Total Rush (10 page)

“Memorize the meaning of any five cards you want.”

“That's it? I can do more, you know. I have a photographic memory.”

“Really? Then learn the meaning for all the cards.”

“O-okay.” He looked uncertain.

“That was a joke, Uther. Learn at least five, and if you want to do more, feel free.”

“Will do, Lady Most Fair. Mind if I look around the store awhile after you reopen?”

“Be my guest.” Gemma slid out from behind the counter. “Oh, and Uther?”

She was going to tell him to can the poesy or he'd find himself not with Lady Fair but Lady Macbeth, but stopped herself. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

 

 

It embarrassed Sean,
but to find Gemma's store he had to look Thompson Street up on a map. Like the area surrounding Wall Street where he'd once worked, the Village was filled with narrow, twisting streets, so different from the rigid grid system upon which the rest of Manhattan was mapped. Bleecker, Houston, Broome, Canal—Sean was familiar with the names, but had never hung out there himself.

He came up out of the subway on West Fourth Street, map in hand, looking like a tourist. It took a while, but he finally found the Golden Bough, right off the intersection of Thompson and Grand. Part of him expected something dark and Dickensian, with a black cat sitting in the store window atop a pile of dusty books. Instead, he found a small but bright shop whose sign blazed in gold and purple. The window display was pleasantly busy with books, tarots cards, crystals, and candles. Doubt crept in as he gripped the door handle.
Do I really want to do this?

He paused, recalling Socrates Campbell's words of wisdom. So what if Gemma was different? Wasn't that what had attracted him to her in the first place? To automatically assume she wouldn't fit in was narrow-minded and ignorant, two adjectives he didn't want applied to him. At the very least, he owed Gemma an apology. In the best of all possible worlds, she would forgive him and maybe, just maybe, agree to a real date with him. Assuming she didn't catch sight of him and tell him to go to hell immediately.
Or send me there herself.

He opened the door and slipped inside, gratified to see there were other customers in the store. The presence of other shoppers ensured she wouldn't wing things at him, call him names, and tear him a new one. He hoped.

The inside of the store was brightly lit and well organized, with a soothing aroma in the air that reminded him of Christmas trees. He recognized the music playing: Enya. His sister Christine threw her on the CD player at every family gathering.
So we both like Celtic music. That's a good sign, isn't it?

Some customers were scrutinizing the tall bookshelves, while others sat in overstuffed chairs, leisurely thumbing through books. There was a welcoming feeling to the place that he realized reflected the warmth of the woman who owned the store. A quick peek up the “Reincarnation and Past Lives” aisle revealed Gemma sitting behind the counter, talking quietly to some skinny, bearded man who looked like he could use a strong dose of sunlight. Grateful she hadn't noticed him yet, Sean hung back, waiting until she finished. Her back was turned to him as she said goodbye to the man, who threw Sean a dirty look as he crept past him on his way out of the store.

“Excuse me, miss, I need your help finding a book.”

Gemma jerked around. Sean saw shock in her eyes that quickly turned to distrust. He could see how much damage he'd done.

“What kind of book are you looking for?” She smelled sweetly of the same perfume she'd worn at the christening, but spoke politely, as if to a stranger.

“A primer on Wicca.”

“I see.” Her expression betrayed nothing. “Follow me.”

Slipping out from behind the counter, she walked briskly down one of the tall aisles. Sean followed at a slight distance. Was this how it was going to be, shop-keeper and customer? The next move, he realized, was his.

Within seconds Gemma pulled a book off the shelf, handing it to him. “This is good for beginners.”

Sean skimmed the cover.
The Complete Idiot's Guide to Witchcraft.
“Complete idiot: That's me, all right. Thanks.” He peered at her, hoping his joke might melt the ice.

“You're welcome.” Turning heel, she walked back to the counter, barely looking at him when he handed her the book to ring up.

“That'll be ten ninety-five, plus tax.”

