Total Rush (5 page)

“The way we're going, she's going to wind up being called ‘Miss X.'”

Gemma smiled sympathetically. “Don't worry, you'll come up with something.” Taking the jumbo-sized bottle of Evian from Theresa's hand, she helped herself to a sip. “I'm surprised you're here. I thought for sure you'd be home with Miss X.”

“The first baby ever born in the history of the world is with my mother, God save her tiny, unnamed soul. No, I'm here because one of the Blades is a client and he's slated to do an interview after the game. I want to make sure he doesn't say anything stupid.” She took the water back from Gemma. “And I wanted to support Michael, of course.”

“Of course.”

Gemma opened her mouth to say something else but was drowned out by the blaring horn signaling the game was about to begin. Since it was a charity game, they'd be playing only two periods. Though she enjoyed watching her cousin play, Gemma wasn't a big sports fan in general. She traced it back to elementary school phys ed, when she was always chosen last for basketball because of her height and teased unmercifully for her inability to hit a softball.

Since Met Gar was the Blades' home ice, they skated out first. A rousing cheer rose up from the crowd as each player skated out into the spotlight. Gemma noticed that Michael, especially, got a thundering reception, proof of his status as hometown favorite. He loved it, too, waving and smiling as he made a circuit round the ice before gliding to the players' bench.

“Your husband is such a ham,” she remarked to Theresa, who heartily agreed.

As loud as the cheers were for the Blades, the decibel level went sky high when the FDNY hockey team appeared, their bright red jerseys dazzling against the white ice. Unlike the Blades, the players for the fire department hockey team came in all shapes and sizes. There were neckless little runts who would be pulverized by one modest hit from a Blades defenseman, refrigerator-sized brutes, and tall, sleek geeks Gemma could envision being blown over by the passing breeze created by a fast-skating team-mate.

And there was Blue Eyes.

She turned to Theresa. “Do you have a program?”

“Sure.”

Gemma eagerly flipped through the pages until she came to the FDNY players. There he was, Number 45, Sean Kennealy of Ladder 29 Company. Kennealy. Of course. Blue eyes, dark hair . . . he was “Black Irish.”

Sean Kennealy. He was playing defense, probably because of his size. He was huge. Strapping. A strapping Irishman.

The puck dropped, and then both sides were in motion, one of the Blades carrying the puck, of course.

Since it was a charity game, the Blades weren't playing as hard or fast as usual. None of them really checked any of the firefighters, and the tempo of the skating was turned down a notch. That is, until the FDNY team scored a goal seven minutes in. After that, the Blades decided to be a little less kind.

None of it mattered to Gemma. Her eyes were glued to Sean Kennealy, whether he was on the ice or off it. She was no hockey expert, true, but he seemed fearless when he played, his expression as menacing as that of any NHL defensemen. Nor did he seem to shy from physical contact; unless Gemma was mistaken, he was one of the few FDNY players actually daring to fully check members of the Blades' offense. The game ended in a tie—“Rigged,” Theresa whispered to Gemma—and people began the slow, shuffling departure from Met Gar.

“So,” Theresa said to Gemma, “will I see you at Miss X's christening next weekend?”

“Of course.” Gemma's eyes were still on the ice, picturing Sean as he confidently checked her own cousin.

Theresa leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Earth to Gemma, game's over.”

Gemma turned to Theresa, smiling apologetically. “Sorry.”

Filing out of the arena, she discreetly tucked the evening's program into her bag.

 

 

“I'm surprised the altar didn't burst into flames when you walked into church.”

Ignoring her cousin Anthony's comment, Gemma rose up on tiptoes to plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek. They were standing among family and friends outside St. Finbar's Church in Bensonhurst, where Michael and Theresa had just had their infant daughter christened. Gemma had blanched when she'd heard the name they settled on: Domenica. Domenica Dante. It sounded like a deranged Italian film director. But she understood why they'd chosen it: They were honoring Theresa's father, Dominic, who had passed away two and a half years earlier.

