Total Rush (26 page)

Spending twenty-four hours with Nonna had been more exhausting than Gemma had anticipated. Sometimes Nonna was her old devilish self, and they laughed. Other times the simplest task—like remembering how to hold a fork—overwhelmed her and she became irascible. At 3 A.M., Gemma heard her rooting around in the kitchen and got downstairs just in time to stop Nonna from going out the back door into the freezing night with nothing on but her nightgown. To keep a better eye on her, Gemma spent the rest of the night in the other half of the ancient, lumpy bed. She didn't get much sleep; Nonna seemed to be more agitated at night. Luckily, by the time Gemma's mother arrived to relieve her, Nonna had exhausted her stores of energy and was sleeping soundly.

So Gemma was tired but in good spirits as she turned onto Thompson Street. But her mood changed when she saw Uther and three other men in medieval garb standing outside her store. Uther was wearing his chain mail and a pewter helmet that looked like an inverted soup bowl, his his left hand gripping a tall halberd. The other men were in burgundy tights and leather jerkins. One had on a metal skull cap; the other two wore felt caps with long trailing feathers. Each of Uther's chums boasted a quiver of arrows on his shoulder. Gemma contemplated turning around and running but it was too late: Uther had spotted her and was waving madly.

Plus she had a business to run.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she said mildly, regretting her phrasing immediately. She
should
have said, “What's up?” Now Uther was bound to address her as if they were starring in
Camelot.

“I wanted you to meet some of my reenacting companions, good lady. They are eager to meet you, as I've told them great tales of your tarot prowess. But I thought if you could see us in our Agincourt garb, you might be tempted to come to our next meeting. We're in sore need of damsels to rescue—”

“Or camp followers,” added the man in the skull cap, leering.

Gemma had no idea what a “camp follower” was, but deduced it couldn't be good, if the deadly look Uther cast his way meant anything. She nodded, trying to be polite. “Do you have any literature I could take? That would be helpful.”

Uther tapped the side of his head. “It's all here.”

Great,
Gemma thought, putting the key in the lock. “Well, I'll think about it. Thanks for stopping by. Bye now.”

She pushed open the door, expecting them to disperse. Instead, they followed her inside.

“Uther, what are you doing?”

“I want them to see the store.”

Gemma pinched the bridge of her nose. “That's fine, but if you guys are going to browse, I suggest you put your weapons behind the counter.”

“Why?”

“Because they might scare the customers.”

“Oh.”

Uther and his friends dutifully followed Gemma to the counter, stashing their arms for safekeeping. Gemma was beginning to wonder if Uther had a screw loose. As his friends fanned out across the aisles, talking to each other in a way that set Gemma's teeth on edge (“Methinks I see a book on fairie lore!” “Forsooth, a soft chair to set my botty upon!”), Gemma tugged lightly on Uther's chain mail, holding him back.

“How was your date with Frankie?” She hadn't had a chance to speak with Frankie yet.

“A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell.”

“You can tell a little. Did you have fun? Are you seeing each other again?”

“Aye,” Uther revealed, looking pleased.

Gemma's heart lightened. “I'm glad,” she said, giving his arm a little squeeze as he walked off to join his friends.

She didn't mind them being in the store, but when one potential customer entered and left, then another, then a third, she knew she was going to have to ask them to leave. The buying public apparently was not entranced by chain mail, skullcaps, and jerkins. It did make her wonder: As weird as those fleeing the Golden Bough perceived Uther and his friends to be, was that how her mother perceived her?

 

 

She had felt
the first hint of the worst headache of her life minutes after letting Uther and his friends into the Golden Bough, but had thought it would go away when they did. She was wrong. By the time her part-timer, Julie, came in to work at five, Gemma knew she was going to have to hit the nearest Duane Reade and get herself some aspirin. She hated putting anything like that in her body, but this headache was
bad.
How on earth did Theresa deal with migraines? The relentless hammering on Gemma's temples gave her newfound respect for Michael's wife.

Exhausted, in pain, she pushed open the heavy glass door of Duane Reade. The lighting was harsh and artificial, the narrow aisles crowded with shoppers. Directed to the pain relief aisle by a sullen teen whose baggy pants looked on the verge of falling off, she found herself confronted with rows and rows of similar-looking boxes, all promising to soothe this ache or relieve that spasm. Didn't anyone take plain aspirin anymore? It took a while, but she finally found it, on the shelf nearest the floor.

Clutching her precious booty, she made for the front of the store, dismayed to see only one cashier behind the register. Taking her place in line, she closed her eyes.
Please, Goddess, don't let this take too long. I just want to take my drugs and crawl in bed.

She opened her eyes, resigned to spending the next fifteen minutes in the crowded, overwarm store. Desperate to pass the time, she studied her surroundings. That's when she saw it: the FDNY Calendar for 2006. With Christmas right around the corner, all the calendars for the upcoming year were out and on display.

Telling herself it was nothing more than curiosity, she plucked the nearest one from the rack and began thumbing through it. The firefighter selected for the month of February was cute enough; blond and buff, he was the “can man” for an engine company on the Upper East Side. The April guy didn't do it for her, though. He was too sculpted, too perfect, a Ken doll come to life. She flipped through May, June, July, and then, shockingly, she hit August. Her heart jolted: The firefighter featured was Sean.

Heat swam to her face as she studied the image of the man who had wooed her so vigorously, only to give up at the first hint of difficulty. The photo didn't do justice to the piercing quality of his blue eyes. Nor did it adequately capture his crooked, boyish grin. But that was his body, all right. The very same one that had embraced her so tight and moved so fluently inside her. Choking back tears, Gemma abruptly closed the calendar.

“Can I see that?” the woman on line behind her piped up. “That guy was hot.”