Forget humor, proceed directly to shame, ‘cause it's the only chance you've got.
“Gemma, I came here to apologize.”

She pointedly refused to look at him as she took his twenty dollars.

“It was a shitty thing to do,” Sean said quietly.

Her eyes looked up at him sadly. “Yes, it was. It made me feel cheap. You think I do that all the time? Give myself away like that?”

“I'm sorry. That's not how I want you to feel. And it's not what I think, either.”

“Well, that's a comfort. God knows I've spent the past week worrying about what you think.”

Sean flinched at her sarcasm. “I deserved that. Hit me again.”

“I don't want to hit you again.” Her voice was shaky. “Look, we slept together, it was a mistake, now let's move on.”

She moved to hand him his change. Sean's hand shot out, gripping hers.

“I don't think it was a mistake.”

Gemma gently withdrew her hand. “Then why did you leave without saying a word?”

Sean glanced around to make sure none of the nearby patrons could hear him. “Because my back was killing me and I was scared. I meet someone really interesting and then she turns around and tells me she's a witch. Wouldn't you have been freaked out?”

“I wouldn't have gone snooping around in someone else's apartment.”

“If I hadn't found your altar, you wouldn't have told me?”

Gemma looked dismayed. “Of course I would have told you. But in my own time, in my own way. I might even have waited until we both had clothes on.”

Sean swallowed, embarrassed. “I'm sorry,” he repeated after a long moment. “I'm sorry I was nosy. I'm sorry I put you on the spot at an awkward moment, and I'm sorry I crept out in the middle of the night like a slimeball.”

“Apologies accepted,” Gemma murmured reluctantly.

She'd forgiven him! He had to grab the opportunity to see her again. “I was thinking.”

“That could be dangerous, but continue.”

“You and I did things ass backwards.” His voice dropped. “You know, having sex first and all that.”

“And?”

“I thought maybe we could do things right, you know, spend some time together.”

“And then have sex,” Gemma added acidly.

“No.” Sean was reeling. “Well—I mean—if you want.” Gemma frowned. “You know, I don't usually hop into bed so quickly, either,” Sean added.

“Oh, really.” Gemma looked skeptical.

“Yeah, really. I'm not quite sure what happened between us. It felt magical. I know that's probably not a good word for me to use, but I don't know how else to describe it.”

Gemma's face lit up with a little smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“So, you'll go out with me, then?”

“Depends what you have in mind.” When Sean looked surprised, Gemma laughed. “What, did you just expect me to say ‘Yes' without hesitation after what you did to me?”

Sean could feel his ears burning. “Uh . . .”

“You did, didn't you?”

“I did, yeah,” he admitted, defending his title as Stupidest Man in the World.

Gemma folded her arms across her chest, chuckling. “That's pretty presumptuous, don't you think?”

“That's me, ole Mr. Presumption.”

“Well, Mr. Presumption, tell me what you have in mind.”

Sean thought quick. “How about we go out, grab a bite to eat, and listen to some Irish music? There's this great place called O'Toole's down by Met Gar.”

Gemma nodded slowly. “Irish music . . . that could be fun.”

Sean's heart leapt. “So is that a yes?”

“I guess,” Gemma said, beginning to look like her old happy self.

 

 

As she prepared
for her date with Sean, Gemma's imagination danced with all sorts of visions. She pictured them at one of the city's small, trendy bistros, murmuring intimately at a table for two. Afterward, they would walk hand in hand to O'Toole's, the night air invigorating and full of promise. Both would be moved to tears by the heartrending sound of the Irish penny whistle as it trilled mournfully behind a singer with streaming raven hair who sang of hurling herself into her lover's open grave. The evening would leave them feeling tender and emotional. They'd go back to Gemma's place and make slow, deliberate love.

Instead, Gemma found herself being led by the hand down narrow steps to a basement pub. Sean opened the door, and Gemma found herself up against a solid wall of human bodies. Gabbing loudly, many were well on the road to intoxication despite it being only 9 P.M. She glanced sideways at Sean to see if he found the scene as disconcerting as she did.

