“And?”
“I thought maybe we could do things right, you know, spend some time together.”
“And then have sex,” Gemma added acidly.
“No.” Sean was reeling. “Well—I mean—if you want.” Gemma frowned. “You know, I don’t usually hop into bed so quickly, either,” Sean added.
“Oh, really.” Gemma looked skeptical.
“Yeah, really. I’m not quite sure what happened be-tween us. It felt magical. I know that’s probably not a good word for me to use, but I don’t know how else to describe it.”
Gemma’s face lit up with a little smile.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“So, you’ll go out with me, then?”
“Depends what you have in mind.” When Sean looked surprised, Gemma laughed. “What, did you just expect me to say ‘Yes’ without hesitation after what you did to me?”
Sean could feel his ears burning. “Uh…”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“I did, yeah,” he admitted, defending his title as Stupidest Man in the World.
Gemma folded her arms across her chest, chuckling. “That’s pretty presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“That’s me, ole Mr. Presumption.”
“Well, Mr. Presumption, tell me what you have in mind.”
Sean thought quick. “How about we go out, grab a bite to eat, and listen to some Irish music? There’s this great place called O’Toole’s down by Met Gar.”
Gemma nodded slowly. “Irish music… that could be fun.”
Sean’s heart leapt. “So is that a yes?”
“I guess,” Gemma said, beginning to look like her old happy self.
———
As she prepared for her date with Sean, Gemma’s imagination danced with all sorts of visions. She pictured them at one of the city’s small, trendy bistros, murmuring intimately at a table for two. Afterward, they would walk hand in hand to O’Toole’s, the night air invigorating and full of promise. Both would be moved to tears by the heartrending sound of the Irish penny whistle as it trilled mournfully behind a singer with streaming raven hair who sang of hurling herself into her lover’s open grave. The evening would leave them feeling tender and emotional. They’d go back to Gemma’s place and make slow, deliberate love.
Instead, Gemma found herself being led by the hand down narrow steps to a basement pub. Sean opened the door, and Gemma found herself up against a solid wall of human bodies. Gabbing loudly, many were well on the road to intoxication despite it being only 9 p.m. She glanced sideways at Sean to see if he found the scene as disconcerting as she did.
“The food here is fantastic,” he shouted in her ear.
Apparently not.
Doing her best not to jostle pub patrons as she squeezed past, she let Sean lead her to the front of the room. The combination of tightly packed bodies and lack of ventilation had perspiration dripping down the black concrete walls. Gemma was glad she hadn’t worn a long-sleeved blouse as planned. Ten minutes in this sweatbox and she’d be drenched.
“Wait until you hear the music,” Sean said as he pulled out a chair for her at a small table for two marked RESERVED. She already heard music coming from the jukebox in the corner, its main melody muddied by the nonstop din of voices. She strained to make out the tune. Something by U2? Their table was situated right in front of the small stage. If Gemma pushed back too far in her chair, her back practically touched an amplifier. She touched Sean’s arm.
“Do you think we could find a different table?” she asked loudly.
Sean surveyed the room. “I think this might be it.”
Gemma did a quick circuit of the room. He was right. This was it.
Out of the whirlwind a waitress appeared, handing each of them a menu. “What can I get you to start?” she asked in an Irish brogue so thick Gemma thought she had to be putting it on.
“A Guinness,” Sean replied easily. The waitress turned to Gemma expectantly.
“Gin and tonic, please.”
“Made with Tanqueray,” Sean added. The waitress nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
“How do you know this place?” Gemma asked.
“It’s a popular FDNY hangout.” He glanced around the room. “I’m surprised no one I know is here.”
Gemma suspected as much. She felt like a fish out of water. The last time she’d been in a place like this… wait: Had she ever been in a place like this?
Sean smiled at her, and she flipped open the menu, skimming the selections. Corned beef and cabbage. Bangers and mash. Fish and chips. Meat pies. Burgers. Gemma closed the menu.
