Total Rush (29 page)

“Hhmm.” This seemed to mollify her somewhat.

Sean hunched his shoulders. “You didn't wait long, did you?”

“About forty-five minutes.”

Sean's face fell. “Shit. I'm so sorry, Gem.”

Gemma acknowledged his apology with a small nod. “So, getting back to Starbucks. What was it you wanted to talk about, anyway?”

As always when confronted with the moment of truth, Sean found his capacity for words suddenly diminished. Digging his hands deep in the back pockets of his jeans, he rocked on his heels. “Can we make another date to talk about this over coffee?”

Gemma shook her head. “I don't have time, Sean.”

He could see she was telling the truth—or part of it, anyway. But her eyes gave her away. They were guarded, full of mistrust.
She doesn't believe I won't stand her up again.

“So that's it? I'm dismissed?”

Gemma smiled sadly. “I'm just trying to save us both a lot of time and pain. Clearly, your priority is the fire department. I understand that. But that doesn't mean I like it. Let's be honest here: I don't fit the image of a firefighter's girlfriend. They're probably never going to accept me, and neither are you. Not really.”

Frustration burbled up in his throat. “Look, you don't understand—”

“No, I don't. And I'm not sure I want to. All I know is we made a date to meet, and you bailed out on me because work came first—work you couldn't even talk to me about when we were together.”

Sean glanced away, embarrassed. “I'm working on that.”

“I'm glad.”

He made himself meet her eyes. The sadness he saw there wounded him. “I apologize if I hurt you, Gemma. Obviously I wasn't emotionally available to you in the way you needed me to be. I'm working on all this stuff, believe me.”

“That's really good, Sean.” Her voice was genuinely encouraging, but he still knew he was being dismissed.

“So maybe—”

“Maybe,” Gemma interjected softly. “But not now. Besides, what about your girlfriend?”

“My—? No, wait, that's something else we need to straighten out, I—”

The front bell tinkled, and a gaggle of young women stumbled into the store, laughing.

“I have to see to my customers.” Gemma slipped past him. She looked glad to be ending their conversation.

“It's not what you think,” Sean called after her, his voice strident. The girls fell silent, staring at him.

“Never mind,” Sean muttered to himself. He zipped up his coat. She'd never believe him anyway.

 

 

“
Today you are
the late one, eh?”

Gemma met Stavros's comment with a curt look and hurried toward the booth where Frankie sat waiting patiently. Ever since taking on the responsibility of helping to care for her grandmother three months ago, it seemed she was always running, and worse, running behind, time a commodity that seemed always to be in short supply. Thankfully, Frankie wasn't one of those watch tappers who would take her to task. Gemma was pleased to note Frankie's neck brace was gone, and hadn't yet been replaced by a sling, hearing aid, or crutch.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said breathlessly as she shrugged off her jacket and slid into the booth opposite her friend.

“No problem.” Frankie closed the
Post.
“Jesus, you look like—”

“Don't even say it.”

Stavros sidled up to the table, wordlessly handing Gemma a cup of coffee. He didn't even ask anymore whether she wanted any of the “bullsheet hippie tea” she used to sip so demurely. Those days were gone. Nowadays Gemma couldn't conceive of surviving without caffeine.

“I'm sorry,” Frankie apologized. “I didn't mean to insult you. You just look really, really tired.”

“Frankie, I am really, really tired. Between Nonna and the store, I feel like one of those gerbils on a wheel.”

“I told you this was going to drive you into the ground,” Frankie sang under her breath.

“Yes, you did,” Gemma snapped. “Would you like an award?”

Frankie went wide-eyed. “Yo, foxy, this is me you're talking to, your best friend?”

“I know.” The numbing sameness of her days, coupled with the sense of always being one step behind, had made her tense and irritable. “I'm sorry.”

“You know it's going to be a good day when we've both apologized within the space of two minutes,” Frankie joked. They smiled at each other sheepishly.

