Fair Play (42 page)

“Sure.”

“I mean it.” She ran her fingers through her long tangled mop of hair. “You could ask the same questions tomorrow and get a different answer. All this means is you probably shouldn't approach Theresa today.”

“Or ever.”

“Now you sound like Anthony.”

At least Anthony's got a girlfriend,
Michael thought gloomily. Gemma was right. He
was
filled with negative energy, especially now that the cosmos seemed to be telling him he was going to be alone, at least for the foreseeable future.

“This music sounds like a dying animal,” he said irritably.

“It's Celtic.”

“It's awful.”

Gemma leaned forward, cupping his face in her hands. “Promise me you're not going to throw in the towel before you've even tried,” she begged him gently.

“I won't,” Michael promised, delicately removing his head from her grasp. It reminded him of when he was a little boy and his grandmother would smother him in kisses. Not wishing to dwell on his probable misfortune, he moved on to a different subject. “Are you going to cousin Paul's party out in Commack next weekend?” he asked.

“I'm not sure.” Gemma hesitated. “Last time I was there, his wife made some crack about sacrificing chickens that I didn't appreciate. Are you going?”

“Yeah. You should come. Nonna would love to see you. That's all she could talk about after the reopening: how good it was to see you.”

“Really?” Gemma's face lit up. “Maybe I will, then.”

“Come. Please. Anthony can't make it, so I need someone there I can talk to.”

“Bring Theresa,” Gemma suggested slyly.

“Enough Theresa for today,” Michael admonished.

If he and Theresa were a couple, then of course he would bring her, so all the family could see what a wonderful girl he'd finally found. But first, he had to tell her he'd lied. It wasn't a conversation he looked forward to. What if he told her the truth and she simply didn't care? What if she still wasn't ready, especially on the heels of her relationship with Fleece? What, then? He tried to shake himself out of his gloom but it was hard, especially with the bagpipes squealing in his ears. Taking leave of his cousin, he headed back to his car, blasting a Stones CD all the way back to Brooklyn. He
would
talk to Theresa—eventually. But for now he would leave things alone.

According to Mick and Keith, time was on his side.

 

 

Theresa leaned forward from where she sat behind her desk, straining to hear Terrence's muffled voice on the intercom. He sounded as if he were calling from deep within a closet.

“Yes?”

“Some woman who raided Stevie Nicks's wardrobe is here to see you. What should I do?”

“What's her name?” Theresa snickered. “And speak up!”

“I can't. She'll hear me,” Terrence insisted in a breathy whisper.

Theresa closed her eyes and shook her head. “Her name?” she repeated.

“She won't tell me. She just says it's urgent.”

“I'll be right there.”

Theresa swung out from behind her desk and started up the hall. The last thing she wanted to deal with was some wacko who had gotten her name and now wanted representation. Or worse, a job in PR, thinking it was all about hobnobbing with stars and going to fabulous parties. She was all set to give her “I'm sorry, we're not hiring now” speech, when rounding the corner of the lobby, she was struck dumb.

The woman waiting was Michael Dante's girlfriend.

“Um . . . hello.” Trying to hide her confusion, Theresa extended her hand. “I'm Theresa Falconetti.”

“Gemma Dante. I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”

“Certainly.”
Gemma Dante?
Theresa's heart plummeted to her feet.
Oh, God, he married her. Oh my God. Oh. My. God.

Trying to remain calm, Theresa walked with Michael's—Michael's
wuh
—
her
—back to her office, the strong scent of patchouli assaulting her. It was a scent Theresa associated with college, when a roommate had dragged her to a potluck dinner at the Women's Studies department. Everyone sat around eating tofu and beans, talking about Georgia O'Keeffe and making friends with their own vaginas.

“Here we are.” Ushering Gemma into her office, Theresa bade her sit down. She hated to admit it, but the woman had style. A funky, hip earth-mother kind of flair. And she had nice eyes. Soft, big and brown. But no wedding ring.
Maybe, because they married on the spur of the moment, it's not ready yet? Maybe it's a gorgeous platinum band ringed with small diamond baguettes
. . .

