CHAPTER 05
Fall was in the air. Theresa could feel its invigorating bite, and every tree she passed proudly displayed its new wardrobe of oranges, reds and yellows. For most people, the new year began in January. But for Theresa, it always started in the fall, when the hot, dreamy days of summer officially ended and everyone was forced back to the realities of work or school. To her, autumn was a time laden with possibility. Normally, spending a glorious day like this on a non-Sunday trip to Bensonhurst would dampen her spirits.
Not today.
She was meeting Reese Banister for drinks tonight. She imagined his face illumined by flickering candlelight as his sensitive blue eyes unlocked the secret of her soul. . . .
Stop.
Now was not the time to fantasize.
She had arrived at Dante’s and had work to do.
The door to the restaurant was open, and she ducked inside. It had been a month since she’d last seen Michael, running like a lunatic beside her train. In the interim, she’d been busting her butt coming up with a good plan for putting Dante’s on the map. Her gut instinct was that Michael—irritating as he was—would be open to her suggestions. It would be an uphill battle with his brother. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Michael sitting at the same table as last time.
But he wasn’t dressed casually in jeans and a tennis shirt.
This time he was wearing tight black polyester pants and a sleeveless white undershirt known in some circles as a “wife beater.” Around his neck was a giant, gold Italian horn. On his left hand, an ostentatious pinky ring. On his right wrist, a braided gold bracelet thick as a dog collar. His hair was slicked back and a toothpick dangled suggestively from his lips.
“Hey, babe,” he crooned as she approached the table. “What took ya so long?”
Theresa bit her lip, but it was no use; she burst out laughing. “What on earth—?”
“Wha? I’m an Italian guy, right? So I figured I’d bedda start lookin’ and actin’ da part.” He slouched down his chair, opening his legs wide. “Lookin’ good today, sweet-cakes. My wife’s working late. Wanna go out dancin’?”
“Stop it,” Theresa begged.
“Stop what?”
“Fine.” Theresa slid into the seat opposite him. “I was wrong. Now cut the wiseguy act. You’re giving me the creeps.”
“Okay, baby. Anyting for you.” Michael straightened up in his chair, removing the toothpick from his mouth. “Better?”
“A bit.” Theresa found herself smiling. “You need your head examined,” she told him.
Michael grinned. “It got a reaction out of you, didn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Theresa admitted begrudgingly.
Michael noticed her eyes do a circuit of his body, pausing to admire his bare biceps. He held up his right arm, making a fist and flexing his arm. “You wanna cop a feel, baby? Be my guest.”
Giggling, Theresa reached out to briefly touch the rock-hard muscle.
“Nice and hard, huh?” Michael asked.
“Oooh, very hard,” Theresa snorted, playing along.
“Just the way the ladies like it,” Michael confided. “Wanna touch the other one?”
Theresa started to speak, then stopped, heat rising to her cheeks. Stop, a voice in her head warned. Stop now. This is exactly the kind of behavior that got you in trouble in the first place. Stop flirting. Stick to business. “Let’s discuss the restaurant instead, shall we?” she returned lightly. But even as she said it, she was having a hard time keeping her eyes off his body. And that bracelet! “Where did you get that jewelry?”
“The horn is Anthony’s. The ring and the bracelet belong to my cousin Paul.”
“Or Paulie,” Theresa replied quickly, “as he’s probably known.”
Frowning with disappointment, Michael slouched again and shoved the toothpick back between his lips. “You’re doin’ it again, angel.”
“Sorry,” Theresa muttered grouchily, relieved when he grabbed a flannel shirt off the back of his chair and covered up the well-sculpted arms and shoulders she’d never noticed before today.
Divested of his toothpick, he smiled playfully. “So, now that you know what an innovative, witty, and non stereotypical Italian male I am, will you have coffee with me?”
“Let’s talk business first, all right?” Theresa craned her neck past him to peer at the kitchen doors. “Will your brother be joining us?”
“No, Lurch is hiding in the kitchen waiting for you to leave. Later, I’ll tell him what we discussed, and he’ll curse me for tampering with the purity of our parents’ vision.”