“Know what you want already?”
“There’s a small problem.”
Sean dragged his chair closer to hers. Obviously he was having as tough a time hearing as she was. “What’s that?”
“I’m a vegetarian, remember?”
“Shit. I didn’t even think…” He trolled the menu, his easygoing expression slowly giving way to mild embarrassment.
“It’s okay,” Gemma assured him, squeezing his hand. “I’m sure I can find something.” She leaned over so their shoulders were touching, taking another look at the menu. “There: cheese and onion pie. I’ll have that.”
Sean closed the menu, looking miserable. “I’m so sorry, Gem. I should have remembered.”
“Not a big deal.”
The waitress returned, plonking their drinks down on the table. “Do you know what you want, then?”
“I’ll have the cheese and onion pie,” said Gemma.
“Sorry, love, we’re all out.”
“Oh.”
“Do you have any salads?” Sean asked.
The waitress bit down on the tip of her pen impatiently. “What you see on the menu is what you get. Sorry.”
“In that case,” said Gemma, “I guess I’ll just have a plate of chips.”
The waitress looked testy. “That’s it? Chips?”
“Yes.” Gemma shot Sean a baffled look.
“I’m not sure you can do that, you know. Just have chips.”
“Oh,” Gemma repeated, confused. “Why not?”
“Because chips go with something.” The waitress clucked her tongue in frustration. “Fish and chips. Sausage and chips. We’ve never had anyone ask for ‘just chips’ before. I’ll have to ask the chef if it’s okay.”
Gemma looked at the waitress warmly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“It might not be.”
“Let’s just see how it goes,” Sean intervened, a big, fake smile cruising its way onto his face. It made Gemma want to laugh.
The waitress, now in a snit, peered down at Sean. “And what would you like, sir?”
“Bangers and mash, please.” Sean closed his menu and handed it back with a knowing wink. “You can also tell the chef it’s a New York City firefighter who wants that plate of chips.”
“Very good,” she bit out. “Thank you.”
With that she left.
“Guess she doesn’t care about getting a tip,” Gemma joked.
“Customer service doesn’t seem to be her strong point,” Sean agreed.
Gemma sipped her drink. It was watered down, more tonic than gin. The evening was not starting out on the most auspicious note. Still, all might not be lost. So what if O’Toole’s was the kind of place she would never choose to go to in a million years? The music was supposed to be good, right? And there was Sean.
“How’s your drink?” he asked, taking a pull of his Guinness.
“Great,” Gemma fibbed. “Yours?”
“Lovely,” Sean said blissfully in a fake brogue.
“I’ve never understood the appeal of beer,” Gemma admitted. “It’s like”—she paused, searching for the right analogy—“potato soda.”
Sean laughed. “Spoken like a true beer connoisseur.”
“So,” Gemma began, permitting herself the great pleasure of gazing at long length into his incredible eyes, “ha
ve you started to read the book on Wicca yet?”
Sean dipped his head, cupping his ear. “What?”
“The. Book. On. Wicca,” she repeated loud and slow. “Have you started it yet?”
“Yeah.”
Gemma took this as a positive sign. “And—?”
“It’s interesting.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Gemma could rattle off a slew of questions she was dying to ask him about it, but she didn’t want to make him feel pressured, or worse, that he was somehow being quizzed. Of course, there was the possibility that he thought it was bizarro mumbo jumbo and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She was determined not to focus on that, not right now. “How’s work?” she asked brightly, practically shouting.
“Okay.”
“Just okay? Any interesting fires?”
“They’re all interesting. That’s the problem.” He paused thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Things are fine. Nothing exciting.”
“I see.”
“It’s hard for me to talk about what I do, Gemma. If I told you half the stuff that went down, you’d never want me to leave my apartment, and the other stuff—the technical stuff—would probably bore you to tears.”