Gemma handed over the calendar and turned back to face the front of the store.

Once upon a time, she would have viewed stumbling across Sean's image in the calendar as an omen. But she no longer believed in omens or coincidences or even fate. It wasn't that she didn't want to; she couldn't afford to.

It hurt too much.

“No offense, but
what are you doing?”

Sean slowly opened his eyes to find JJ standing in front of him, staring worriedly. He was sitting alone at the table in the firehouse kitchen. JJ had stopped by at the end of his shift so they could grab a bite to eat.

He unclasped his hands, smiling up at his friend. “Deep breathing. Relaxing.” Just as Dan Murray had recommended, when he was feeling stressed, Sean now closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. Miraculously, it seemed to be helping. He could actually feel his heartbeat slowing down, the tension in his shoulders fading. Gemma hadn't been kidding: Alternative stuff really
worked.

“Jesus Christ, you look like you died sitting up. Since when did you aspire to swamidom?”

“Since I went to talk to the counseling unit about the brownstone fire.”

“You did?” There was no mistaking the relief in her voice as she waited for him to rise and put on his leather jacket. “Do you think it helped?”

Sean picked his words carefully. “It seemed to.” He wasn't yet ready to say so definitively. But Dan was right about one thing: Talking about it helped. The Kennealy household might have functioned a helluva lot more smoothly if there'd been a counseling unit back when his father was still dragging hose.

“Where we going?” JJ asked, following Sean out the door.

“I need to stop by my apartment to check on Pete and Roger. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

JJ looked hopeful. “Italian?”

He shrugged. “No problem.”

“That's what I love about you. You're so easygoing.”

 

 

The irony of
JJ's words struck him a few minutes later as they stepped off the elevator in his building's lobby and ran smack into Gemma. He felt tongue-tied and awkward. Concerned, too: She looked exhausted; her soft brown eyes were ringed with circles, the airy bounce in her step conspicuously absent. Was he the cause? Guilt engulfed him.

“Hi,” he said, straining to keep his tone light and casual.

“Hi.” Gemma's placid face was all politeness. Her eyes flicked to his friend. “Hello.”

JJ nodded, smiling. “Hello.”

Sean turned to her awkwardly. “Would you mind giving me a minute?”

“Sure.” JJ threw him an odd look before smiling again at Gemma. “Nice meeting you.”

Gemma's eyes were downcast. “You, too.”

As JJ walked to the front door, Sean felt sick. He wanted to spill his guts, here, now, tell Gemma everything he'd learned from talking to the counselor; apologize, beg her to give him another chance, make her laugh till her eyes lit up again and there was color in her cheeks. Instead he stood there paralyzed, watching as she moved toward the elevator.

“Gemma?”

Her expression was wary as she turned back to him.

“Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

“I'm fine. I just have a bad headache, is all.”

“There must be an herb for that. Or something.”

It was the right thing to say. Her mouth almost curled into a smile. Almost.

“There is. Feverfew.”

“Is that what's in the bag?”

He knew he sounded like an idiot, but he didn't care. He wanted to keep the conversation going. He wanted to keep her here until he figured out how to say what needed to be said.

Gemma rattled the bag. “Aspirin.”

He nodded. What could he say to that? How much? What kind? Ah, aspirin, yes, that always works for me? She was looking at him a bit oddly now. Could he blame her? It was none of his business what was in her bag.

He nervously licked his lips. “Well, um, I hope you feel better.”

“Me, too.” She turned to the elevator.

Well, that's that,
Sean thought glumly.
Opportunity blown, over and out.
Then she abruptly turned back to him.

“I'm sorry. I didn't ask how you were.”

“Fine, fine.” Sean nodded vigorously. Nothing like a good lie to get the heart racing.
Keep nodding, keep smiling.

“I'm glad,” Gemma said quietly.

Maybe it was the headache, but Sean thought she looked distinctly pained as she stepped into the elevator, though she was doing her best to hide it.

“Have a nice night, Sean.”

“You, too,” he said as the elevator doors snapped closed in his face.

And . . . cut! That's a wrap.
Frowning, Sean zipped up his jacket and went outside to meet JJ. He knew women; she'd want to know “what that was all about.” JJ would probably tell him he was an idiot not to seize the moment. Sadly, he agreed with her.

 

 

“
Do you think
I'm a jerk?” Sean asked abruptly.

He and JJ had just given their order to a waiter named Dodge. As predicted, JJ wanted to know all about the woman they'd run into in the lobby. As Sean filled her in on all the facts, JJ listened attentively and a battle raged inside his head over whether or not he was a fool not to have made better use of the encounter. A larger question ate at him as well: If he missed her so much, why didn't he apologize and try to get back together with her? That's when he had blurted out his question.

JJ smiled politely at the waiter as he placed their salads before them. “Can I get Sir or Madam anything else before I depart?” he asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

“This is fine, thanks,” Sean said, watching him go.

“Why would a mother saddle a child with the name ‘Dodge'?”

“You think that's his real name?” Sean said with disbelief. “Get a grip. He's probably an actor.”

“No one trying to break into show biz is going to take the name ‘Dodge,' believe me.” She reached for the pepper. “Now, what was your question again? Do I think you're a jerk?”

“Yeah.”

“In general, or does this have to do with a specific situation?”

“Specific. Specifically Gemma.”

JJ looked uneasy. “I thought so. You've been distracted ever since we ran into her.”

Sean poked at his salad. “I miss her.”

JJ swallowed nervously. “Sean, I have to tell you something, and you have to promise not to get pissed.”

“Okay.”

“That woman—Gemma? Your ex-girlfriend? She, um, stopped by your apartment that weekend I was bird-sitting.”

Sean felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “She did?”

“Yeah. I forgot to tell you.”

“And—?”