CHAPTER 08
It was so hot in St. Finbar’s, and the drone of the priest was so boring, Michael feared he’d pass out and smash his forehead on the pew in front of him.
He’d conveyed Nonna Maria to church by seven-thirty, as directed, but she wasn’t the only one there early to stake her claim. Michael counted at least twenty nearly identical old women filing into the church at the same time, all legging it as fast as they could up the center aisle to grab “their” spots. He wondered what would happen if one of them found someone else sitting in their personal seat. Would they all band together and force the interloper to move? The image of a band of rosary bead-wielding grannies menacing a poor, unsuspecting worshipper amused him.
Hell, he needed something to laugh about, didn’t he?
Arriving home the night before, the first thing he’d done was throw Gemma’s moonstone out the window. Next, he tossed the candles in the trash. Even now, the temptation to scowl at the figure on the cross and mutter “Thanks for nothing” was strong. He resisted, fearing outright sacrilege.
What the hell had happened?
One minute Theresa was letting him kiss her, the next she was telling him their relationship was strictly business. It didn’t make sense. She didn’t make sense. He’d locked lips with a few women in his time, and he could tell when someone was into it. Theresa was definitely into it. Aware of her past, he’d deliberately held back, not wanting to push her. He didn’t want to do or say anything to make her feel pressured or trapped. He sensed she appreciated it, though—
Ouch, Madonn’. “Jesus, Nonna!” A sharp poke in the ribs knocked him out of his daydream. Everyone else in the church was on their knees.
“Sorry,” he whispered to his grandmother, whose disapproval he couldn’t bear.
He knelt down beside her, knowing his knees would regret it later. He was relieved when Nonna closed her eyes and seemed to lose herself in prayer.
Maybe he had pushed.
Maybe asking her out for coffee right after the kiss was too much for her to handle. He knew pushiness was a problem of his. Something would stick in his mind and like a dog with a bone, he couldn’t let it go. Dogged determination was the reason he’d made it into the NHL. The reason he was still on the third line and that effing—Sorry, Jesus—moron van Dorn remained out of the lineup. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he knew how to back off.
But if he wanted to get Theresa, he might have to learn.
A sharp pinch to his arm let him know it was time to sit back in the pew again. Grimacing, he slid back, his knees throbbing with pain. Talk about penance. People were rising from their seats and walking towards the front of the church to receive communion. His grandmother eyed him expectantly but he shook his head no. He knew it disappointed her, but in this case, it was too bad. It did-n’t feel right, especially since he’d been sitting here feeling angry with God.
He watched the parade of parishioners slowly make their way towards the brass altar railing, where they waited patiently for the priest to feed them their wafer and wine. He had pushed, he decided. He’d ruined a perfectly romantic moment by nudging that one extra inch. Gavone, he chided himself. When are you going to learn? But he’d meant what he’d said about not giving up on her. The tarot cards had explicitly said—okay, maybe not explicitly—that she might be The One. It was going to take a lot of time, patience and energy, and there would be lots of obstacles to overcome. Maybe this was just one of the minor setbacks predicted in the cards; the universe telling him “Cool your jets, buddy boy, take it slow.”
“Psst, yo Mikey.”
The stage whisper made him turn. There was Theresa’s brother Phil and his two oldest kids shuffling up the aisle. Not wanting to disturb other parishioners, some of whom were obviously deep in contemplation, Michael just winked. “Meet me outside after,” Phil continued, his daughter rolling her eyes at her father’s irreverence during a solemn moment. Michael nodded yes, waving to little Vicki, who happily waved back. He waited for his grandmother to return to her seat.
The rest of the service passed in an interminable blur.
“Phil, Little Phil, Vicki, I want you to meet my grandmother, Maria Grimaldi.”
After a pointed barb from Father Clementine about how happy he was to see “this young man” back in church, Michael was finally able to escort Nonna outside, where Phil and his kids were waiting. Phil politely shook Nonna’s hand while the two kids stood there, smiling nervously and backing away slightly, unsure what to do.
