Total Rush (37 page)

“I was doing some thinking last night.”

“About?”

“You.”

“Yes?” Gemma tried hard not to sound defensive or skeptical. Her mother was really trying, really struggling to connect. The least Gemma could do was hear her out.

“I was thinking”—her mother coughed nervously—“that I've always been very hard on you. Even when you were a little girl, I expected you to be perfect.”

Gemma waited, listening.

“I think it's because you were an only child. All my dreams were pinned on you, and what you did reflected back on me. That's the way I thought.” She knit her hands together. “So, when you turned out to be different—different than I imagined you would be—different than I wanted you to be—two things came to my mind. One was ‘What will people think of me?' The other was, ‘God, how can I protect her?'” She raised her eyes to her daughter's. “Because you and I both know that people who march to the beat of their own drum have a hard time, Gemma.”

This was extraordinary. Yes, that was the word. Extraordinary. Gemma took a second to savor it. She wanted to hear more—needed to hear more.

“I've known for years Nonna was a
stregh.
” Her mother laughed mirthlessly. “That was another thing that stuck in my craw: that you were more like her than me.”

“But that's ridiculous!” Gemma blurted. “I mean, you're my mother, for God's sake. No one could replace you. Not even Nonna.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Her mother shrugged. “I was a stupid, frightened woman. Plus, it's not like you and I ever got along. At least not since you were a teenager.”

“Ma—”

“Let me finish, Gemma.” She paused at length. When she resumed, there was a quiver in her voice Gemma hadn't heard since her father died. “When I saw your grandmother in that hospital bed last night, I realized how close I came to losing her. My own mother. That hit me hard.

“But it also got me thinking. Did I really want to be someone with no mother and no daughter? And the answer is no.” She reached up, cupping in her hand the very cheek she had slapped the night before. “This is hard for me,
cara.
Very hard. You know your mama isn't very good at talking about her feelings. But if I want you back, I realize I have to learn to talk to you. To listen to you. To see you. And I have to be willing to tell you what I really think.”

Gemma swallowed. “What's that, Ma?”

“That you're a good girl. A good person, and that's what matters, not that you're a-a—”

“Witch?”

Her mother nodded, frowning. “Witch. Right. It doesn't matter that you're a witch, or that you don't dress like other people, or that you believe in things I think are kooky, or any of that stuff. What matters is what's in your heart. And judging from all you've done for your Nonna, you have a very good heart,
Gattina.
And that makes me proud.”

“Ma,” Gemma whispered, laying her hand over her mother's.

“It's been hard on me all these years without your father. I've had to learn to do for myself. But you”—her eyes lit up with admiration—“you've been doing for yourself since the beginning. You were always so smart, so independent.” She tugged affectionately on a lock of Gemma's hair. “My little girl.”

Gemma's breath caught. “I love you, Mom.”

“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.”