Fair Play (21 page)

“Or else?” Janna asked.

“You could be out of business within a year if your lenders are strict.”

Shocked, doomed silence filled the room.

“Go on,” Janna said in a barely audible voice.

Scott sighed heavily, the sigh of a man trapped being the bearer of bad tidings. “Well, you can either pay off the debts with personal funds if you have them, or—”

“We can try to drum up a whole lot of new clients real fast,” Janna finished for him in a voice disconcertingly devoid of emotion.

“Exactly. I'd recommend both, actually.”

Stunned, Janna and Theresa turned and stared at each other. Theresa thought Janna looked on the edge of tears and lowered her gaze. Janna was the strong one, the level-headed one. If she cried . . . Theresa couldn't even bear to think about it.

But Janna was, as always, the consummate professional, though her voice was subdued as she asked, “We don't have to worry about any of this, though, if we sell to Butler, am I right?”

“Correct. They would assume your debt as part of the deal.”

“Is that what you think we should do?” Theresa interjected. She caught Janna's annoyed glance but ignored it. They needed to stop avoiding the subject and start planning. Theresa was simply putting the cards out on the table.

Scott looked uncomfortable. “I can't answer that. It's a personal decision that involves a helluva lot more than just numbers.”

“Chicken,” Theresa threw back at him affectionately.

“I don't envy you,” he admitted. “It's a tough decision.”

Another awkward silence arose, but no one had the energy or inclination to fill it. Somber, Janna rose first, leaning forward to shake Scott's hand across the expanse of his desk. “Thanks for shooting straight with us, Scott. We appreciate it.”

“Well, my services aren't without cost,” he said mischievously.

Theresa smiled. “What can we do for you?”

“Mike Piazza's autograph for my sons?”

“Not a problem,” Janna assured him. “I'll be seeing him later in the week. I'll have two autographed pictures sent here.”

“Great.” Scott's easygoing grin stretched from ear to ear. “You've made my day.”

“I wish we could say the same,” Janna replied dolefully. She looked to Theresa. “Are we ready to roll,
compadre
?”

“Let's go,” Theresa declared with false confidence. “We'll be in touch,” she promised, shaking Scott's hand.

 

 

They walked in
stony silence down the steel and concrete canyon of Madison Avenue, oblivious to the few sad snowflakes swirling from the sky. Unable to face going back to the office, Janna suggested they go to the nearest coffee bar instead. Ducking into a Starbuck's on East Sixty-eighth, they peeled off their coats, ordered drinks and hunkered down at a small table for two.

“Well?” Janna asked, looking and sounding miserable as she carefully blew into her chai latte to cool it. “What do you think?”

“Of what? Be more specific.” Theresa was finding it hard to concentrate as conflicting images of their future ricocheted through her already overloaded mind.

“Scott's saying that if we don't pay off our loans out of our own pockets, we'll become another failed business statistic.”

“I put all my savings
and
the settlement move into starting up,” Theresa said grimly. “I don't have any more.”

“I know.” Janna broke off a small piece of biscotti, her eyes straying to the enormous square cut diamond on her left ring finger. “But I do have a husband. A very
rich
husband. We could get the money from him.”

She lifted her gaze to meet Theresa's.

“Would you be comfortable doing that?” Theresa asked.

“I don't know. I know Ty would give it to us gladly. The problem is my ego,” Janna admitted. “We created this company with our own money and our own credit with the bank. The idea of having to go to him for help . . .” Her voice trailed off into silence.

“Feels like failure?” Theresa supplied.

“Not failure, exactly.” Janna stared down at the table. “It just feels . . . like it wouldn't be
ours
alone anymore, just yours and mine.” She looked to Theresa for confirmation. “Does that make sense?”

“Totally.”

Janna looked relieved. Then she asked, “How do
you
feel about us using Ty's money, if it came to that?”

Theresa sipped her double espresso. “I don't know.”

Janna asked her what she thought about the Butler buyout. The moment of truth had come, all their weeks of avoiding the subject no longer tenable or practical.

“Honestly, Jan? I don't want to sell. I know it would solve all of our problems, but we dreamed of running our own business for so long. . . .” Theresa found herself getting tearful and lowered her head. “Sorry,” she muttered, sniffling.

“Don't be crazy,” Janna chided, sniffling back. “I feel the same way.”

Theresa's head quickly shot up. “Thank
God!
I was so afraid Scott's news was going to send you over the edge and you'd say we should sell and sell fast.” She reached across the table for a piece of biscotti.

“So, I guess the big question is: What do we do now?” asked Janna.

“Figure out how to cut expenses?” Theresa suggested.

“Well, we could fire Terrence, close the office, and work out of my apartment.”

Theresa blanched. “Do you really want to do that?”

“No.”

“Well, that solves that.”

“I don't think we should come right out and tell Ted Banister we're not going to bite on Butler's offer,” said Janna, thinking aloud. “If we do, Butler will get very nasty very fast and start trying to steal clients, which is the last thing we need. I say we keep stringing them along while we really bust our butts trying to expand our base.”

“I agree.”

Expand our base. Cut expenses. Accounts receivable. Accounts payable.
This is why I should have become a writer,
Theresa thought miserably. All this business and money talk gave her a headache. The thought of trying to drum up even more business exhausted her, and she knew Janna had to be feeling the same way. They were both dancing as fast as they could, and there were only so many hours in a day. But if ensuring their company remained just that—
their
company—then they'd just learn to dance faster. It was as simple as that.

“What about the Ty option?” asked Theresa.

“Let's pretend it doesn't exist right now, okay? This is our baby. Let's try to do it our way, with our money, for as long as we can. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good.” Looking more relaxed than she had all morning, Janna finished the biscotti, then pressed Theresa to reveal how her “Get off my back” date with Michael had gone.