“It's good to see you,” Gemma murmured.

“You, too. It's been—what?—ten years?”

“Feels like.” Gemma sipped her coffee. “What's new?”

“Not much.”

“Things going well with Uther?”

“Yes and no.”
Oh, no,
Gemma thought.
Please don't let her tell me he's sending love notes on the tip of a flaming arrow.

“He's a really interesting guy,” Frankie said carefully. “But the medieval talk is kind of getting to me. Plus, he's always asking me questions about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. It's weird. It's like, no matter what we talk about, he always manages to bring the subject back to you.”

“Maybe he's nervous and he knows I'm one thing you share in common,” Gemma suggested, hoping herself that was the case.

“Maybe. It's getting on my nerves a little, though. That and his constantly asking me to speak in my Lady Midnight voice.”

“Tell him to stop.”

“I have. He doesn't listen very well.”

“Bend him to your will,” Gemma suggested.

“I'm trying. Enough about me. What about you?”

“Work, Nonna, sleep. That's my life.”

“No close encounters of the firefighter kind?”

“No.” She hadn't seen Sean since the day he'd shown up at her store after standing her up, and for that she was grateful. Nor had she run into him with his girlfriend, though Gemma thought she once heard her voice behind the closed door of the elevator.

Frankie looked sympathetic. “I'm sorry that didn't work out, sweetie. Seriously.”

“If it was meant to be, it would have been.” She smiled sadly. “In my next life, maybe.”

Frankie cupped her chin in her palm and sighed. “In my next life, I want to be attracted to gorgeous, stable men with lots of money who are always great in bed.”

“Good luck.” Gemma drained her coffee cup and stood up.

Frankie peered at her in alarm. “Where are you going?”

“If I don't leave now, I'll be late getting to Brooklyn.” She slipped her jacket back on.

“Jesus, Gemma. You weren't kidding when you said you could only give me half an hour tops.”

“No, I wasn't.” Gemma looked glum. “Call me, okay?”

“Sure. I'll give you a ring tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” Gemma hurried out the door.

She was halfway to Brooklyn before she realized she'd neglected to pay for her coffee.

 

 

Arriving at Nonna
'
s
, Gemma was surprised to walk in and find her mother in the kitchen, helping Nonna eat her cereal. Usually it was her Aunt Millie who took care of Nonna on Saturday nights, the house reeking of Winstons by the time Gemma got there.

Nonna looked up and smiled. “Benedetta!”

“THAT'S GEMMA, YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER,” Gemma's mother shouted. “Benedetta is your sister. She's been dead for ten years,” she added under her breath in an annoyed voice.

Gemma put the bag of groceries she was carrying down on the counter and tapped her mother on the shoulder, motioning her into a corner.

“She's not deaf, you know,” Gemma pointed out quietly. “A loud voice isn't going to make her understand any better.”

“I think it does.”

“Fine. Whatever, Ma.” Her eyes traveled to her grandmother. “How did she do last night?”

Gemma's mother shook her head. “Up practically the whole goddamn night. I hardly got any sleep.”

“I'm sorry.”

“She kept raving about Coca-Cola or something, I don't know what the hell she was talking about.”

Gemma's pulse looped.
“Querciola?”

“That's the word!” Her mother looked at her suspiciously. “You know what that is?”

Gemma held back a smile. “Yeah, I do.”

“What?”

“It's nothing.”

Her mother's hand shot out, gripping her arm like a vise. “Tell me.”

Gemma unclenched her mother's fingers from her forearm. “They're the spirits in
La Stregheria
who aid lovers.”

Gemma's mother's face fell. “
La Stregheria?
Have you been filling her poor addled head with your witch crap?”

“No!” Gemma was offended.

“Then how else would she know about these fairies or whatever the hell they are?”

“Maybe she's a witch herself,” Gemma suggested, going to sit beside her grandmother.

“Let me tell you something, Miss Smarty Pants.” Her mother's expression was indignant as she approached the kitchen table. “My mother is a good, obedient Catholic!”