“Sounds like you two have a great relationship.”
“We do. In between the name calling and occasional fist fights.” Michael gazed at the walls of the restaurant. “Let me guess: The first thing you want us to do is build a big bonfire, and torch the pictures of Frank, the Pope and the gondoliers.”
“Nope,” Theresa replied cheerfully. “I want you to keep the decor.”
“You do?” Michael pushed back in his chair, surprised.
“Yup. It’s homey, which is how we’re going to spin the restaurant: as an unpretentious family place where customers can get good, traditional Italian food at decent prices.”
Michael peered at her dubiously. “Are you yanking my chain?”
“No.” Theresa laughed, smiling. “Look, there’s a trend right now toward comfort food. People want stuff they remember from childhood, or from their imagined childhood: meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, spaghetti and meatballs, you name it. You guys are going to become the name in Italian comfort food.”
“So we don’t have to change the menu?”
“Not exactly.”
Michael looked confused. “How are we going to pull in new customers if we don’t have a new look or a new menu?”
Theresa beamed. “Specials.”
“Specials,” Michael repeated blankly.
“You’re going to have something special two or three times a month, tied to the calendar. The first Friday night of every month could be family night; kids eat free and adults have unlimited salad and breadsticks. In December you could offer a big, traditional Italian dinner on Christmas Eve. January? A Superbowl party. Romantic candlelight dinner on Valentine’s Day. A Mother’s Day special in May.” Theresa found herself getting excited. “We’ll tie specials into the community. Next September, you could run a special connected to the Santa Rosalia festival. There will never be a holiday or local event for which Dante’s isn’t doing something special.”
“Starting when?”
“Now.” She checked Michael’s expression, hoping to see the enthusiasm she was feeling reflected back at her. Instead, he looked like he was suffering from a bad case of indigestion. “What’s wrong?”
“When you say specials . . . will Anthony have to make special dishes?”
“Sometimes, like for Christmas Eve and Valentine’s Day. In the summer, you guys could make up special picnic baskets to go with biscotti, cured olives, some panini.”
Michael looked doubtful. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” Theresa said confidently.
“This will bring in the real foodies?”
“In time. I’m going to start by sending out a press kit to every magazine and newspaper writer under the sun who has anything to do with food. I’ve already compiled a list of about three hundred.”
“Three hundred?”
“And that doesn’t even include radio and TV personalities who we want to try to get in here to review the restaurant. I’m telling you: One thumbs-up from Joan Hamburg at WOR and you’ll have a line out the door, guaranteed. When’s the construction being done for the expansion?”
“March, I think. We’re open in April.”
“Hmmm.” Theresa nibbled the tip of her pen. “That means we might miss the chance to do Easter dinner here, depending on when it falls. We’ll have to check the calendar.”
She stopped talking, giving him time to let it sink in. Michael remained silent.
“You look shell-shocked.” She laughed.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Michael answered carefully. “Everything you’re laying out sounds great. It’s just Anthony. He’s going to blow a gasket. I can hear it already: ‘Mom and Pop never ran monthly specials, yada yada yada.’ ”
“You said you could handle your brother.”
“Oh, I can. I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to firearms.”
They both laughed, and for a split second, it struck Theresa how ruggedly handsome he was. But as quickly as the thought came, she made it disappear. She had blonder fish to fry.
Theresa hesitated. “There is one more thing.”
Michael waited.
“You need to update your wait staff.”
Michael stared at her.
“You need to get some younger waiters and waitresses to reflect the diversity of customers you’ll be pulling in.”
“Theresa, all the guys who work here worked for my dad, they—”
“I know that, Michael. They’re all old men.”
“Why can’t that be part of the restaurant’s old-world charm?” Michael challenged. “If you want me to convince Anthony to put together picnic baskets and prepare baccala on Christmas Eve and Christ knows what else, we have to leave the wait staff alone.”
