Total Rush (3 page)

“Feel free to say an incantation if you want.”

“That's your realm, Glinda, not mine.”

“Then I guess the spell is complete.” Gemma hugged her knees to her chest. “Let's just hope it worked.”

Riding her bike
to work the next morning, Gemma was upbeat. With any luck, Mr. Right could walk into her life today.

Her friends and family thought she was nuts to bike in the city, but for Gemma, nothing could beat watching the world pull past as she pedaled along, cutting her own, slow swath through the breeze. It was magic to be in motion, especially now that summer's stifling humidity was finally beginning to fade into fall. Her attention was drawn to every attractive man she pedaled past—could the cute guy in the weathered bomber jacket be the future father of her children? What about that sandy-haired fellow with the cell phone glued to his ear? Maybe he had gorgeous blue eyes . . .

Man watching made her reckless: Twice she nearly crashed into parked cars.

Arriving at her store, she whipped off her helmet, shaking out her hair before unlocking the door and carefully wheeling her bike to the small storage room in the back. She had just lit a cone of juniper tree incense and put on a Brigit's Kiss CD when the front door bell tinkled. Anticipation shot through her. Smoothing the front of her long, peasant skirt, Gemma perched as delicately as she could on the stool behind the counter, anxiously hoping she'd catch sight of her dream man.

“Hi.”

The man standing before her was pale and weedy. His sunken chest was lost inside a wrinkled black T-shirt with BLESSED BE in large white letters across the front. Hanging limply from his chin was a long, straggling blond beard. Yes, he had blue eyes—but they were the color of washed-out denim, not a Caribbean ocean. Gemma's heart sank. Sometimes, what you wanted and what the universe decided to send you were two very different things. Still, she managed to come up with a smile. “Hello. May I help you?”

The man reached into his pocket, handing her a crumpled newspaper clipping. It was the ad she'd placed in the
Village Voice
offering tarot classes. It was a way to help offset the costs of her ever-spiraling store rent.

“You're interested in learning tarot?”

The man nodded.

“What's your name?”

“Uther.”

Gemma bit her lip. In her opinion, telling strangers your name was Uther or Gwyddion or Raven only gave the public more ammunition for not taking witchcraft seriously. She knew it was a person's right to use their Craft name publicly, but
still.

“Uther what?” she prompted.

“Abramowitz.”

“Uther Abramowitz,” Gemma repeated thoughtfully. Was it possible the universe had sent her someone named Uther Abramowitz to love? If so, she was going straight home and dismantling her altar. She extended a polite hand across the counter. “I'm Gemma Dante.”

Uther's grasp was limp, like a wet sock. The urge to bundle him up and hustle him to the deli for some minestrone soup was strong. “What do you do?” Gemma prodded.

“I write computer code.”

Gemma smiled. Lots of Pagans held high-tech jobs. She wasn't sure why. “Well,” she said, sliding off her stool, “let me explain how I work. I give private lessons. I also give a group lesson on Thursday nights—”

“I'd prefer private,” Uther cut in immediately.

“Okay.” Gemma pulled out her Palm Pilot from beneath the counter. “I have an opening at eight o'clock on Tuesday nights. Does that work for you?”

Uther shook his head. “Not really. Can you do any during the day? When the curtain of night falls, I'm pretty busy.”

Doing what?
Gemma wondered.
Watching
Lord of the Rings
for the 500th time?
Actually, she didn't want to know. “Well, if you'd be willing to come in during your lunch hour, say between noon and one, I could squeeze you in on Tuesdays.”

“At your humble abode?” he asked eagerly.

“No, here in the store.” Gemma fought to ignore the overt way he was checking her out. Did she really want to be alone with this odd duck for an hour every week? As subtly as she could, she read his aura, something she'd been able to do ever since she was a child. It was gray. He was confused, not evil. She could handle that.

“I charge sixty dollars an hour.”

“'Tis a fair fee,” Uther replied.