“Who has her spiritual roots in Paganism.”

“N. O.”

“Maybe I inherited it from her. Maybe it's in the blood.”

“What's in the blood?” Nonna asked innocently.

“Being a
stregh,
” said Gemma.

“Don't say that in front of her!” her mother hollered. “
Madonn',
what are you trying to do, confuse her
further?
”

Gemma put down the spoon she was about to lift to her grandmother's mouth. “Why are you so threatened by this?”

“My daughter worships the devil and now she's trying to suggest my own mother is a devil worshipper, too!”

“I've told you a million times, it's got nothing to do with the devil.”

“You listen here. I know what I know. My mother lives by the cross, period. You understand?”

“Sure. That's why she wears a
cimaruta.
”

Gemma's mother narrowed her eyes. “A cima wha?”

“What, that ugly necklace with the branches? She got that from her own mother. It's an heirloom from the old country.”

“It sure is.”

“I don't like what you're inferring.”

“What? That my being a
stregh
really is in the blood?”

She checked her grandmother's face to see if she was comprehending any of this. If she was, it didn't show. Instead, she was smacking her lips impatiently like a baby bird waiting for food. It broke Gemma's heart.

“There's leftover ziti in the fridge if you don't feel like cooking,” her mother said briskly, completely changing the subject. She slipped on her coat as she made ready to leave.

“Anything else I need to know?” Gemma asked.

“You know it all already,” her mother replied sarcastically.

Gemma sighed.

“She's bad at night, like I said. But you already know that. I spoke with Anthony: no Mass today. She's getting too agitated and it's getting too hard keeping her in the pew. Don't forget her medicine.”

“I won't.”

Frowning, Gemma's mother kissed Nonna on the forehead. “YOU BE GOOD FOR GEMMA, MAMA, YOU HEAR ME?” Gemma waited for her mother to kiss her, too. The kiss never came.

Nonna turned to Gemma after her mother left. “Why does she keep yelling at me?”

“It's just who she is,” Gemma explained gently, biting back her own pain. “She doesn't mean any harm.”

 

 

I can
'
t do
this much longer. I love her, but I feel like I'm the one losing my mind.

Trudging through the door of her apartment building on Monday morning, Gemma fantasized about collapsing on one of the couches in the lobby. That's how exhausted she was.

She'd passed a horrible day and night at her grandmother's. Nonna's lucidity was slipping; more and more she was in her own world. Her habit of repeating the same questions over and over made Gemma want to scream. She knew her grandmother couldn't help it. But she herself couldn't help the rising frustration and exhaustion overtaking her life. Frankie had been right: She'd been nuts to take this on while trying to run her business at the same time. Thank God she'd had the presence of mind to have Julie open the store this morning. Gemma would come in after lunch, after she'd had a chance to shower, change, and maybe even close her eyes for a little while.

Walking past Mrs. Croppy's door, Gemma heard her whisper, “Slut.”

“I wish,” Gemma replied, laughing to herself. No doubt the old busybody thought she was trudging home in the early morning after a night of debauchery. If only she knew.

Opening the door of her apartment, she was greeted by the sight of the red light blinking on her answering machine.
Sean.
Then:
Why on earth would you immediately assume that?

She took her time hanging up her coat, kicking off her shoes, and putting away the few groceries she'd picked up. Then she went to the machine. It was Frankie.

“Gem, hi, look, it's me. Not only is there a suspicious mole on my shin, but—”

Gemma hit “Delete.” She couldn't take it anymore: not Frankie's self-obsessed hypochondria, not her mother's coldness, not Nonna's deterioration, none of it. She needed to escape. She called Julie at the Golden Bough and told her she'd be in at 6 P.M., not noon as planned. Then she unplugged her phone, took a few drops of valerian, and slid between the sheets, praying for the oblivion of deep, unbroken sleep. For the first time in a long while, her prayers were answered.