“We’ll talk about it another time,” Theresa placated. She glanced down at the notes she’d typed up. That seemed to cover everything for now. “Any questions?”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Actually, there is. Since you’re the man about town, you need to start talking up the restaurant every chance you get. And if you know any Italian celebrities who might be willing to come to the reopening, that would be great as well.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Michael ran his hand through his hair, grimacing when it came away greasy, which made Theresa grin. “Did you enjoy the pastries I sent you last week?” he asked casually.
Theresa decided to tease him, just a little. “Those were from you?”
“Did you like them?”
She couldn’t lie. “Yes.”
“Good.” Nervously, almost distractedly, Michael began playing with the toothpick lying on the table in front of him. “When would you like to go for coffee?”
Groaning, Theresa cradled her head in her hands. “Michael.”
“It’s not a difficult question, Theresa. All you have to do is say yes.”
“Let me think about it, okay?”
“What’s to think about?”
Theresa bristled with annoyance. “Don’t push, Michael. I don’t like it.”
“Fine, I won’t push. But I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Of course you don’t. You weren’t sexually assaulted by a hockey player. You don’t wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat feeling smothered because he pushed himself on top of you . . . and you don’t recall the taste of blood in your mouth after he cracked you across the face . . . his saliva drying on your breast. . . .
“Theresa?”
She forced a smile. “Sorry. I was zoning out.”
The disappointment shadowing Michael’s face almost made her feel sorry enough to have coffee with him. Almost. But he was pushy. If she agreed to coffee, the next thing you know he’d be on her about dinner, and then . . . she shuddered.
“I have to go,” she said abruptly, gathering up her things. “I’ll be in touch again soon. In the meantime, if you need any help with Anthony, let me know.”
“Sure, no problem,” Michael said glumly.
Theresa hurried out the door and back into the brisk air, where she could clear her head and concentrate on more important things.
Like what she was going to wear when she met Reese Banister.
“Mikey! What a surprise!”
Michael smiled as his cousin Gemma drew him into an embrace, crushing him against her as the overwhelming scent of her patchouli perfume, strong and musky, tickled his nostrils. Gemma ran the Golden Bough, a New Age shop in the Village. He’d come to see her because he was desperate for female advice.
Gemma was the black sheep of the family. Not only was she thirty-one and happily single, but she’d committed the cardinal sin of moving into the big, bad city, far from Brooklyn and all that was pure in this world, or so his family thought. Worst of all, she was a stregh—a witch. She’d explained it to him once, all about paganism and white magick and Wicca. Michael had teased her about worshipping furniture, but his feeling was that if it made her happy, who was he to criticize?
The rest of the family took a less charitable view. Gemma was rarely invited to family events for fear their sainted grandmother Nonna Maria might find out she’d “gone over to the dark side” and promptly keel on the spot. Anthony now made the sign of the cross whenever he saw her. None of it seemed to phase Gemma, who had always been Michael’s favorite cousin, even if she was a bit, well, spooky. When they were kids, Gemma was always freaking him out, accurately shouting out who was on the other end of the line when the phone rang, or predicting things before they happened. One time, Gemma airily announced to him, “You’re gonna fall and go to the hospital.” Five minutes later, he tripped and fell down the steps at Nonna’s and had to get five stitches to his chin. At the time, he was certain she’d somehow made him fall. Nowadays he was content to admit some things simply defied explanation and leave it at that. It wasn’t an area he cared to delve into too deeply.
“Sit down,” Gemma urged, leading him to one of the tall stools behind the counter. A few customers were silently browsing the book section, which Michael noticed carried books on everything from astrology to Zoroastri anism. He didn’t mind the books. It was all the other stuff, the tarot cards and the crystals and the incense and the candles, that gave him the willies. Maybe it was a case of “You can take the boy out of Catholicism, but you can’t take the Catholicism out of the boy.” He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that just being there made him feel slightly uncomfortable, like he was doing something vaguely sinful. It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help what he felt. Or smelled. The cloying sweetness of incense wafting through the small store was so strong he knew that by the time he left he’d have a whopping headache.