“We go to Gavina’s,” Nonna said impatiently.
“I know,” Michael soothed. “It’ll just be a minute.”
As if she didn’t hear him, Nonna started toddling away, up Benson Street to where the car was parked.
“What’s up?” he asked Phil hurriedly, keeping an eye on his grandmother.
“What are you doing two Sundays from now?”
Michael ran through the team’s schedule in his head. “We’re home. We’ve got an early afternoon game against Toronto. Why?”
“Why don’t you stop by after the game for coffee and dessert? Debbie and I are giving Mom and Dad a break. Theresa’s going to be there.”
Michael hesitated. “I don’t think Theresa would be too happy to see me there. She didn’t react too well last time.”
“Don’t let her scare you. She’s all bark and no bite. Whaddaya say?”
It didn’t take long for Michael to make his decision. “Sure, why not? I’ll call when it gets closer so you can tell me what I should bring.”
Phil clapped a hand on his back. “Good man.”
“I gotta run, Phil, my grandmother is trying to get into someone else’s car.”
Waving his good-bye, Michael jogged off in the direction of Nonna, shouting for her to wait. Maybe accepting the invite was a mistake. Maybe it was pushy.
Or maybe Phil’s being in church today was divinely ordained.
Pointing Nonna in the direction of his own car, Gemma’s admonition to “have faith” seemed to resonate. He felt lighter, more confident; all previous traces of soul wrestling vanished into the frosty morning air. Once he’d dropped Nonna off at his aunt’s, he would swing back to his place and check the gutter to see if maybe the moonstone had rolled into it.
Then he’d fish those candles out of the garbage.
Monday morning. Theresa had contemplated calling in sick to avoid Janna’s third degree. But she couldn’t. They had too much work. Plus, it was simply postponing the inevitable.
The sooner she spilled, the sooner she could forget the whole evening.
Forgetting was high on Theresa’s “To Do” list.
She’d spent most of Sunday working at home, putting the final touches on a press kit for an actress on Jailbirds, a new network comedy taking place inside a women’s prison. The show might not last, but if Theresa did her job right, interest in her new client would. Revising the press release, she’d picked up the phone to call Reese a half dozen times, always deciding at the last second not to go through with it. Conversely, every time her phone rang, she tried not picking it up on the first ring to keep from seeming desperate.
Unfortunately, all that did was give her three-second respites from talking to her mother, her brother, and four different solicitors.
So much for self-restraint.
Arriving at work, she was surprised to find Terrence absent. The world’s nosiest man was usually there before both she and Janna, tidying his desk and sharpening his barbs. Meandering down the hall, she could hear Janna’s fingers flying furiously across the computer keyboard. Her door was open, so Theresa walked right in. Janna’s fingers went silent as Theresa plopped down in the nearest chair.
“All right,” said Theresa. “What do you want to know first?”
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yeesss,” Theresa replied slowly. She was surprised; she thought Janna’s first question would be “Have you heard from Reese since Saturday?”
“So, have you heard from Reese since Saturday?” Ah. It was the second question. Janna wasn’t slipping.
“No.”
Janna tapped a pen on the edge of her desk.
“Refresh my memory. What was wrong with him again? A bad case of bullshititis?”
“Not funny.”
“C’mon, Terry, lighten up.”
“People do suddenly get sick, you know.” Though I didn’t believe him either.
“I know,” Janna allowed. She stopped tapping and put her elbows on the desk, cupping her chin in her left hand. “You and Michael seemed to be having a pretty good time together.”
Theresa remained silent.
“Even Ty noticed it,” Janna continued, with a sly smile. “He thought you and Michael looked cute together.”
“So did Spanky and Alfalfa. That didn’t mean they were a love match.”
“Why are you so touchy about this?”
“You know why.” A great jet of frustration was hissing up inside her. “Why does everyone treat me like an idiot who doesn’t know her own heart and mind?”