“The food here is fantastic,” he shouted in her ear.

Apparently not.

Doing her best not to jostle pub patrons as she squeezed past, she let Sean lead her to the front of the room. The combination of tightly packed bodies and lack of ventilation had perspiration dripping down the black concrete walls. Gemma was glad she hadn't worn a long-sleeved blouse as planned. Ten minutes in this sweatbox and she'd be drenched.

“Wait until you hear the music,” Sean said as he pulled out a chair for her at a small table for two marked RESERVED. She already heard music coming from the jukebox in the corner, its main melody muddied by the nonstop din of voices. She strained to make out the tune. Something by U2? Their table was situated right in front of the small stage. If Gemma pushed back too far in her chair, her back practically touched an amplifier. She touched Sean's arm.

“Do you think we could find a different table?” she asked loudly.

Sean surveyed the room. “I think this might be it.”

Gemma did a quick circuit of the room. He was right. This was it.

Out of the whirlwind a waitress appeared, handing each of them a menu. “What can I get you to start?” she asked in an Irish brogue so thick Gemma thought she had to be putting it on.

“A Guinness,” Sean replied easily. The waitress turned to Gemma expectantly.

“Gin and tonic, please.”

“Made with Tanqueray,” Sean added. The waitress nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

“How do you know this place?” Gemma asked.

“It's a popular FDNY hangout.” He glanced around the room. “I'm surprised no one I know is here.”

Gemma suspected as much. She felt like a fish out of water. The last time she'd been in a place like this . . . wait: Had she ever been in a place like this?

Sean smiled at her, and she flipped open the menu, skimming the selections. Corned beef and cabbage. Bangers and mash. Fish and chips. Meat pies. Burgers. Gemma closed the menu.

“Know what you want already?”

“There's a small problem.”

Sean dragged his chair closer to hers. Obviously he was having as tough a time hearing as she was. “What's that?”

“I'm a vegetarian, remember?”

“Shit. I didn't even think . . .” He trolled the menu, his easygoing expression slowly giving way to mild embarrassment.

“It's okay,” Gemma assured him, squeezing his hand. “I'm sure I can find something.” She leaned over so their shoulders were touching, taking another look at the menu. “There: cheese and onion pie. I'll have that.”

Sean closed the menu, looking miserable. “I'm so sorry, Gem. I should have remembered.”

“Not a big deal.”

The waitress returned, plonking their drinks down on the table. “Do you know what you want, then?”

“I'll have the cheese and onion pie,” said Gemma.

“Sorry, love, we're all out.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have any salads?” Sean asked.

The waitress bit down on the tip of her pen impatiently. “What you see on the menu is what you get. Sorry.”

“In that case,” said Gemma, “I guess I'll just have a plate of chips.”

The waitress looked testy. “That's it? Chips?”

“Yes.” Gemma shot Sean a baffled look.

“I'm not sure you can do that, you know. Just have chips.”

“Oh,” Gemma repeated, confused. “Why not?”

“Because chips
go with
something.” The waitress clucked her tongue in frustration. “Fish and chips. Sausage and chips. We've never had anyone ask for ‘just chips' before. I'll have to ask the chef if it's okay.”

Gemma looked at the waitress warmly. “I'm sure it'll be fine.”

“It might not be.”

“Let's just see how it goes,” Sean intervened, a big, fake smile cruising its way onto his face. It made Gemma want to laugh.

The waitress, now in a snit, peered down at Sean. “And what would you like,
sir?
”

“Bangers and mash, please.” Sean closed his menu and handed it back with a knowing wink. “You can also tell the chef it's a New York City firefighter who wants that plate of chips.”

“Very good,” she bit out. “Thank you.”

With that she left.

“Guess she doesn't care about getting a tip,” Gemma joked.