He turned to his cousin, her forehead wrinkled as she concentrated hard on staring into his face, eyes narrowed.
“What?” he asked, alarmed.
She touched his wrist lightly. “You’re in pain?” she asked with concern. “Someone’s hurt you?”
Jesus H, did she have to start in with the witch stuff right off the bat?
“In a way,” Michael admitted. “There’s this girl—I mean woman . . .”
He proceeded to tell her all about Theresa, pausing only when one of the customers came to the counter to pay for a book on Santeria. Michael jokingly asked if she’d read the sequels on the Nina and the Pinta, only to be punched in the shoulder by his cousin. The customer awarded him such a look of condescension that had he been a dog, he would have slunk away with his tail between his legs. When the shop was empty again, Gemma listened carefully as he finished his story, nodding thoughtfully.
“Let me ask you a question,” she finally said.
“Okay.”
“Why do you think this girl has changed so much since you first met her? You said that when you were first introduced a few years back, she was easygoing and funny. But now she’s stiff and formal and looks like a schoolmarm.”
“A HOT schoolmarm,” Michael felt compelled to point out.
“Whatever. What do you think is going on?”
Michael felt uncomfortable. “It could have something to do with what happened to her.” He checked Gemma’s expression to make sure she knew what he was referring to. “But why does she need to hide? When I fed her some of Anthony’s pastry, the real Theresa came out. But the minute she realized it, bam! It was back to cold fish Theresa.”
“She’s obviously trying to protect herself.”
“Ya think?” Michael retorted.
“So, maybe you should leave her alone,” said Gemma, pointedly ignoring his sarcasm.
“I can’t.”
“Why? Why do you refuse to accept that she doesn’t want anything to do with you?”
“Well . . .” Michael scratched his left ear distractedly, trying to formulate an answer not only for Gemma, but for himself. “Because I just have this feeling I can’t shake, that if she would just give me a chance . . . trust me . . . let her guard down . . . she’d see we were right for each other somehow. I don’t know how to explain it.”
Gemma’s mouth gave way to a knowing smile. “It’s called intuition, Mikey. Everyone has it. But some are more willing to pay attention to it than others.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Don’t get all airy fairy on me here. Just tell me what you think I should do.”
Gemma sighed. “I’m not sure. Hold on a minute.” Reaching down, she pulled out a small, purple velvet bag from beneath the counter.
“What’s that?” Michael asked suspiciously.
“Tarot cards,” she informed him, removing a deck from the bag and placing it on the counter.
Michael groaned. “Gemma, c’mon, you know how I feel about this stuff.”
“Indulge me.” She handed the cards to him. “We’ll just ask one question at a time and see what they say. Think of a question, then shuffle the deck as many times as you want. When you’re done, put the deck down and turn over the top card.”
“Okay.” He held the cards tight in the palm of his hand, thinking. “Is Theresa the one for me?” he asked quietly. He began shuffling the well-worn cards, surprised to find he was somewhat nervous. “I swear to God, if you tell anyone in the family I did this, I will hunt you down,” he threatened his cousin.
“Concentrate on the cards and the question, Michael,” Gemma urged. The cards and the question. The cards and the question. A number came into his head: thirty-three. His uniform number. Shuffling the cards thirty-three times, he put them down on the counter as instructed and turned over the top card. There was a picture of a couple dressed in medieval garb, holding hands in front of what looked like a preacher or a judge. “The Lovers” it said in flowery print beneath them. His eyes darted to Gemma’s, hopeful. “That’s good?”
“Very good. The card symbolizes love, beauty, the beginning of a romantic relationship. Maybe even marriage, eventually.”
Michael felt vindicated. “See? It’s in the cards. Literally.”
“The cards you think are a bunch of bull,” Gemma pointed out.
“Maybe not,” Michael admitted, encouraged. Maybe there was something to this mystical mumbo jumbo after all. “Can I ask another question?”
“Be my guest.”
He picked up the cards again, this time closing his eyes. “When will it happen?”