Janna looked baffled. “What do you mean?”
“You, my mother, Michael—you all think he’s The One for me and I’m too stupid to see it!” Hot, angry tears threatened. “I’m sorry,” she choked, trying not to cry. “I’m just tired of everyone thinking they know what’s best for me.” I’m tired of thinking I’ve found a nice man only to have him turn around and kick me in the teeth.
Janna slid out from behind her desk and, crouching beside Theresa’s chair, wrapped a loving arm around her shoulder. “This is about Reese Banister, isn’t it?”
“No!” Theresa yelped. “I—okay, I was disappointed he didn’t come with me, all right? I really wanted you to meet the real him.”
“When did the real him call you to cancel?” Janna asked pointedly.
“Does it matter?” Theresa sniffled.
“Ladies?”
Theresa and Janna both turned to see Terrence standing in the doorway, holding aloft a gorgeous spray of flowers and a huge, gold box of Godiva chocolates.
“These arrived seconds ago for a certain Ms. Falconetti.” He rattled the chocolate box. “Come and get it, girl.”
Theresa flew from the chair and fetched the flowers and candy from Terrence. She opened the tiny white envelope pinned to the flower arrangement, all frustration and doubt fading away as she read aloud: “Theresa. Sorry about Saturday night. Will call soon and we’ll have dinner. Reese.”
“Well,” Terrence purred. “What’s all this about?”
“Thanks,” Theresa said, ignoring his curiosity. “You can go now.”
“Would you like me to put those in water for you?” he asked politely.
“Oh.” Flowers. Water. Right. “Sure.” She handed them back to him.
“That’ll be one Godiva chocolate, please.”
Theresa grinned. “Later. If you behave.”
“Define behave,” Terrence replied brazenly.
“Good-bye,” said Theresa loudly, smiling as she pushed him out the door. She turned back to Janna, beaming. “See? See how nice Reese is?”
When Janna simply nodded, Theresa knew she was holding her tongue, but didn’t care. Let Janna think what she wanted. She knew what a wonderful person Reese was, and if Janna chose to believe otherwise, that was her problem. Once Janna spent time with Reese and saw what a sensitive, intelligent man he was, she’d give up her pathetic campaigning for Michael Dante.
“Want a chocolate?” she asked.
The mood in the Blades locker room was more pumped up than usual as the players began dressing for their game. They were playing Dallas, who were leading the Western Conference. It would be a real test for the team, and the sellout crowd would be especially stoked.
Fastening his lucky shoulder pads with the same old lucky skate laces he’d used for five years, Michael mused on his new superstitions. Not only had he managed to retrieve the gemstone, but it was in his locker, hidden in the pocket of his pants. Who knows? he thought, sitting down on the bench to affix his shin guards next. Maybe it will bring luck on the ice as well.
His metaphysical reverie was broken not by backup goalie Denny O’Malley cranking up the pre-game music to an almost deafening level—though that was annoying—but by a preppie thorn in his side.
“You sure you’re up to playing tonight?” van Dorn asked. “I thought you might have thrown your back out over the weekend, attempting to get it on with that girl from the party.”
Michael ignored him and continued dressing.
“No answer,” van Dorn observed aloud. “Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t have his hearing aid turned on.”
Pissed but self-controlled, Michael regarded his nemesis pitifully. “Do yourself a favor. You’re in the pros now. Start acting like it.”
“Right on, Mikey,” said defenseman Barry Fontaine, whose locker was beside Michael’s.
Embarrassed, van Dorn sneered and walked away.
“Still gunnin’ for ya spot, eh?” asked Barry.
“Guess so,” said Michael. Slipping on his padded pants and tying down his sweater, Michael found himself getting worked up. With van Dorn breathing down his neck, Anthony breaking his balls and Theresa screwing with his head, it was a miracle he hadn’t landed in a mental hospital. He could fully imagine himself behind bars after murdering van Dorn with his bare hands. Arrogant little shit. Did he really think insults were going to rattle him? Mr. Ivy League obviously hadn’t heard the kind of trash talk dished out on the ice in the minors. Lacing up his skates, he vowed that from now on, nothing the little twerp said would get under his skin.
