“I love you, too.” She wrapped her arms around Gemma. “Maybe we could try to get along better.”
“Maybe,” Gemma agreed cautiously. “I don’t know if it will work.”
“It has to work.” Her mother squeezed her tight. “We can’t afford to lose any more time.”
———
“Michael spiked your coffee and you hallucinated the whole thing.” Frankie held out her coffee mug for the ever-bustling Stavros to refill. “Either that or your mother’s an alien pod.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Gemma practically sang. “It’s all true.”
“Lordy,” Frankie groused. “What the hell is the world coming to? You didn’t hold hands afterward and sing ‘We Are the World’ or anything like that, did you?”
“I hate you,” Gemma mouthed across the table.
“No, you don’t,” Frankie mouthed back. “Guess what I did yesterday?” she asked aloud.
“Got fitted for a prosthetic limb you don’t need?”
“Gemma Dante, you’re a one-woman laugh riot. No, I went to see Uther in the hospital.”
“You did?”
Frankie nodded.
“And—?”
“Well, he’s heavily medicated, so it’s hard to tell what’s really going on. But I’m pleased to tell you that our conversation, short though it was, was spoken entirely in modern English.”
Gemma clapped. “Bravo!”
“Did you know his real name is Wendell?”
“No wonder he used his Craft name.” Her appreciation of Frankie, always high, rose considerably. “That was a really nice thing you did.”
Frankie shrugged dismissively. “I felt bad for the guy. Plus, he was the first man to ever make love to me wearing medieval combat gear. That has to count for something, right?”
“I suppose.”
“So, I’m leaving New York,” she abruptly declared.
Gemma steadied herself. “Fleeing the law?”
“Fleeing WROX. You know how sick I am of the nepotism. I interviewed for the program director’s job at an adult alternative station up in Churchill, New York, and I think they’re going to offer it to me.”
“That’s great,” Gemma fibbed, feigning enthusiasm. No, wait. It was great if that’s what Frankie wanted. It just didn’t happen to be what Gemma wanted.
Frankie snorted. “Don’t pretend you’re happy. You look like I just snotted in your coffee.”
“Metaphorically speaking, you did.”
“It’s only three hours from the city, Gem. We can see each other all the time.”
“That’s true.” She peered at her best friend inquisitively. “You’re sure about this? You sure this is what you want to do?”
Frankie bit into her bagel. “Sure as I’ll ever be.”
“What’s in Churchill beside this radio station?”
‘Two colleges where I can ogle hot, young undergrads, a food co-op, a Birkenstock store, a farmers’ market, and lots of artistic types. Beyond that, I’m not sure.“
“Sounds like the type of place I’d fit in.”
“So, come visit,” Frankie urged. “A lot.”
“Program director,” Gemma murmured aloud, trying to picture Frankie as a honcho. “I thought you loved being on the air?”
Excitement sprang into Frankie’s eyes. “I’ll still have an air shift—and it won’t be overnight! I can join the land of the living and keep normal hours!”
“It’s not Manhattan,” Gemma warned. “You won’t be able to order Chinese food in the middle of the night if you feel like it.”
“I’ll live.”
“You won’t be able to see the Blades play for free because of my connections.”
“I’ll live.”
“You won’t—”
“If it doesn’t work out, I’ll come straight back to New York, I promise.” Frankie winked. “I’ll just crash with you until I get another radio gig.”
“I live with Michael and Theresa, remember?”
“Not forever. How’s that going, by the way?”
“They think I need a vacation.”
“They’re right.”
“Really?”
“Gemma, you’ve been through a shitload of stuff the past few weeks! Take some time off to recharge your batteries.”
Gemma brightened. “I know: I’ll help you move!”
“Ixnay,” Frankie replied promptly. “Though I appreciate the offer, helping me move is not a vacation.”
“Fine. Make me go to the Jersey shore to relax.”
“Sounds horrible.”
“It is,” Gemma smiled. “But before I go, there are a couple of things I need to take care of.”