Gemma's gaze ranged over the noisy group assembled on the church steps. She watched as her relatives jostled each other for their turn to have their picture snapped holding the baby, who was serene as a doll in her antique ivory gown. Gemma knew Anthony's wisecrack wasn't malicious, but it still smarted.

Happy tears had flooded Gemma's eyes during the ceremony. She'd watched Michael and Theresa lovingly convey their daughter from the front pew up to the baptismal font, accompanied by the godparents: Anthony, and Theresa's best friend, Janna. Gemma had been able to say hi to Janna and her husband Ty before the ceremony, but hadn't had a chance to chat with Anthony and his wife until now.

In fact . . .

“Where's Angie?”

Anthony frowned. “On duty. Couldn't get off. She's gonna try and swing by the party later.”

The party was being held at Dante's a few blocks away. Once a neighborhood secret, it had become outrageously trendy. Anthony claimed he hated the Manhattanites who now descended regularly, but Gemma never heard him complain about all the money the restaurant was generating.

The baby, whom Gemma was aching to hold, had just been passed to cousin Paul, who had come in from Long Island with his wife and kids. Gemma started to move toward them—it had been months since she'd seen Paul and his family—but stopped dead in her tracks. Her mother, Aunt Betty Anne, and Aunt Millie were marching down the church steps heading straight for her. Anthony, rather than sentimentally noting that his late mother, the fourth Grimaldi sister, was missing, nudged Gemma in the ribs. “Heads up. Here come Mo, Larry, and Curly.”

Gemma moved tentatively in the direction of her mother, who had pointedly ignored her in church.
Please don't make a scene, Mom.

“Hello, Mom.” Gemma leaned in to kiss her mother's cheek; her mother flinched slightly. She also kissed her aunts. Millie covertly winked at her as if to say, “Don't mind your mother,” but Betty Anne was cold as marble.

“You look good,” Aunt Millie croaked, her gravelly voice betraying her lifelong, three-pack-a-day Winston habit.

“I can't believe you came to church,” her mother snapped.

“I was invited, Mom.” Gemma was determined not to take the bait. “I'm a member of this family, too.”

“You should have just come to the party. To show up at the house of God . . .” She made the sign of the cross while emitting a heavy theatrical sigh.

“Don't start,” Gemma implored quietly.

“I'm not starting anything,” her mother insisted shrilly, eyeing her younger sisters for backup. “Am I?”

Betty Anne's eyes fell to the ground. Millie excused herself for a smoke. That said it all. God forbid anyone stand up to Constance Annamaria Grimaldi Dante.

“I'm going to go talk to Nonna,” Gemma informed her mother politely.
I tried,
she told herself.
That's what matters.

Still, she felt like she'd been punched in the stomach.

She found her grandmother still inside the church, talking to one of the priests. Nonna's tiny, gnarled hands were waving madly, while the rapid-fire patter of her voice told Gemma that this priest was not number one in Nonna's hit parade. Gemma approached carefully, not wanting to interrupt. But the minute her grandmother caught sight of her, the tirade halted and she broke into a wide, delighted smile.

“
Bella,
I've been waiting for you!” She smiled knowingly at the young priest. “This is my granddaughter, Gemma. Bet you wish priests could get married, eh?”

“Nonna!” Gemma turned to the priest. “Please, Father. She didn't mean it.”

The priest coughed uncomfortably and hurried off, clearly relieved to be free of speaking to an old devil like Nonna.

“I can't believe you did that!”

“What, told the truth?” Nonna snorted, watching the priest hustle up the center aisle of the church. “Tight ass,” she added disdainfully.

“Nonna!” Gemma exclaimed again. Depending on who you asked, Maria Grimaldi was either “a pip,” “a character,” “a loon,” or “a royal pain in the ass.” To Gemma, she was simply Nonna, the grandmother she adored, and who loved her unconditionally.

“Here, let me look at you.”

Gemma dutifully held still beneath her grandmother's loving eye, Nonna's head bobbing in approval. “Beautiful.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it's always true.” Her hand clasped Gemma's forearm for support. Gemma jumped.

“Nonna, your hands are freezing!”