He waited for another number to appear in his mind. Thirty-three. Okay, so maybe thirty-three would be the only number that ever came to his mind. That was fine with him. He shuffled the deck more slowly this time, turning over the top card when he was done. The card was upside down. “Nine of Wands,” he read aloud, checking out the illustration of a peasant in tights alongside a cart loaded with nine long pieces of wood. He looked at his cousin expectantly.
“Well . . .” she began hesitantly.
“What?” Michael was growing alarmed. “What is it?”
“Reversed, the Nine of Wands indicates obstacles, adversity, delays. Lots of problems, lots of barriers to overcome.” She winced. “Sorry.”
“I knew these cards were bullshit,” Michael muttered darkly.
“It doesn’t mean you’re not going to get her,” Gemma assured him. “It’s just not going to be easy.”
“Great.” Michael sulked.
Gemma’s gaze was sympathetic. “You really like her, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I really do,” said Michael. “She’s smart and funny. A little bit cranky, too, but that’s okay, I can cope with cranky. And she’s gorgeous—Madonn’ . . .”
“Well, then you’ve got to have faith it’s going to work out.” Gemma began putting the cards back in their velvet bag. “What does Anthony think of her?”
Michael pulled a tortured face. “Don’t get me started on Anthony.”
“What? Why?”
He told Gemma all about Dante’s, including Theresa’s suggestions and his brother’s reluctance to change anything.
“You have to go easy with Anthony, Michael. He’s very sensitive.”
“Who isn’t?” Michael scoffed.
“I mean about the restaurant in particular.”
“Well, so am I.”
“It’s different. Dante’s has been his whole life. He’s poured his guts into it. Now all of a sudden you step in and want to change things around? No wonder he’s upset.”
“Are you saying I don’t have a right to improve things?” Michael demanded, feeling defensive.
“Not at all. I’m just saying be sensitive to his feelings. You’ve seen and done things he never has, maybe never will. He’s jealous of you. All he’s ever had is Dante’s, and he’s afraid you’re somehow going to take it away from him. Be gentle with him, Mike.”
“Yeah, yeah, I will,” Michael promised. He found the idea that Anthony might be jealous of him bizarre, but he supposed it could be true. All those times Anthony got on his ass about being a wussy college boy and a dumb jock . . . Michael always assumed it was Anthony’s way of putting him down. But now he saw there might be a different way to interpret it.
The incense was starting to make his temples throb. Hopping down from his stool, he leaned in to kiss his cousin’s cheek. “I should run. I’ve got a million things to do today.”
“Wait. Let me give you something.”
Gemma hustled out from behind the counter and went to the front of the store, returning with two large, thick candles, one white, one red. “Burn them and think thoughts of Theresa. They’re to attract love.”
“Don’t you have a spell I can recite or something?” Michael ribbed.
“I do, but I know you won’t do it.”
Squirming with embarrassment, Michael gently thrust the candles back at his cousin. “I can’t take these, Gemma.”
“Afraid you might get what you want?” she asked, refusing to take them back from him.
“No, afraid people might think I’m a total whackjob.”
“Thanks a lot.” Gemma sniffed, looking mildly offended. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, Michael told her he’d take the candles and waited while she rolled them in protective tissue paper and put them in a bag.
“One more thing,” she said.
Michael shifted his weight impatiently. “If you’re gonna tell me to dance beneath the moon naked and howl like a wolf, you’ve got the wrong guy, okay?”
“You’re a big, fat idiot, you know that?” Gemma shook her head affectionately. She pressed a stone into his hand. Smooth, milky white, it was the size of a jawbreaker. “That’s moonstone. Also known to attract love.”
“And what the hell am I supposed to do with it?” Michael lamented. “Use it as a doorstop?”
“Just carry it in your pocket. It’s not kryptonite, it won’t kill you.”
“What do I owe you for all this?”
“You can give my love to Nonna. Tell her I miss her,” Gemma said sadly.
“Hey, you know you’re always welcome by me and Anthony.”
“I know that,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. “Now get out there and get Theresa. Just remember: It’s not gonna be easy.”