On the ice, Michael transformed his anger into aggression. On his first shift, he nailed one of Dallas’s defensemen in the corner with a punishing body check. On his second shift he broke up a cross-ice pass that could have easily turned into an odd man rush against the Blades. His energy wasn’t lost on Ty, who gave him more ice time during the second and third periods than he’d seen in a year, double-shifting his line. Inspired, Michael made another great defensive play, stealing the puck and flipping a perfect saucer pass to Kevin Gill, who was just off the bench. Gill went in alone and scored the game winner.
After the final horn, as the team gathered around goalie Pierre LaRouche, Michael finally allowed himself to relax. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so high, so invincible. He’d played the entire game “in the zone” and was named one of the “Stars of the Game,” along with LaRouche and second-line center Thad Meyers. He reveled in the adulation of the Blades fans, especially those way up in the blue seats chanting “Mikey D, Mikey D,” when he stepped back out onto the ice after the game.
These were his people. God, he loved New Yorkers.
In the locker room afterwards, he basked in the compliments of his teammates: “You were on fire out there, Mike!” Gilly shouted. “Over the hill my ass!” yelled fellow vet Nick Roberts. Their appreciation was made all the more sweet knowing that Golden Boy heard every word of it.
Emerging from his shower relaxed, yet still energized, Michael found himself being flagged over to the coach’s office by Ty.
“You played a helluva game out there tonight, Mike.”
“Thanks, coach.”
He winked at Michael. “You must have been inspired, huh?”
Michael laughed ruefully, vigorously toweling his head. “Pissed off was more like it.”
“Things not going well with Theresa?” Ty asked.
“Things aren’t going, period.”
“Want to talk?” Ty offered.
Michael hesitated. It embarrassed him, spilling his guts to Ty, especially after already talking to Kevin. Whenever he’d had “girl trouble” in the past, he’d been able to figure things out on his own. But this was different. This wasn’t just any woman, this was The One. “You sure?” he double-checked, stalling. “Don’t you have to talk to the media?”
“A few minutes wait won’t kill them. Go on.”
As briefly as he could, Michael filled Ty in, emphasizing how he had followed Kevin’s advice on wooing, but omitting his visit to Gemma. He couldn’t believe he was telling all this to his coach, but what the hell. Good advice often came from unexpected places. When he told Ty about Theresa’s brother asking him over for dessert, Ty’s response was immediate.
“You’re going, right?”
“I said yes, but . . .” Michael frowned uneasily.
“But what?”
“I’m worried about looking pathetic, you know?”
“You won’t look pathetic,” Ty assured him. “You’ll look determined.”
“Yeah?” Michael wasn’t so sure.
“Yeah. Look: Why are you in the NHL?”
“What?”
“Why are you in the NHL?” Ty repeated patiently. “Why are you in the pros when so many other guys with more natural ability never made it out of the minors?”
Pride burgeoned in Michael’s chest. “Because I don’t give up.”
“That’s right. You’re a warrior, Michael. You do whatever it takes. That’s what you have to do with Theresa.”
Michael nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” It was comforting to hear his coach echo the revelation he himself had had in church the previous weekend. In the end, it all boiled down to determination, didn’t it? Determination to win the game. Determination to get the girl.
And faith. He couldn’t forget about that.
But there was still something gnawing at him.
“Why did she let me kiss her, then freak out when I asked her out for coffee?”
“I think Theresa might have a lot of issues around intimacy after what happened,” Ty said carefully, his gaze seeming to penetrate Michael’s in an effort to make sure he knew what was being referred to. “I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“It’s kind of hard not to.”
“I know, but you have to realize that she’s probably scared shitless by the thought of being vulnerable to you in any way. Go slow. Be patient.”