“I should have told you seventy-five,” Gemma joked, hoping to pierce his solemn demeanor. But Uther just blinked. “That was a joke,” Gemma clarified.

“Oh,” said Uther.

“You'll need your own Rider-Waite deck,” she continued. “If you don't already have one, you can buy one here.”

“I don't have one,” he mumbled, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

Slipping out from behind the counter, Gemma led him to the locked glass case where she kept the tarot cards. Some, like those she'd recommended to him, were very basic and reasonably priced. But she also carried unique, more expensive decks, like the Dali Universal Tarot as well as one set of the much-sought-after, now-out-of-print Shakespearean Tarot.

“What deck do you use?” Uther asked shyly.

“Rider-Waite.” Gemma pulled out a set for him that came with an accompanying booklet. “I still use the set I bought when I was twelve.”

“How old are you now?” he blurted.

Gemma felt a blush go up to the roots of her hair. “That, kind sir, is classified information.” Cards in hand, she walked back to the counter to ring them up. Strange as he was, there was something about Uther's utter lack of social skills that touched her.

“You don't need to buy any books right now,” she noted. “The book that comes with the set is pretty good. Plus, I use handouts. But a lot of people like to put their cards in a box or bag to protect them from negative energy when they're not in use.” She pulled out her own cards, which she kept in a small, purple velvet bag. “Would you like to buy a bag?”

Uther cleared his throat nervously. “Not now.”

“That's fine,” Gemma assured him, ringing up his order. “That comes to twenty-one sixty-five.”

Pulling out two twenties, he guided them shyly into her palm. Making change, Gemma continued, “What I'd like you to do before next week is get used to handling the cards. Spend a few minutes each day shuffling them, touching them, and laying them out. Look at the images. See if any trigger images or visions. Go wherever your mind leads you. It may feel strange at first, but what you're doing is enlivening your imagination and building a rapport with the cards.”

“What if I have to miss a class?” Uther asked.

Gemma handed him one of her business cards she kept in a seashell beside the cash register. “Just call and leave a message here at the store.” She smiled as she passed him his purchase in a plain white bag. “Anything else?”

Uther shook his head no.

“See you next Tuesday, then,” Gemma concluded brightly.

Uther dipped his head shyly. “Many thanks,” he said, holding the bag aloft. “I'll make sure to do my home-work.”

“Don't think of it that way,” Gemma urged. “Think of it as fun.”

“Fun,” he repeated to himself as if the concept were foreign. Looking befuddled, Uther Abramowitz made his way out of the store.

Gemma watched him leave.
What if . . .?

She couldn't bear to finish the thought.

After a hard day at work, Gemma longed to meditate before dinner, but last week, someone had slipped a note under her door. Taking a box of matches from the mantel-piece, she hesitated before lighting her favorite Indian incense. It was probably Mrs. Croppy, the old woman across the hall, who had written it. She lived to make other tenants' lives miserable. Gemma lit the incense. If Mrs. Croppy had something to say, she should say it face-to-face.

The incense and a few well-placed candles created instant serenity. Dragging one of her meditation cushions out to the center of the living room, Gemma sat down in full lotus position. Eyes closed, breathing slowly, her body felt almost weightless as she floated in a dreamy, fragrant white cloud. She was calm. She was well.

Until someone started pounding fiercely on her door.

“Fire department!” a voice shouted. “If anyone's in there, open up!”

Gemma unfolded her legs and headed quickly to the front door. Peering through the spy hole, she saw three New York City firefighters staring back at her. Dressed in full firefighting regalia, each was holding a tool that looked like it could pry her door off its hinges in three seconds flat.

She fumbled to open the door. “Can I help you?”

“Evening, ma'am,” said a firefighter with the bluest eyes Gemma had ever seen. “We received a report of smoke coming from your apartment.”

Peering past the handsome firefighter, Gemma saw the door to the apartment directly across the hall open a crack, then abruptly shut.
Mrs. Croppy.