“Michael doesn't know I'm here.”

Theresa jerked herself back to attention.
Oh, great. She's here to tell me to keep away from her man.

“He's crazy about you, but he's afraid you'll think he's a loser because he lied to you.”

Theresa blinked rapidly, completely confused. “What?”

Gemma smiled, a lovely, warm smile. “Anthony told you I was Michael's girlfriend, right?”

Theresa nodded fearfully.

“I'm not. I'm his—their—cousin.” Gemma frowned. “They're both such jerks. Anyway, Anthony told you that to make you jealous, and Michael didn't tell you the truth because you were seeing someone else and he wanted you to think he'd moved on with his life. Which he hasn't.” Gemma laughed.

“Oh.” Theresa put a hand to her chest, as relief washed over her.
Not his wife. His cousin. Thank God.

“You look pleased,” Gemma noted.

“I am. I mean—” Theresa colored, not sure what to say next.

“Do you like Michael?” Gemma asked softly.

Theresa nodded shyly. “Yes,” she managed, feeling overwhelmed. “A lot.”

“I'm glad. Michael's a wonderful man, and he's been waiting
so long
for you to come around.”

Theresa felt awkward. “He's talked to you about me?”

“We're very close. Have been since we were small.”

Theresa wracked her brain, trying to see if she could recall Michael saying anything about a female cousin. Then it hit her. “You're the
stregh,
” she blurted.

“Yup.”

Embarrassed, Theresa's hand flew to her mouth. “I'm sorry,” she apologized. “I didn't mean to just—”

“It's all right,” Gemma assured her. “No offense taken.”

So this is the witch.
Theresa wasn't sure what she'd expected, but Gemma certainly wasn't it. She'd never met a witch before and assumed Michael's cousin would be somehow dark and mysterious.

“What is it?” Gemma coaxed, reading Theresa's perplexed expression. “You expected me to make my entrance on a broomstick?”

The hairs went up on Theresa's arms at the thought that Michael's cousin could tell what she was thinking. “I guess. Sorry,” she said again.

“No need to apologize,” Gemma reiterated.

Theresa smiled, beginning to relax. “So Michael's willing to give me another chance?” she asked hopefully.

Now Gemma looked confused. “I thought it was the other way around: You were giving him another chance.”

Theresa waved a hand in the air, feeling excited. “Either way. He told you that? He wants to see me?”

“Yeah, but like I said, he's a big chicken. So I had an idea.”

Theresa leaned forward, eager to hear what Gemma had to say. “What?”

“There's a big family barbecue at my cousin Paul's next Saturday, and I know for a fact Michael is going to be there. Would you like to come with me?”

This wasn't quite what Theresa expected. “I don't know,” she hesitated. “Won't it freak him out, me just showing up unexpectedly?”

“Michael?
Are you kidding me? He'll be thrilled.”

“Are you sure?” Theresa was plagued by a vision of Michael taking one look at her and heading straight for his Mercedes, leaving her standing in a cloud of dust as he peeled out of a suburban Long Island cul de sac. But Gemma assured her otherwise.

“Believe me, I know my cousin. He's not going to be freaked out in the least.”

“Well, if you're sure.”

Gemma reached out, warmly clasping Theresa's hand in her own.

“I'm sure. Trust me.”

 

 

By the time
Theresa arrived in Commack, she was certain of two things. First, that she liked Gemma. She was warm, funny and extremely smart. Second, Gemma should never be allowed behind the wheel of a car.

During the ride in a red Beetle bearing the bumper sticker MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOMSTICK, Theresa found herself invoking the protection of every saint she could remember. Gemma drifted between lanes, cut cars off on the Northern State Parkway and generally failed to pay attention. When they reached Commack, Theresa was thankful to be alive and had to restrain herself from opening the car door and falling to her knees to kiss the pavement.