After visiting his cousin, Michael took advantage of having the day off. He shot back to Brooklyn, stopping first at his own place in Park Slope to drop off the candles and moonstone. Then he headed to Bensonhurst, letting himself into Anthony’s house, which was once his parents’ house. He and Anthony had a standing rule that either could walk into the other’s place at any time. Not that Anthony ever did. Anthony hadn’t been to Michael’s apartment since helping him move in three years before. Walking through to the kitchen, Michael poured himself a cup of coffee from the ever-present Mr. Coffee on the counter.
Glancing around, he felt nostalgia envelop him like a well-worn blanket. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear his mother humming while she stood at the stove, her happiness an invisible but omnipresent ingredient in every dish she prepared. He’d never known anyone as easygoing or as happy to be cooking. Nothing daunted her. He could remember nights his father would be about to burst a blood vessel when something had gone wrong at the restaurant, a vegetable delivery that was late or some dish that hadn’t turned out the way he wanted. It was always his mother who was able to calm him down and make him see that in the grand scheme of things, one burnt eggplant didn’t merit that much agita. Growing up, he always thought his father was the strong one. Now he knew it was his mother.
Coffee prepared, he wandered back out into the living room to wait for his brother. It wasn’t only the kitchen that remained unchanged. Everything in the house was the same as when his parents were alive. The couch with its faded green slipcover was still under the picture window. The TV still sat atop a lace runner on a table that had once been Nonna Maria’s. Jesus, there was even hard candy in the glass dish on the sideboard. That candy was probably older than he was. He wondered when, or if, Anthony would ever get around to redecorating. There had to be a part of him that wanted to make the house his own.
Sighing, Michael took a sip of coffee. Anthony would never redecorate. It wasn’t who Anthony was. He could already hear him protesting: “But why would I want to get rid of the couch? It’s perfectly good.” Anthony had lived his whole life in this house, and would probably die in his bed upstairs. Michael never understood why Anthony had never gotten around to getting a place of his own. How did he stand being a grown man, living with his parents? It had embarrassed Michael, but obviously Anthony didn’t feel the same way, and neither did their parents. Every time Anthony made overtures about leaving, their mother would talk him out of it. It was a little game they played. But once their father died six years ago, the game was over. There was no question Anthony would stay on. Michael had always felt guilty over his relief that Anthony was shouldering most of the burden of taking care of their mother—not that she needed it. Right up until the day she died, she worked in the kitchen at Dante’s, teaching Anthony everything she knew, then crowing with pride to whomever would listen when he surpassed her. It struck Michael that Anthony had to be feeling pretty lonely these days without Ma, both at home and in the restaurant. Keeping Gemma’s advice in mind, he resolved to be patient with his brother, even if Anthony wound up threatening him with a carving knife, or worse.
He heard the back door open. “Hey, Ant! In here.”
“Mikey?” Anthony called back, sounding surprised. “Just let me get my coat off and pour myself some joe and I’ll be right in.”
Michael listened to the sounds of Anthony moving around the kitchen. He wasn’t sure whether Anthony was aware of it or not, but just like their mother, he was humming to himself. Sounds like he’s in a good mood. Maybe this won’t be too awful after all.
“Hey.” Anthony sat down, joining Michael on the couch.
“Where ya been?”
“Had to take Nonna to the dentist.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Michael asked, feeling guilty. “It’s an off day. I could have taken her.”
“I was going to ask, but you shot out of the restaurant so fast after talking to—what’s her name?”
“Theresa.”
“I didn’t get a chance to.”
“Sorry about that.” He took another sip of coffee. “Nonna’s teeth okay?”
“The few that are hers, yeah. You two should go together. Maybe Doc Collins would give you a two for one deal, since neither of you has a full set of choppers.”
“You’re funny as cancer, Anthony, you know that?” Unable to resist, Michael continued. “You ever think of redecorating this place?”
“What for?” Anthony replied.
“Because this room has looked the same since the Nixon administration.”
“So? The furniture’s still in good shape. What the hell do I care if it’s in style or not?”