———
Gemma had never been inside a firehouse before. This struck her as odd, considering she’d lived in or near the city most of her life. Most life-long city dwellers had been taken on school tours as children—or at the very least felt compelled to stop by and offer thanks and a word of condolence after 9/11. But Gemma couldn’t bring herself to do it; she didn’t think she could bear to see the pain of these men up close. She’d made a donation to the New York Police and Fire Widows and Childrens’ Benefit Fund, and left it at that.
Now, walking into Sean’s firehouse carrying two bags full of pastry boxes loaded with Anthony’s cannolis, she finally understood the impulse to go in person to thank the firefighters for their bravery. Were it not for them, her grandmother might well be dead, along with countless other tenants in her building. She knew the pastries were a small offering compared to the degree of gratitude she felt, but she also knew they’d like them. Sean had once told her food, especially desserts, were always welcome at the firehouse.
Walking into the open engine bay, she was immediately flagged down by a squat, muscular firefighter sitting in a small room off to the side, his feet up on a battered wooden desk. “Help you, ma’am?”
“Yes. I was wondering if Sean Kennealy was here? He rescued my grandmother the other day and I wanted to say thanks. Not just to him, but to everyone,” she added nervously.
“He’s here.” The firefighter eagerly eyed the boxes. “What you got there?”
“Cannolis. Want one?”
“That would be great. Sean’s in the kitchen with the rest of ‘C shift having lunch,” he told her as Gemma extracted a cannoli from the top box and handed it to him. “The kitchen is through that door on the right. Go up the hall a bit and it’s the first door on the left.”
“Thank you.”
“No—thank you.” The fireman bit into a cannoli. “Sweet God, I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Gemma chuckled and started toward the kitchen, butterflies tumbling in her stomach. She knew why: It was not only the prospect of seeing Sean in his work environment, but the environment itself. The red brick walls decorated with awards, photos, and memorials, the gleaming red engines parked in their place, the rows of coats and boots neatly lined up, just waiting to be donned at a moment’s notice—there was an unspoken vitality here. A sense that there was a place for everything and that everything was in its place. She supposed it had to be that way. Disorganization could waste precious time.
Raucous laughter and animated discussion floated down the corridor as she tentatively approached the kitchen. There was a smell of spice in the air, too. Curry? Cardamom? Very intriguing.
Arriving at the kitchen door, Gemma was prepared for the men inside to be surprised by her presence. What she was not prepared for was conversation to stop dead, eleven pairs of male eyes training on her simultaneously.
“Um…” Flummoxed, her gaze instinctually sought out Sean, the one person in the room she knew well. “I just wanted to stop by to thank you guys for saving my grandmother’s life.”
Sean stood. “Everyone, this is Gemma Dante. Hers was the apartment that burned last week—”
“The old lady candle fire?” someone asked.
Sean nodded. “Yeah.”
“Close
one,” muttered a small man shoveling curry onto his plate as if it were his last meal.
Gemma held up the bags. “I brought you guys some cannolis to say thanks.”
Mike Leary squinted at her. “Real cannolis or fake cannolis?”
“What the fuck, fake cannolis?” another firefighter chastised. “A cannoli is a cannoli is a cannoli.” Tension blanketed the table. The firefighter looked around him, then slumped down in his seat. “Sorry about the language,” he apologized to Gemma.
“There are real cannolis and fake cannolis,” Leary insisted.
“These are real,” Gemma said. “They’re from Dante’s in Brooklyn. Made fresh this morning.”
Ten pairs of eyes lit up in recognition.
“You related to Michael Dante?” asked a firefighter who looked to be about eleven years old.
“He’s my cousin.”
“Frickin‘ Einstein over here,” Leary cracked, smacking him affectionately on the back of the head. All the other firefighters laughed.
Ted the probie (for the life of her, Gemma couldn’t remember his last name) held up a plate. “Want some lunch? It’s good. Chicken curry.”