‘Try me,“ Gemma urged playfully. ”What do you guys talk about? What do you do for fun?“
“Abuse each other.” He took a sip of beer. “Wait, here’s a good one: Some drunken teenager out on Long Island got stuck in the chimney of his frat house. By the time the fire department arrived, he was dead, unfortunately. Know what he died of?”
Gemma’s hand flew to her throat. “What?”
“The flue.” Sean laughed.
“Sean! That’s not funny! That’s awful!”
“Firehouse humor, babe. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets you through.”
“I guess I can understand that,” Gemma said. But deep down, she wondered.
The waitress returned with a smarmy look on her face and only one plate in her hand. She dropped the sausage and potatoes in front of Sean. “The chef said to tell ya, and I quote, that he doesn’t give a flying feck if you’re Mr. Jesus H. Christ himself, we only do what’s on the menu.”
“Bring us an order of sausage and chips, then,” Sean said, slumping in his seat mortified. He turned to Gemma. “I’ll take the sausages off the plate. So much for firefighters having some pull in this city,” he added with a frown.
“We could go,” Gemma suggested tentatively.
“But we haven’t heard any music yet.”
What does it matter? We’ll be deaf by the time the band gets on, thought Gemma. The decibel level of the crowd was earthshaking. Still, Sean was right. They hadn’t heard any live music yet. A few haunting Celtic ballads, a few foot-tapping ceilis, and the night would be back on track.
“Here, have some of these potatoes while we’re waiting,” Sean said, pushing his plate between them.
As delicately as she could, Gemma wiped away the perspiration she could feel beading on her upper lip. It was so hot in O’Toole’s she thought she might pass out. She tried to see the place through Sean’s eyes. Why had he had brought her here? It had to be the music. The waitress made a brief and unsmiling reappearance to drop the plate of sausage and chips. Gemma and Sean tried to chat over the raucous din; then just as they were finishing up their meal, the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into spontaneous hoots as the band hit the stage.
Gemma was expecting a quartet: fiddle, tin whistle, guitar, and bodhran drum. Instead, eight musicians lumbered onto the tiny stage. Two had fiddles and one had a tin whistle, but there was also a drummer, an organist, and much to Gemma’s dismay, a bass player and two electric guitarists, one of whom plugged in to the amp at her back.
“Evenin‘,” the lead singer bellowed into the mike, a pipe cleaner of a man with a buzz cut and black wraparound sunglasses. “We’re deValera’s Playground and we’d like to start tonight with a little song you all know: ’Hogging Davy.‘”
The nearest guitarist launched into a brain-searing riff and the band were off. This was Irish music done a way Gemma’d never heard, with screaming guitars vying with mad fiddles and a lead singer who twitched and jerked like Ichabod Crane being poked with a cattle prod. The crowd was going nuts, pogoing in unison while their fists pumped high in the air, shouting out the chorus in Gaelic along with the band.
Gemma turned to Sean. He was clapping enthusiastically along with the music, which amazed her. Catching her gaze, Sean broke into wide grin.
“AREN’T THEY GREAT?” he shouted.
“Great,” Gemma mouthed, knowing he couldn’t hear her. As best she could, she averted her face from him so he wouldn’t detect her dismay. She’d been wrong: The music wouldn’t salvage mis evening. Instead, it was the icing on the cake. Time to face facts: Sean’s idea of a fun night out was radically different from hers. All she could do now was sit back and ride it out. She prayed the band did only one set and were either too drunk or tired to stand for encores. She wondered if Ron Crabnutt was somewhere in the crowd, chewing gum and waving a torx head in unison to the music.
And she wondered who Sean really was.
———
Can I come in?”
The seductive undercurrent in Sean’s voice as he teased Gemma’s lips outside the door of her apartment almost caused her to give in. Almost. But then she remembered: This was the man to whom she’d given a second chance and he’d used it to take her to a rowdy Irish bar to see a band who played head-banging Celtic music. Now, to top it all off, he seemed to be hinting at sleeping with her again.