Apart from a summer share on Fire Island five or six years before, Theresa's experience of Long Island was minimal. She vaguely remembered her family taking a drive out east one summer Sunday and passing some kind of giant wooden duck. From what she could see, Commack didn't have a Main Street or a downtown. Instead, it appeared to be a series of pleasant, tree-lined neighborhoods developed around strip malls and schools. Cousin Paul's street was a bit like her parents' street in Brooklyn. All the houses were of the same design, except here they were aluminum-sided ranches, rather than two-family brick houses. They all had perfectly manicured front lawns, too, but they were larger than in Brooklyn, and none of them boasted statues of the Virgin Mary or St. Francis. Because of the party, the street was completely lined with cars. Theresa and Gemma had to park a block away and walk.

“Are you nervous?” Gemma asked, carrying a big bowl of macaroni salad she'd made.

“A little,” Theresa replied.

She was nervous about seeing Michael, whose Mercedes she spotted parked between an Acura and an Excursion. But the true source of her anxiety was allowing herself to be truly
seen
for the first time in a long time. She'd deliberately shed her glasses and sleek ponytail in the hopes of sending a clear message that she was done with disguises, done with pretending to be someone she wasn't. But she felt confident she'd feel comfortable around a big, boisterous Italian family like her own. In homage to her father, whom she was missing terribly today, she'd brought some Pernigotti nougat with her, remembering her mother's instruction never to go to a guest's house empty-handed.

Cousin Paul's house was a ranch with red shutters and two gleaming black Audis parked in the drive. The front window as well as the front door was open. Theresa could hear animated conversation and laughter coming from inside. Following Gemma up the front steps, Theresa felt the flutter of nerves in her stomach increase.

Michael's in there,
she thought.

Overly polite and reserved greetings met them as Gemma introduced Theresa around the crowded room. In fact, a subcurrent of tension seemed to follow in their wake. Theresa couldn't believe that Michael would have bad-mouthed her to his whole family. Would he have? Or maybe Anthony had? But then she caught sight of two of the older relatives eyeing them and whispering, while sorrowfully shaking their heads.

And it dawned on her.

Helping herself to a glass of iced tea in the kitchen as instructed, she pulled Michael's cousin aside. “They think we're
gay.
”

“What?”

“Your relatives,” Theresa whispered urgently. “They think we're a couple.”

Gemma's eyes circled the room. Then she began to laugh. “Oh my God. You're right. They do!” She laughed even harder.

“This isn't funny!” Whereas a moment before Theresa had been feeling nervous at the prospect of seeing Michael, now she was seized with the burning desire to stand on a kitchen chair and loudly proclaim, “I am not a sister of Sappho!” This was Michael's
family,
for God's sake. How on Earth were they ever going to accept her with
him
if they thought she was Gemma's lover?

Michael. Where is he?
She asked Gemma if she had any idea where her cousin would be.

“Knowing Mikey, he's out back with the kids.”

Theresa nodded, put down her iced tea and headed for the back door. Gemma was right. There, on his hands and knees in the grass as two little girls and three little boys attacked him, was Michael. Theresa stood on the back stoop, watching. Apparently, they were playing some kind of game where the children were trying to steal Michael's “power” which resided in the numerous little pink barrettes he was wearing in his hair. Theresa forgot her plight for a moment and wished to God she had a camera; the sight of Michael sprouting pastel barrettes was priceless.

“You will never beat me, for I am the King of Commack!” Michael roared, sending the little girls screaming and the boys lunging into a fresh volley of attacks. Theresa loved that he was oblivious to her, as well as the man she assumed to be cousin Paul, who was manning the grill. Theresa squinted. It had to be Paul: She recognized the pinky ring and the huge gold bracelet from when Michael borrowed them to make his point to her about stereotyping Italian men.

It was obvious Michael loved playing with the kids.

Obvious he loved kids, period.