“It’ll clear your sinuses, that’s for damn sure,” said an older, graying firefighter with a cross pinned to his lapel.
“Clear your intestines, too,” a growly voice muttered from the stove.
Gemma shook her head. “No, thank you. I really have to take off.” She handed the bags of cannolis to Sean. “Thanks again for everything you did for my grandmother.”
“She doin‘ okay?” Leary asked.
“Much better. She’ll probably be out of the hospital in a week or two.”
“That’s good to hear,” Sean said. He motioned toward the door. “Here, I’ll walk you out.”
“Bye,” Gemma called over her shoulder.
“Bye now,” they all called back, some of them waving. “Thank you!”
———
“Well, that was weird.” Gemma stood with Sean outside the firehouse. Maybe she was imagining it, but it seemed like every woman who walked by was checking him out. She was surprised to find herself bristling.
“What was weird?” Sean wanted to know.
“The way the room went completely silent when I walked in.”
Sean rotated his palms upward. “What did you expect? You were a stranger. They lightened up once they heard who you were, didn’t they?”
“True.”
“So, how are you doing?” Sean asked, hands thrust deep in the front pockets of his pants. Gemma had never really noticed before, but he looked very handsome in his work “blues.” In the past she’d been so preoccupied with worry for him she’d failed to appreciate what a dashing figure he could be—solid, formidable, striking.
“I’m okay.”
“Is the loony safely locked up?”
“Don’t call him that. It’s not nice. He’s being treated at Bellevue.”
Sean rocked on his heels. “That’s good.”
Gemma’s urge to wrap up the conversation was strong. It was so hard, standing here on the pavement with him, chatting away like good friends, when deep down inside, she still got a fluttery feeling every time she looked at him, followed swiftly by regret over their abysmal inability to meet each other halfway. It was time she faced the truth: She would probably never feel his mouth conquer hers again, or experience the utter tranquility of lying in his arms. And that hurt.
“I really should get going,” she murmured.
“I guess.”
“Thanks again for all you’ve done.”
“No problem.” Sean bunched his shoulders. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Actually, I’m going away for a week.”
Sean looked interested. “Yeah?”
“A week at Michael’s summer house on the Jersey shore.”
Sean nodded appreciatively. “Nice. When you leaving?”
“Friday.”
“Have a good time.”
Gemma smiled. “I’ll try.”
———
“What took you so long?” Mike Leary called out as Sean reentered the kitchen. “She give you some special herbs to sprinkle on the cannolis?”
Bill Donnelly’s eyes popped. “That’s the New Age whackjob?”
“That’s her,” Sal Ojeda confirmed. “Too bad she couldn’t read some tea leaves, see Grandma was in danger, and teleport herself over to rescue the old broad herself, huh?”
The guys laughed.
“Maybe she knows what crystals to use to get the freakin‘ LIRR to run on time,” Joe Jefferson chimed in.
Disgusted, Sean peered around the table. “You guys are pricks, you know that?”
“What are you, on the rag?” Leary sniffed derisively. “We’re just having some fun.”
“She comes down here to thank us in person, she brings fresh-baked cannolis, and what do you do the minute she leaves? Start tearing her to shreds. Real nice.”
“We tear everyone to shreds,” Leary pointed out. “It’s the American way.”
“If people knew how we talked when we were alone, they’d think we were assholes, not heroes.”
Leary looked amused. “Gather ‘round, boys, young Kennealy here is developing a conscience. Let’s watch it grow.”
“Fuck you, Mike.”
“No, fuck you, Sean. This is the way things are around here and you know it. No one’s immune. Unless, of course, you still like her.”
“What if I do?”
Leary’s expression changed immediately from one of belligerence to support. “Well, in that case, we’ll all back off, no ifs, ands, or buts. ‘Cause no one—but no one—rags on a firefighter’s woman. Right, boys?”
“That’s right,” rang an assortment of voices around the table.
“Okay, then,” Sean declared with a defiant lift of the chin. “I still like her.”
