Fair Play (6 page)

“Because such a partnership would be mutually beneficial.”

“How?” Theresa interjected.

Both Banister and Janna swiveled to look at her, Janna's expression warning her not to start whispering an incantation to turn him into poultry.

Meanwhile, Ted Banister was smiling warmly at her with all the sincerity of a politician. “Allying yourself with Butler would afford you—how shall I say—a safety net which you currently lack. Since you'd be part of a larger organization, there would be less pressure on the two of you individually to secure clients simply to meet your monthly expenses.”

“Interesting,” Janna murmured. “What else?”

“You'd have the kind of extensive support staff you now lack: personal assistants, secretaries, artists . . .”

“But wouldn't
we
be support staff, in essence?” Janna countered. “I mean, we're talking about a buyout, aren't we? Theresa and I would become employees of Butler.”

“Technically, true. But you'd maintain a great deal of independence,” Banister insisted.

Janna and Theresa exchanged wary glances.

“Go on,” said Theresa. She watched as the older man glanced pointedly at his nephew, who up until that second had still been concentrating all his attention on her. Or maybe he'd been eyeing the muffins in the middle of the table.
Shoot,
thought Theresa.

“I think what my uncle is talking about is this,” said Reese, casually reaching for a brioche. Theresa's heart sank. It
had
been the baked goods, not her. “You'd be free to specialize in the areas you find most appealing and lucrative.”

“But we'd still be employees no matter how you choose to frame it,” said Janna.

“Interesting way of looking at things,” Ted Banister noted, tugging thoughtfully on his chin. “Suppose I told you that in order to acquire your company, Butler Corporation would be willing to pay a substantial multiple of earnings?”

“Can I have that in English, please?” Theresa asked bluntly. Across the table, she caught the look of amusement on Reese's face, and flushed.
He thinks I'm witty,
she thought, feeling very pleased with herself. Maybe he did like her better than the brioche.

“It means they're willing to pay us more than we're really worth,” Janna explained.

Ted Banister laughed coldly. “That's a little blunt.”

“It's also a little true,” Janna rejoined.

“I realize this might be a bit much to take in right now.” Banister slid his card across the table to Janna. “Why don't you think about what we've discussed and give me a call in a few days if you have any questions?”

“Thank you, we will.” She glanced at both Banister and his nephew. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else? Some more coffee?”

Ted Banister's smile was reptilian. “I'm fine, thank you.” He turned to Reese. “Shall we?”

Reese hurriedly swallowed the bite of pastry in his mouth and rose, rounding the table to join his uncle. Theresa and Janna rose, too, and together they led the two Banisters out to the lobby, Theresa acutely aware of the younger man's appraising gaze.
Goddess of Undergarments,
she prayed,
don't let me have visible panty lines.
After cordially wishing both men good day, they hurriedly reconvened to Janna's office for a postmortem, closing the door so that Terrence couldn't hear what they were saying.

“Well, that was short and sweet,” said Janna with a pronounced frown. “So what did you think?”

“I don't know,” Theresa admitted. “What do you think?”

“That they'll try to bury us if we turn down their offer.”

“How much do you think it will be?”

“A lot.” She didn't sound happy.

“The nephew was cute,” Theresa noted lamely, apropos of nothing.

“Yes, I noticed the two of you making eyes over the muffin tray.”

“Hardly,” Theresa sniffed.

“Well, thank God that's over,” said Janna, massaging the back of her neck. She glanced at her watch. “
And
you won't be late for the softball game.”

“Lucky me.” She watched Janna. “You gonna be okay?”

“Of course. You?”

“Totally,” Theresa scoffed. But neither would quite meet the other's eyes.

 

 

Theresa wasn't a
big softball fan, probably because she'd never been to a game when she wasn't working. By the time she got back to the office in the late afternoon she was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to shut her door and steal fifteen minutes for a power nap. But just as she was preparing to close her eyes, Terrence buzzed.

So much for recharging her batteries.

She pushed down the intercom button. “Yes?”

“That
extremely
adorable blond boy who was here this morning is back to see you,” Terrence murmured breathily into the phone.

Theresa immediately perked up. “Reese Banister?”

“Uh huh.”

“And did he hear the less than professional way you just described him?” Theresa chided, doing a quick check of her office to make sure it wasn't too much of a mess.

“Give me some credit, please,” Terrence replied in a low but indignant voice. “He's in the lobby area thumbing through an issue of
Men's Health.
”

“Did he say what he wants?”

“Something about wanting you to bear his children. It was too graphic, so I blocked the rest out.”

“You're treading on thin ice, Terrence. I hope you realize that.”

“Yes, but you love me anyway. Shall I send him back?”

“Please.”

She released the intercom button, and rising, smoothed the front of her slacks before pinching some color back into her cheeks and hurriedly applying a coat of lipstick. God, was she pathetic or what? When the anticipated knock sounded, she squared her shoulders and stood up straight. Physically, she felt more than presentable. But her emotional state was another matter. Her insides were buzzing like an excited school girl's.

She opened the door. “Reese.” She didn't need to fabricate a smile. “This is a surprise.”

“Not a bad one, I hope.” He returned her smile with one of his own that left Theresa feeling distinctly fluttery.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Standing in the doorway, she watched as his eyes traveled over every surface in her office, stopping when he got to her Miro lithograph.

“You like Miro?” he asked, sounding surprised.

Theresa didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted as she nodded. “Do you?”

“A great deal.” He continued surveying her office, then became aware of what he was doing and stopped. “I'm sorry,” he apologized. “You have such an interesting office, so many books and things, I couldn't resist checking it all out.”

“It's all right.” She took a step toward him. “What can I help you with?”