“I can do that.”
“Then go for it,” Ty encouraged. He picked up his sports jacket and swung it up onto his shoulder. “Anything else?”
“You could give me more ice time from now on,” Michael joshed.
“Keep playing like tonight and I will. Have a good night, Mikey.”
“You, too, Ty.”
“I have an idea,” Theresa said enthusiastically. “Why don’t we go out back and play wiffle ball until your mom calls us for dessert?” Though she loved spending time with Vicki and Little Phil, watching the same movie over and over was not her idea of fun. Hitting the remote, she stopped the video.
“Cool,” said Little Phil. He was off the couch in a shot. Vicki didn’t look so sure.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Theresa asked.
“Philly’s gonna hit me with the bat.”
“Philly will not hit you with the bat, I promise,” Theresa said, rising from the couch and extending a hand to her niece. Together they walked through to the kitchen, where Theresa’s mother and sister-in-law were busy loading the dishwasher and getting out the tableware for dessert.
“We’re going to go in the back for a while,” Theresa announced.
“Sure, anything to get out of KP patrol,” Debbie teased.
“It’s good for her to play with children,” Theresa’s mother declared.
“As opposed to burning them at the stake like I usually do?” Theresa offered.
“We’ll call you for dessert,” Theresa’s mother continued, deliberately ignoring Theresa’s comment. “What’s Daddy doing? Is he still asleep?”
Theresa peered back through the kitchen doorway to look at her father, who was indeed asleep on the far end of the couch. Watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, Theresa’s own breath hitched. He had once been such a robust man. But now he was little more than a shell, his skin gray, his body stooped and failing. He’s dying from the cancer, she thought. The truth of it made her throat close to the size of a pinhole. Not yet, God, please, she prayed.
Collecting herself, she turned back to her mother. “Still sleeping,” she reported.
Her mother glanced up at the clock. “Remind me I have to give him his pills at nine.”
“I will.” She peered down at her niece, smiling. “Ready to go?”
“Yup.”
Vicki skipped out the back door and down the back steps, running to join her brother in the yard. Theresa followed at a slower pace, watching them. She couldn’t believe how big they were. Wasn’t it just yesterday she was visiting them in the hospital? She remembered their tiny pink faces were serene with contentment as she held them tightly in her arms, then lifted them to her nose and inhaled deeply, intoxicated by their pure, innocent baby smell. Tears threatened and she shook them away. Jesus, what was wrong with her? It felt like anything could set her off these days. Reese, her father, the kids . . . maybe she was having a nervous breakdown.
“Okay, you two,” she called, joining them. “I’ll pitch and you can take turns hitting. Phil, clock your sister with that bat and you’re a dead man, got it?”
“Yeah,” Phil muttered.
Both kids complained of the cold, but Theresa wasn’t having any of it. It wasn’t cold at all; they were just so used to sitting slack-jawed in front of the TV they’d forgotten the joys of brisk, invigorating exercise. When she had kids, she’d sure as hell make sure they got some fresh air once in a while.
When she had kids.
Theresa felt the bottom of her stomach drop. It had always been if, not when. Yet looking at Vicki and Phil, who were busy now squabbling over who would get to hit first, Theresa was overcome with a hollow feeling inside. Where is this coming from? she puzzled, frightened by how real and deep the feelings of longing were. Yes, she’d always dreamed of getting married, but kids had always been an abstract concept. Clearly, this was somehow related to Reese. Or—
No.
Genuinely unsettled now, she focused her energies on being an aunt. Her brother stuck his head out the back door and called the three of them in for dessert. Walking back towards the house, she was actually looking forward to losing herself in adult conversation.
But when she entered the dining room she found Michael Dante sitting there.
He was surrounded by her family, all smiling like cats who had swallowed canaries.
“Let me guess,” she sighed. “You were walking by and decided to stop in.”
“I invited him,” her brother confessed.
