didn’t want to make him think his prowess was sub par . . . “You seem preoccupied,” she began. “It felt like you weren’t really into it.”
Reese sighed. “I was trying to restrain myself, Theresa. I want you so badly I’m afraid if I give in to it, I might not be able to control myself. Can’t you see that?”
She hadn’t thought of that. He cared about her, wanted to protect her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, feeling silly.
Cleaning up the kitchen after he left, she was plagued by a feeling of unease.
Here was a man who seemed to embody everything she thought she wanted, with an impressive pedigree thrown in to boot. So why wasn’t she happier? Why couldn’t she shake the sense that his words were out of sync with his actions? Was it possible the incident with Lubov had affected her so deeply that even the simplest signposts were hard for her to follow? This dinner was supposed to help her clarify things. Instead, she felt more confused than ever.
The next day, Theresa went out to Brooklyn, and wound up staying overnight so her mother could go to the movies for the first time in months with her Aunt Toni. On Monday, she arrived at the office to find a bouquet of flowers from Reese, thanking her for dinner. On Tuesday, she sat on the big, squishy couch in Dr. Gardner’s office trying to make sense of her own discontent.
“It’s not like I don’t enjoy being with him, because I do,” she explained, sipping demurely at the piping hot chamomile tea Dr. Gardner’s secretary had prepared at the beginning of the session. They’d already covered her weekend with her family, the Notorious Devil D decision, and most of Friday night’s dinner with Reese, including his insulting her. They had now come to the part of the fifty minutes Theresa hated most: the part where they really dug down deep.
“But—?” Dr. Gardner prodded.
Theresa noticed Dr. Gardner looked very nice. She noticed lots of things today: the new fountain pen Dr. Gardner was holding, the fact that the blinds were closed rather than open, all of it part of her brain’s grand effort to avoid self-analysis. She stalled for as long as she could, and then, with a defeated sigh, she succumbed.
“He doesn’t seem as open as he used to be. When we first met, we talked about everything. But now I get the sense that certain topics are off-limits.”
“And that bothers you.”
“Yes.” Of course it does, she added in her head. Why else would I be talking about it?
“Does it bother you that he doesn’t touch you?” Dr. Gardner asked.
Theresa felt her stomach roll. “Yes,” she admitted.
“Why?”
Theresa swallowed. “Because it makes me feel unattractive.”
Dr. Gardner nodded carefully. “What do you think he’d say in response?”
Theresa clasped her tea cup tightly between her hands. “He’d say that he’s very busy at work, and that he’s trying not to push me, to give me space.”
Dr. Gardner’s gaze was direct. “And do you believe him?”
No. Oh, God. Where did that come from?
“No,” Theresa admitted aloud.
“Why not?”
Now Theresa squirmed. She hated this. The questioning, the probing, the endless why, why, why. “I’m not really sure,” she answered slowly, which was the truth. “I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just a sense I have that something about this whole thing isn’t quite right.”
“Do you think he’s using you?”
“No.” Theresa visibly bristled, an action she regretted since Dr. Gardner picked up on it immediately.
“You seem upset by the suggestion,” Dr. Gardner pointed out, her eyes straying momentarily to the small digital clock on the Plexiglas table between them.
“Well, wouldn’t you be?” Theresa countered, wondering how much time she had left. “I’m not stupid. I think I’d be able to tell if he were using me.”
“Okay.”
Much to Theresa’s relief, Dr. Gardner seemed to accept her explanation. But she wasn’t off the hook yet.
“Let’s get back to what you were saying about feeling things were not quite right.”
Theresa prepared herself.
“What attracted you to Reese in the first place?”
“That’s easy: He’s intelligent and artistic.” She paused. “He’s sophisticated. He makes good money.”
“Uh huh.” Dr. Gardner’s voice was patient. “But he also insults you and makes you feel unattractive. So why do you want to be with him?”
“It’s safe,” Theresa blurted. Her gaze darted around the room almost as if the voice had come from somewhere else. She couldn’t believe she’d said it.
“Safe how?” Dr. Gardner prompted gently.
Theresa hated the drowning feeling that welled up inside her whenever she and Dr. Gardner struck emotional gold. Struggling not to go under, she sought the right words. “Safe emotionally.” She put the mug of tea down on the table and locked her hands together in her lap, tightly. “When I was seeing Michael, I felt so vulnerable.” She licked her lips nervously. “My feelings were right here on the surface, all the time. It was scary. But with Reese, I feel . . . protected.”
“From?”
“I don’t know.”
“True intimacy, maybe?”
Theresa’s gaze fell to the floor. The suggestion shook her, because she suspected it was true. Here she’d been telling herself she wanted to bring her relationship with Reese to another level, but did she, really? If she were able to make her fantasy match reality, would her confusion disappear? Would she be happy then? She longed to sort it all out, really she did, but she wondered if she had the energy to deal with everything that needed to be dealt with.
It was exhausting, not to mention terrifying.
She wanted to say as much. But when she lifted her gaze, Dr. Gardner gently informed her that her time was up. She’d have to wrestle her demons alone for another week.
CHAPTER 16
Crunch time. The ball-busting end of the regular season.
Like most players, Michael loved and loathed it. It was time to prove what you could do out on the ice, but the pressure to perform was intense. With less than a week left in the regular season, the Blades were clinging to a berth in the playoffs. If they won two of their next three games, they’d clinch a spot. If they lost, they’d be cleaning out their lockers and wishing each other a good
summer even though it was only April. In order to be completely ready for the playoffs, Michael needed more ice time than he was currently getting on the fourth line.
He needed to talk to Ty.
He waited until practice was over and his teammates were drifting out to the parking lot in groups of two’s and three’s to drive back to the city. Ty, who usually left the practice rink with Gilly, was on the phone in his office when Michael popped his head in the door.
Feet up on the desk, Ty motioned “come in,” asking whoever was on the phone to hold while he covered the mouthpiece. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you about something,” Michael explained.
Ty checked his watch. “I’m going to Maggie’s Grill to grab some lunch. Want to join me?”
Michael shrugged easily. “Sure.”
“Meet you there in fifteen minutes.” With that, Ty resumed his phone conversation. Judging from his tone of voice, whoever was on the other end was giving him a hard time.
Michael had never been to Maggie’s. It was a post-practice tradition for Ty to eat there with Kevin Gill, but Kevin, out with back spasms, had missed practice. Michael didn’t mind being second choice. Entering the dark-paneled grill filled with happy, chatting locals, he was struck by how much he noticed about restaurants now: the layout of the dining room, the appearance and attentiveness of the wait staff, the design of the menu. Crazy, but these were the kind of things keeping him up at night. Dante’s grand reopening was two days away, and every minute he wasn’t practicing or playing hockey, he was in Bensonhurst with his surly brother, getting ready for what he hoped would be a night to remember.
Over one hundred invitations had gone out, many to prominent food critics. Theresa warned him they might not show up. Even so, Michael was hopeful they would garner a review, especially since the “Mangia” special had recently aired on the Food Network and the restaurant was being deluged by calls. Danny Aiello and James Gandolfini had promised they’d come, thrilling Theresa since it might get them mentioned in the entertainment mags. She’d arranged for a photographer to be on hand. Michael was hemorrhaging money for all this PR but he didn’t care. If it put Dante’s on the map, it was worth it.
Fair Play Page 23