Gemma had been so sure that in agreeing to a proper date, she was sending a clear signal to him that she was interested in a relationship that existed beyond the boundaries of the bedroom. But now she wondered. Who did he think she was, that she would enjoy an evening like the one they’d just shared? Surprising her with all those stuffed animals had been wonderful, and his coming down to the Golden Bough to apologize to her in person spoke to his being a man of character. But if this was a firefighter’s idea of a good date, then what she’d said to Frankie at the Happy Fork was right on target: This wasn’t a tribe she wanted to join.
Maybe she was at fault, too. Just a little. When he’d asked her if she thought the band was great, she should have been honest and asked him to take her home. But she’d kept mum.
Gentle but firm, she pulled away. “I’m really tired, Sean. How about if we call it a night?”
“Okay.” She saw disappointment as his eyes searched her face. “Are you all right?”
“Just tired,” she repeated, turning her key in the lock.
“I hear you. What if I call you later in the week and we check out a movie?”
“That might be nice,” Gemma murmured, pushing open her apartment door. She smiled up at him and thanked him for a lovely evening, happy when Sean planted a small, sweet kiss on her lips and thanked her for the same. But she could tell he was confused.
He wasn’t the only one.
CHAPTER 7
His date with Gemma left Sean kicking himself.
He’d been so elated she was willing to give him another chance he’d grabbed at the first thing they seemed to share: Irish music. O’Toole’s sometimes did play traditional Irish music—he should have checked the paper before heading down there. Judging by the music she played in her store, it wasn’t a stretch to think deValera’s Playground might not be her cup of tea. So he wasn’t exactly surprised when she didn’t invite him in afterward, though he was disappointed. But what was with her tepid response when he suggested a movie later in the week? Did she really think it would be “nice” to get together again? Or was she using polite Lady Speak to tell him to go chase himself? Why did women have to be so damn hard to read?
Rather than risk screwing up for a third and possibly final time, Sean decided to consult someone who knew Gemma well: her cousin Michael. Looking up the Blades schedule online, he saw they were playing a home game, and
so he took the subway to Met Gar. His own experience with the FDNY team told him the Blades got there early to work on their sticks and skates. He told security he was a friend of Michael’s, they checked with the man himself, and he was in.
The corridors below the arena were brightly lit and snaking, their concrete walls decorated with blown-up action photos of both past and present players. Sean found himself checking the sprinkler system on the ceiling, as well as the strategically placed fire extinguishers along the corridor. Funny the things you looked for depending on your point of reference.
He found Michael standing at one of the skate-sharpening machines, carefully running the blade of his skate back and forth, throwing off sparks.
“Mike.”
“Hey, Sean.” Michael put down his skate and drew him into a fraternal hug. “What’s up? You boys need some tickets for tonight’s game?”
“I hadn’t come for that, but if you’ve got ‘em, what the hell.”
“Sure, I’ll set you up. So, why you here?”
“It’s about your cousin.”
Michael looked amused. “Which one? I’ve got twenty.”
Sean laughed appreciatively. “Gemma.”
Concern flashed across Michael’s face so fast Sean almost missed it. Was it possible Michael knew about the night they’d spent together? Had Gemma come crying to her cousin about what a creep he’d been? If so, then he was royally screwed. No way would Michael help him out.
“What about Gemma?” Michael asked carefully.
“I really like her. I took her out on Saturday, and it didn’t go too well. I was hoping you might be able to give me some advice.”
“I can try.” Michael looked distinctly uneasy as he began massaging the back of his neck. “Look, before we go any further, there’s some things you should probably know. About Gemma.”
“Like what?” Sean could guess where this was heading, but he decided to play dumb. It would be fun watching Michael scramble to describe his cousin.
“Well, she’s kinda crunchy, you know?”
“Crunchy?”
“Crunchy as in granola head. She’s into herbs and teas and all that shit.”
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