Gemma smiled politely. “I'm sorry, but there's been a mistake.”

But Blue Eyes wasn't listening. He was craning his neck to see into the apartment. He brushed past her, the other two firefighters following suit. Speechless, Gemma trailed them, then realized what pulled them in: ribbons of thick white smoke curling in the air and hanging like smog.

“Ma'am?” asked a short and stocky firefighter. He had a graying handlebar mustache that made him look turn-of-the-century.

“It's incense,” Gemma explained. The third firefighter, exotic as an Aztec with huge black eyes and smooth caramel skin, began coughing violently.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he wheezed. “It smells like a funeral parlor in here.”

“It's incense,” Gemma repeated.

“Yeah, well, it stinks,” Mustache said harshly.

“It's supposed to.”

Aztec looked dubious.

Meanwhile, Blue Eyes—who, Gemma noticed, had the word BIRDMAN painted in bright yellow on the back of his heavy black rubber jacket—snuffed out the joss sticks.

Gemma couldn't believe his lack of manners. “Do you mind?”

“Do
I
mind?” Blue Eyes echoed, incredulity in his voice. “Excuse me a moment.” He got on his two-way radio, announcing the call was a false alarm. Hearing those two words, Gemma felt terrible. His expression was serious as he turned his attention back to her.

“I can see it's incense, but your neighbors had no way of knowing that. They were right to call the fire department, especially if this stuff was seeping out under the doorway.”

“It wasn't,” Gemma insisted lamely.
Was it?

Blue Eyes folded his arms across his chest. “Then why are we here?”

Gemma studied the floor.

“No offense, ma'am, but this incense is too strong.” He removed his helmet. Thick, black curls sprang to life as those gorgeous eyes scoured the ceiling. Gemma felt a small flutter in the pit of her stomach. He was movie star handsome, with a strong jawline. And those eyes . . .

“Do you have a working smoke detector?”

Gemma turned pink. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

She didn't want to tell him she'd deliberately removed the batteries from it precisely so she could burn this particular sweet, smoky incense. Blue Eyes was shaking his head. She caught the glance he exchanged with the other two firefighters and her blush deepened.
They think I'm a strange, eccentric idiot who burns repulsive, stinky incense and wastes the fire department's time.

“Where is the smoke detector?” Blue Eyes asked.

“In the bedroom.”

“Mind if we check it?”

“I take it that's a rhetorical question.”

“Why, yes, ma'am, it is.”

Gemma sighed her capitulation, and pointed the way then followed, praying she hadn't left the room in a mess. Blue Eyes flicked on the light switch inside the doorway. Her bed was indeed made; but one of her black silk teddies was flung against her carefully arranged pillows. It looked provocative, an invitation without words. She tried to ignore it as each of the firefighters' eyes darted to the item in question. Aztec sniggered audibly and Blue Eyes cracked “Nice jammies” under his breath, thinking she wouldn't hear.

“Thank you,” Gemma said pointedly, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Good,
Gemma thought.
That's what you get.

Mustache unscrewed the top of the smoke detector. Gemma tensed, knowing what he would find.

“Ma'am?” he inquired politely, removing his helmet to scratch his head. Mustache was bald as a newborn. With the handlebar mustache, gleaming pate, and firefighter garb, he could moonlight as a member of the Village People. “There's no battery in this smoke detector.”

Gemma feigned surprise. “Oh?”

“It's also older than God,” Mustache continued. “You could use a new one.”

“I'll get one first thing tomorrow.”

Meanwhile, Blue Eyes's attention was drawn to the walls, decorated with photos of animals: whales, elephants, dolphins, and monkeys. Gemma caught his eyes darting to the picture of Michael and Theresa she kept on her dresser, along with other family photos. His gaze seemed to linger there before returning to the walls. He studied her wildlife photos quietly but seriously—so seriously that Aztec followed suit.

“You cut those out of
National Geographic
?” Aztec asked.

“No, I took them myself.”