“After we left, it dawned on me we'd forgotten to give you some info we'd brought with us about Butler Corporation and its most recent acquisitions.”

“Oh. So you stopped back with it. How nice.” Theresa smiled again, this time to hide her disappointment.
Business. He's only here on business.

Sitting down, Reese opened his briefcase on his knees and extracted the paper in question. Theresa feigned scanning it, even going so far as nodding her head thoughtfully. Who was she kidding? There was no way she could concentrate with him watching her. She put the paper down on her desk.

“I'll be sure to share it with Janna,” she said. He smiled. She smiled. Then an awkward silence descended. Theresa, never good with uncertainty, rushed to fill the vacuum.

“So, you're entering the family business?” she asked.

Surprisingly, Reese seemed grateful for her interest. “I'm sure you could tell at the meeting this morning how enthused I am about it.”

“You don't want to be a lawyer?”

“That is
exactly
what I'm saying.”

“Then why are you?” Theresa wondered aloud.

“Why am I what?”

“Why are you a lawyer?”

Reese sighed, leaning back in the chair as he wearily ran a hand through his hair. “Because that's what good blue bloods do. They become politicians or lawyers.” He looked embarrassed, almost furtive, as he quietly confessed, “What I really wanted was to be a photographer.”

“You're kidding. I wanted to be a writer,” Theresa blurted, wondering if that was the sort of thing you should confess up front to a virtual stranger who could possibly give you three beautiful, towheaded children and a summer house on the Cape. Well, hell, he'd just told her what his dream had been, right? The polite thing to do was reciprocate. She could see his interest was piqued.

“So why didn't you pursue it?” he asked.

Theresa shrugged, feeling self-conscious now. “I still write for myself. And PR allows me some creativity in terms of writing press releases, which I enjoy.” She cast around for the right words with which to explain why she wasn't this month's selection for Reading with Ripa. “But when I graduated from college, no one bothered to tell me there wouldn't be a job waiting for me at
The New Yorker
.”

Reese laughed appreciatively. “I hear you. The same people didn't tell me that when you get a poli sci degree at Harvard, you don't go on to become Ansel Adams. Or if you try, it's certainly not going to provide you with a living wage.”

Theresa scrunched up her nose. “Not a very fair world, is it?”

“No, it is not.” Curiosity informed his face. “What do you like to write?” Against her will, Theresa could feel her cheeks turning crimson.

“I've embarrassed you,” Reese noted softly. “I'm sorry.”

“No, it's all right,” Theresa hastily assured him. “It's just been a long time since anyone has asked me about my writing. It caught me off guard.”

“Tell you what,” Reese proposed. “I'll tell you what I like to photograph, and you tell me what you like to write.”

“Deal.”

They laughed together then, the easy laughter of two people who feel completely simpatico.
God help me,
Theresa thought.
He's handsome, artistic, smart
. . . After swapping artistic confessions, another small, strained silence descended, but this time it was Reese who ended it. “I guess I should be going,” he said with what sounded to Theresa like reluctance.

Give him your phone number. Now.
Theresa's brain urged action. But she remained frozen. Scared.

Reese tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt. “So, um, as my uncle said, if you and Janna have any questions, feel free to give us a call.” He fumbled for a card in the breast pocket of his blazer, a move Theresa found charmingly inept. “Here,” he said, handing it to her with a shrug. “Call anytime.”

“I will. I mean, if I—we—have any questions.”
Give him your damn number!
her brain howled at her. She flashed a quick smile, glad he couldn't read her thoughts, and showed him to the door.

“Can you find your way out?”

“I think so.”

“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon,” Theresa said, thinking,
Just give him your number, fool!!!

“You, too,” he answered. He walked halfway up the hall, then stopped and turned around. Theresa held her breath.
Please ask me out for coffee, pleeeeasssee.

But whatever it was he planned to say, clearly he thought better of it. Looking sheepish, he turned back around and continued down the hallway.

 

 

Two days later,
Theresa found herself enjoying a crisp, fall breeze as she descended from the subway platform atop the Eighty-sixth Street station and walked east to her parents' house on Bay Twenty-sixth Street. Before leaving Manhattan, she had gone crosstown to Balducci's to pick up the special Pernigotti soft nougat her father loved. It was out of her way, but Theresa didn't mind, since it seemed to make him so happy. If she couldn't please him by marrying a nice Italian boy and having kids, at least she could bring him his favorite Italian candy.

Going to dinner at her parents' house always made her anxious. It wasn't that she didn't love seeing them, because she did. And you'd never hear her complaining about her mother's food; it was the one time each week she actually enjoyed a home-cooked meal, being somewhat immune to the kitchen herself. But it was hard to see the robust man her father had been wasting away with cancer. Hard, too, to deal with her family's unwillingness to validate all she'd achieved professionally. Deep down, she knew they were proud of her. She just wished they'd throw her the occasional bone by coming out and telling her so, rather than teasing her in a way that made her feel defensive.

Still, it felt good to be out walking her old stomping grounds. All over Bensonhurst, families were preparing their post-Mass, Sunday afternoon meals. Theresa passed house after house that looked just like her parents: small brick homes with wrought iron fences and postage stamp-sized front yards. Theresa liked the way each house strove to make itself unique, whether by painting the fence, creating an ornately sculpted topiary, or putting a statue of the Virgin Mary or St. Anthony on display. Her parents had broken with tradition somewhat, their front yard featuring a row of waist high, perfectly shorn hedges
and
a statue of St. Francis, whom her mother loved because of his kindness to animals. When Theresa was young, the statue had mortified her; she saw it as proof of her parents' failure to fully assimilate despite being second generation Americans. Now it comforted her in an odd way she didn't really want to think about.