“My blood's getting too tired to make the full round.” She waved a hand in the air. “It happens.”

That was Nonna: no nonsense, philosophical about the passing of time. She'd been a great beauty, and to Gemma was beautiful still, with her long, white braid and her big, green eyes that were always alert, always watchful. “Have you held the bambina yet?” Nonna asked.

“Not yet. There's quite a crowd around her.”

“She's gorgeous. Perfect. Her name is Theresa.”

“Theresa is her mother, Nonna,” Gemma laughed. “The baby is Domenica.”

“Right, right,” Nonna replied hastily. “Domenica.” Slowly, they made their way toward the open church doors to join the rest of the family.

“So, your mother,” Nonna began, her steps small and careful.

Gemma's eyes darted down to meet her grandmother's. “What about her?”

“Is she still upset about
La Stregheria,
or—?”

“Still upset.”

“She needs a swift kick in the ass, that one.”

Gemma chuckled. “A swift kick in the ass” was one of her grandmother's favorite expressions. It was actually made endearing by the soft edges of her Italian accent, which had worn away over the years.

“There's more than one way to worship,
cara.
”

“I agree with you there.”

She gave Gemma's arm a squeeze. “You and me, we're a lot alike. Now, how about you give me a ride over to the restaurant?”

 

 

Nonna had the
knack of turning a simple ten-minute jaunt into an hour-long production.

First, they had to stop by the house of Mrs. Crochetti, one of the women in Nonna's prayer circle, so Nonna could check up on her. Apparently, Mrs. Crochetti was suffering with a goiter. Next, Nonna had to be driven to the bakery to pick up bread, since it would be closed by the time the christening party was over. Finally, they had to go to Nonna's house to drop off the bread and pick up baby Domenica's christening gift, which required wrapping. By the time Gemma's battered old Beetle rattled into the restaurant parking lot, they were forty minutes late and the party was in full swing.

Gemma guided Nonna through the door, where they were bombarded by the sound of happy conversation among friends and relatives. The place was packed. Some people were already seated; others stood in small groups with drinks in hand, talking. It seemed more like a wedding reception than a baptismal bash for a tiny baby. Then again, Theresa was a publicist and Michael was the New York Blades' hometown hero. No wonder the room was packed.

“Who do you want to sit with?” Gemma asked her grandmother.

Nonna took her time assessing the crowd, finally pointing to a small, round table near the kitchen doors where Gemma's mother and her two sisters sat.

Gemma peered at her grandmother. “You sure? You might have more fun if you sat with someone else. Mussolini, for instance.”

Nonna chuckled. “What could be more fun than making my daughters hot under the collar?”

“Well, don't come crying to me when Mom cuts you off after one glass of grappa.”

As carefully as she could, Gemma maneuvered her grandmother through the dense, upbeat crowd. The baby was nowhere in sight. Theresa had probably taken her off somewhere to nurse. Seeing Gemma and Nonna approach the table, Gemma's mother frowned.

“We only have room for one here, and we're savin' this seat for Robert DeNiro.”

Aunt Betty Anne gasped. “Bobby D is
here?
”

“Bobby D!” Aunt Millie snorted. “Like you know him!”

Betty Anne looked insulted. “We
do
go to the same podiatrist,” she sniffed. “Bunions,” she added knowingly.

“He's a client of Theresa's,” Gemma's mother said. “He could come. You never know.”

“He can go sit with Al Pacino, then,” Gemma said as she helped Nonna into the empty seat.

“There goes our fun,” Gemma mother's grumbled.

“Take a pill, will ya?” Aunt Millie snapped, lighting up. She squeezed Gemma's hand.

“Thanks for bringing her over here, doll. We'll make sure she stays out of trouble.” She craned her neck, anxiously looking around the room. “I don't see Al Pacino.”

Content her grandmother was now settled, Gemma headed for the bar. If anyone deserved a drink right now, it was her. That's when she saw him. Blue Eyes, Sean Kennealy, firefighter/hockey player in all his heart-stopping glory. He was holding a pint of beer and talking to Michael like they were old friends.