Leary cleared his throat as if preparing to make an important announcement. “In that case, gentlemen, Miss Gemma Dante is now off-limits as an object of derision, since young Sean here still has feelings about her.” He turned to Sean. “Which prompts me to ask: Whatcha gonna do about it, bro?”
CHAPTER 25
If I were rich, Gemma mused as she strolled the moonlit beach, I would buy a little house here on the shore just like Michael and Theresa. I’d pay for full-time care for Nonna. I’d expand the store. And I’d get a really nice hybrid bike.
She stopped, closing her eyes to better enjoy the night breeze as it gently caressed her face. You are rich, she reminded herself, breathing in the briny scent of the sea. Tough times made that hard to remember, but it was true. That’s why she’d come outside tonight: to remind herself of all her blessings, to sit peacefully under the stars and take stock of her life, and most important of all, to relax.
Eyes still closed, she delighted in the absence of noise, so much a part of life in the city. She heard nothing but the wind, the tranquil lapping of waves, and her own slow, steady breathing. She opened her eyes, noticing the beach was deserted, which amazed her. It was a clear, beautiful night. Why weren’t people out, delighting in the sand squishing between their toes, or reading the stars? Then she remembered: It was off-season. No wonder the only beach house with light coming from it was Michael’s.
Feeling more relaxed that she had in weeks, she strolled a few more yards, walking right up to the edge of the shoreline. Water rushed over her bare feet, cold and invigorating. The full moon beamed down on her, its gentle rays of light stippling the surface of the water. Taking it all in, Gemma’s heart swelled with appreciation. Thank you for this beautiful, natural world.
She backed up, out of the reach of the waves, heading toward a flat expanse of sand. Unclasping her cloak, she removed it and put it down before setting up eight wind-proof, glass-encased candles she’d brought with her in a small bag. She lit each candle carefully and set them in a wide, wide circle. They flickered tenaciously, their dancing brightness against the ni
ght sky hypnotic. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she sat down in the center of the circle.
She thought about her family, and how lucky she was to have them, despite all the craziness. A warm feeling spread throughout her body as she recalled the sensation of finally being hugged by her mother, the soft skin of baby Domenica, and the rice paper thinness of her grandmother’s hand.
She thought about her closest friends, and how much they enriched her life: Frankie, Theo, Miguel. Especially Frankie. Her best friend’s freckled face popped into her mind, and Gemma smiled. Michael and Theresa came to mind as well. Yes, they were family, but they were also her friends. Good friends who were sheltering her, taking care of her. Just thinking about all of them made her feel tranquil.
Drawing her knees up, she wrapped her arms around them, rocking a little as she thought about poor Uther, and how troubled he was. She hoped he got the help he needed, and that he eventually found the right woman. There was someone for everyone. She firmly believed that. Somewhere out there in the big, wide world, there was a damsel who longed for a lover with a Norman helmet, a woman who dreamed of meeting her knight in shining armor at a reenactment. Gemma prayed Uther found her.
Thoughts of Uther inevitably led to thoughts of the Golden Bough. Now that she had a little distance, she could see how serious the hostage situation had truly been. She was glad nothing had happened to Julie. Julie: a little moody, but a hard worker. Without her uncomplaining flexibility, Gemma doubted she would ever have been able to manage juggling Nonna and the store all these months. Julie was getting a raise.
Finally, with a sweet twinge of melancholy, she thought about Sean. How handsome he was. How kind, sexy, romantic. How, if she were given the chance to do it all over again, she wouldn’t worry so much about what he did for a living, nor would she fret so much about whether they fit into each other’s worlds. If you loved someone, you made it work. You took chances, expanded your horizons. Compromised. You accepted them as they were.
“Is this a private party, or can anyone join?”
Gemma froze. Someone had been watching her! Serenity went on hold as she peered anxiously into the darkness.
“Who’s there?”
She heard someone scrambling through the beach grass. Then, stepping out of the shadows, she saw him.
Total Rush Page 28