His brother was so predictable.
Anthony took a long, slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, his eyes glued to Michael’s face. “So, you wanna tell me the latest PR bullshit Theresa has cooked up for us?”
“It’s not bullshit,” Michael informed him. “It’s great.”
“Yeah? Tell me how great it is.”
Keeping it as simple as he could, Michael outlined Theresa’s plans for monthly specials. Unnervingly, Anthony’s eyes never wavered from his face. Michael wasn’t even sure he blinked. When Michael was done, Anthony spoke one simple word.
“No.”
Michael steeled himself. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, no, N-O, I’m not going to do this.”
“Anthony—”
“A traditional Italian dinner on Christmas Eve,” Anthony jeered. “Forget it. Christmas Eve is sacred, Mike. You know that.”
“It can still be sacred.”
Anthony snorted in disbelief. “How, if I’m in the kitchen up to my ass in fucking squid?”
“Easy. We close at ten. That still gives everyone enough time to get to Midnight Mass and eat dinner.”
“Oh, and when am I supposed to cook our family dinner? In my sleep?”
“Aunt Gavina could do it this year.”
Anthony bit down on the knuckle of his left index finger, horrified. “God forbid.” He shook his head. “This isn’t gonna work, Mike.”
“Yes, it is, Anthony.” He could hear the stubbornness creeping into his voice and struggled to remain focused on Gemma’s advice. “It’s not really that big of a departure, Ant. All it takes is a little planning.”
“And a lot of hard work.” Anthony was incensed. “What the hell makes you think I want to stand in the kitchen on Valentine’s Day, preparing flourless chocolate cake for some fucking Park Slope yuppies, no offense? Does this PR lady have any idea how long it takes to prepare a Christmas Eve feast? Does she know how long it takes to cure those olives she thinks we should put in summer picnic baskets? I don’t have time for this, Mike.”
“So we’ll hire some additional staff.”
“We?”
“Fine, me, I’ll lay out the money, how’s that?”
Anthony was unyielding. “Fine, since you’re the one who seems hell bent on messing with a good thing.”
“Good things can turn into great things with a little care and planning,” Michael retorted. He stared at his pigheaded brother. “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you don’t want the restaurant to get the recognition it deserves.”
“Because unlike you, I don’t need the approval of the public. I love to cook. The restaurant lets me do that. I don’t need it to be the most popular restaurant in the world.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I do,” Michael replied warily. He took another sip of coffee, making a sour face. It was losing heat. He liked his coffee hot or not at all. Disgusted, he put the cup down on the coffee table. “I can’t do this without you, Anthony.”
Anthony laughed bitterly. “No shit.”
“Can we at least give it a try?”
Anthony’s expression was cool. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“If you expect me to slave away in the kitchen, turning out little orange and black Halloween cupcakes and fuck knows what else, then I expect you in the front of the house whenever you’re in town and don’t have a game, making sure everything is running smoothly. And when you do have a game, I think you should get your ass back to Brooklyn as soon as you’re done at Met Gar to help me.”
Their eyes locked. One second, two seconds, three. Finally Michael broke contact.
“After games is off limits,” he informed his brother. “I need time to unwind. Plus I’m entitled to a life.”
“Glad one of us is,” Anthony muttered.
Michael snorted derisively. “How’s the weather up there on the cross, Anthony?”
“Screw you, Mike.”
“Have we got a deal?” Michael repeated.
“Yes,” Anthony assured him. “You mentioned you were off today, so you may as well come down to the restaurant.” Wicked glee twinkled in his eyes. “That won’t be a problem, will it, Mike?”
“Nope.” Michael stood up, afraid if he stayed a second longer he’d grab Anthony in a headlock and throttle the life out of him. “Gotta run, Ant,” he said hurriedly as he zipped up his bomber jacket. “Places to go, people to see.”
“Toodle-ooh, Mikey. See you later.”
Smiling tersely, Michael leaned over and patted his brother’s shoulder. Maybe he was crazy, but Michael could have sworn he heard his brother laughing as he closed the front door.