“Look, Terry, Michael brought cannolis from Dante’s for dessert,” her mother interjected, clearly hoping to forestall World War Three from erupting between her two children.
“Gee, cannolis. Well, that makes it all right, then,” Theresa said sarcastically.
“Who wants coffee?” Debbie asked with false cheer.
“I’ll have some,” Michael said politely, holding his cup aloft. His eyes sought Theresa’s but she refused to look at him.
Coffee poured, Michael engaged in small talk, to which Theresa’s family eagerly responded. She couldn’t get over how much they liked him. The beatific smile on her mother’s face when she looked at him . . . And her father! Madonn’, telling him things about other relatives he hardly ever talked about outside the circle of the immediate family. How could they do this to her? Good old, stupid Theresa, doesn’t know when a man is good for her. Let’s invite Michael over without her knowing and see if she finally gets it. After the tenth or eleventh time her brother referred to Michael as “Mikey D,” her last frazzled nerve gave way.
“Will you stop calling him that?” she snapped. “He’s not one of the Back Street Boys, for Chrissakes.”
“That’s his nickname,” Phil said defensively. He looked to Michael for confirmation. “Am I right or am I right?”
“You’re right,” Michael said tepidly.
“It’s moronic,” Theresa insisted.
“What?” her brother jeered at her. “You can come up with something better?”
Theresa laughed ominously. “You don’t want me to go down that road, okay?”
“Go down it,” Phil challenged.
“Drop it, cidrule,” their father commanded.
Theresa rose and started clearing the table. Well aware she couldn’t avoid Michael forever, she followed him out to his car when he left, knowing that behind the lace curtains in Phil and Debbie’s front window, her whole family was watching them talk.
“I don’t believe you,” she began, crossing her arms across her chest as she parked a hip against the hood of his car. “You think I like being ambushed?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” said Michael. A breeze rippled past, and Theresa caught a whiff of what she assumed was his aftershave, a clean, woodsy scent that she quite liked. Or would have, if someone else was wearing it.
“I don’t care whose idea it was,” she countered. “You should have said no.”
“I told you,” Michael said stubbornly. “I’m not giving up.”
“And I told you: You’re wasting your time.”
“Time’s all I got, Theresa.” Michael’s mouth eased into a slow, confident smile. “I’m in no hurry.”
Of all the stubborn, pigheaded, obstinate . . . he wasn’t going to take the hint, was he? It was futile. Useless. He would keep at her until she finally broke down. Unbelievable. Keeping her expression bland, she regarded him.
“If I go out for coffee with you, will you get off my case?”
“How about dinner?”
“How about a swift kick in the pants?”
“Is that a yes?”
Theresa’s jaw dropped. “You are one pushy SOB, you know that?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Michael replied, actually looking pleased.
“Take it however you want!” She could hear her own voice rising in disbelief.
He jingled his car keys in his pocket impatiently. “So, dinner?”
Theresa threw her hands up in the air. “Fine, dinner! Whatever it takes to get you off my back!” She turned towards the front window, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I’VE AGREED TO HAVE DINNER WITH HIM!” she called loudly. “YOU CAN ALL GO BACK TO YOUR OWN LIVES NOW!”
She saw the curtain flutter slightly. She turned back to Michael. “Call me at the office. We’ll figure out a date and time.”
“Sounds good,” Michael murmured.
“Now do you mind if I go back inside with my family?”
“Go right ahead. And please, thank your brother again for inviting me. That was really nice of him.”
“Phil’s a nice guy when he’s not meddling in other people’s lives.”
She made her way back inside, frowning. Her family was gathered around the TV, watching with forced concentration. Seeing them, she almost burst out laughing. Deciding to play along, she sat down and pretended to be absorbed in what was on the screen, too. Finally her mother couldn’t take it anymore.
“So, when are the two of you going out to dinner?”
“I don’t know, Ma,” Theresa said, still staring at the TV. “But as soon as I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”