“It went great,” Theresa said forlornly.

“So why the long face?”

“Because he's not what I pictured for myself, okay?” She dug the heel of her palms deep into her eye sockets. “I mean, I don't think he's what I want. I don't know.”

“I don't understand,” Janna replied impatiently. “For as long as I've known you, you've talked about wanting to meet a nice guy who'll treat you right. Now you have and you're running from him. What's the problem?”

Theresa pulled her palms from her eyes. “It's him. He's so . . . Brooklyn.”

“So?” Janna's voice was sharp.

“Don't get annoyed with me, Janna, I'm feeling pretty confused right now.”

“Well, so am I,” Janna countered testily. “He's so
Brooklyn
—what does that mean? Do you have any idea how snobbish that sounds?”

“I know, I know,” Theresa groaned, “but I can't help it. I worked my whole life to get away from guys like that—”

“Guys like what?” Janna snapped. When two women at a nearby table glanced over she lowered her voice, but it was still impassioned. “Guys who happen to come from the same place you do? Guys who are nice and stable and care about their families?” She took a quick sip of her latte. “No offense, Terry, but your ‘He isn't what I envisioned for my life' spiel is getting old. He's a great guy. He clearly adores you. What's the problem?”

“I don't know,” Theresa groaned again, feeling herself shrink under Janna's scolding. “I guess I'm just scared.”

“Of what? Of being happy? Of finding out that after all is said and done, what you really crave is love and family and stability, just like everyone else?”

Theresa's gaze drifted to the window, where busy New Yorkers hustled down the broad gray sidewalk to destinations unknown. She recalled her mother once asking if she was ashamed of where she came from. The question had shocked Theresa, because she didn't know how to answer it. It wasn't that she was embarrassed by her family's insularity or working class ethos. It was just that she saw there was so much more out there, and she wanted it. Badly. She wanted the money, and the freedom, and the fast track. She wanted glamour. But she also wanted love.

“I always wanted to be extraordinary,” she said in a small, bewildered voice as she looked back to Janna. “I always wanted an extraordinary life.”

“Well, you have one. We all do. You, me, Joe the garbage man, Sally the dog walker, everyone. That's the big secret they never tell you in ‘You Can Have It All 101.' ”

Theresa flinched. “You really think I'm being an idiot, don't you?”

“Yes, I really do,” Janna replied without hesitation. “According to you, I've supposedly found the last, good straight man in New York. Well, another one has come along, yet you refuse to go for him for reasons that are completely beyond my comprehension.”

“I'm scared,” Theresa repeated quietly.

“I know you are, Terry. But you've got to get back into therapy or get over it or
something,
or else you're going to throw up roadblocks every time a nice guy comes within two feet of you.”

“I didn't throw up roadblocks with Reese,” Theresa pointed out quickly.

“That's because he's a Ralph Lauren ad come to life.

He's not real.” Janna leaned forward. “Who has treated you better so far: Reese or Michael?”

Theresa's face froze in displeasure.

“Answer me,” Janna insisted.

“Michael,” Theresa muttered into her coffee cup.

Janna leaned back in her chair triumphantly. “I rest my case.”

“So what am I supposed to do, then?”

“Well, how did you leave things with Michael?”

Theresa frowned. “Not well. He told me that one of these days I was going to get tired of running away from myself.”

“So call and tell him you're tired of running.”

“I don't know if I can.”

“Then be confused and alone,” Janna replied irritably. “What do you want me to say?”

“I know,” said Theresa, scrambling to defuse Janna's frustration, which she knew was justified. “I know I'm driving you crazy. I know it's time to give up this fantasy that when I meet The One, it will be like being hit with a lightning bolt. Just be patient with me, okay? I'm trying to sort things out, I really am.”

“Well, sort quicker. Michael's not going to wait for you forever.”

With what looked to Theresa like a final glare of annoyance, Janna drained her paper cup. Chastened, Theresa did the same. She knew everything Janna said was right. She just wished Janna weren't so blunt. Then again, there were times when she'd been equally honest. That's what real friends did for each other: They cut to the chase, no matter how painful. She made a vow right there and then:
I will try to sort things out as fast as I can. And when I'm sure about what I want to do, I'll take action.

 

 

The anger in Ty's voice was made all the more ominous by its echoing off the high dome of the practice arena. Skating over to the bench where his coach stood, Michael knew what was coming. He braced himself.

“Coach?” he asked.

“You got lead in your skates or what? My grandfather skates faster than you and he's been dead for twelve years.”

“I know,” Michael muttered. There was no jump in his legs at all this morning. “I'll pick it up.”

“You better. Where's that guy who was on fire a few weeks back?” asked Ty, snapping his gum.

Michael stuck his chin out. “He's here.”

“He is?” Ty looked to his left and to his right. “That's funny, 'cause I don't see him.”

Michael's grip tightened around his hockey stick. “You made your point.”

“Don't let me down. I need your level of play to be where it was a few weeks ago, Mikey, and I need you to keep it there.”

“I will,” Michael swore, itchy for the reprimand to end so he could get back out on the ice and finish practice.

“Good,” said Ty. “Everyone here is dealing with crap of one kind or another off the ice. It's no excuse for slacking off.”

“I'm not slacking off,” Michael replied irritably. “Can I get back out there to show you?”

Ty's head bobbed approvingly. “Be my guest,” he challenged.

Michael rejoined his teammates, who had just started their two-on-two drills.
Screw Theresa Falconetti,
he thought angrily, as he and Barry Fontaine staved off an offensive rush from Kevin Gill and Tully Webster.
Screw Anthony. And screw van Dorn while we're at it. Screw everyone.