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  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 sw
ift 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, cam.”

  “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.

  What was he doing here?

  She made her way toward him, hoping she wouldn’t face another lecture on fire safety. Michael’s timing couldn’t have been better: He moved off to speak with another cluster of guests just as Sean scoured the crowd and happened to light on Gemma. Seeing the smile on his face as their eyes met, Gemma felt a joyful heat surging through her body, radiant and strong.

  “Hi,” she said shyly, reaching his side.

  “Hey.” He seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “Gemma Dante, right?”

  She nodded. “You have a good memory.”

  “It’s not an easy name to forget.” He squinted slightly, studying her face. “Are you Michael’s sister?”

  “No, we’re double cousins.” Seeing his puzzled expression, she added, “Our fathers were brothers and our mothers were sisters.” Then she changed the subject. “How do you know Michael?”

  “Through, uh, the FDNY hockey team.”

  “I was at the game the other night. The charity game.”

  Sean looked curious. “So, what did you think?”

  “I think it was fixed.”

  Sean chuckled appreciatively. “The Blades probably could have played a little harder, you’re right.” He took a quick sip of beer. Gemma watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed and thought it the sexiest thing in the world. “But it’s all for a good cause.”

  “I agree.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “That would be great.”

  “What’s your pleasure?”

  Better not answer that, she thought. “A gin and tonic would be great.”

  He smiled then, and it was killer. “Be back in a minute.”

  She watched as he made his way to the bar. God, he was a looker. And his body—muscled thighs evident through his faded jeans, strong shoulders swathed in a blue-and-white-striped oxford shirt, sleeves casually rolled. No wedding ring.

  Taking her drink from him, she took a small sip, grateful for something to do with her hands. “Are you ever going to tell me your name, ‘Birdman’?” She knew, of course, but she wanted to hear him say it, wanted to hear his deep, sexy voice caress the syllables.

  He ducked his head shyly. “It’s Sean. Sean Kennealy.”

  “Irish?”

  “Just a bit.” He took a long pull off his beer, his eyes seeming to dance with mischief. “So, have you gotten a new smoke detector yet, Gemma?”

  Gemma colored. “Not yet. But I’m going to, I swear.”

  “Maybe I’ll buy you one. As a present,” he teased.

  “If that’s your idea of a present a woman would enjoy, then I pity you.” They both laughed. “What does ‘Bird-man’ mean?”

  He looked uncomfortable. Gemma hoped she hadn’t just put her foot in it. Suppose it had to do with sex? She braced herself.

  “It’s my nickname at the firehouse. I rescued these two birds from a fire and wound up adopting them. Ever since then, they’ve called me ‘Birdman.’”

  “Are nicknames big with firemen?”

  “Huge. But not all of them can be repeated in mixed company. And since you’re clearly a lady, I’ll spare you.”

  For some reason, his calling her “a lady” sent giddiness charging through Gemma. Is he aware of how sexy he is? Two big gulps of gin and tonic slid down her throat.

  “I loved those photos in your bedroom,” he continued. “Are you a professional photographer?”

  “Only in my dreams. In real life I run a boutique in the Village called the Golden Bough.”

  His brow furrowed. “Interesting.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah. I don’t run into too many businesswomen in my line of work. Unless their business has burned down.”

  “What kind of women do you run into? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Not at all.” He took another sip of beer. “Most of the guys’ wives and girlfriends are regular working people: schoolteachers, housewives, nurses—nothing fancy like owning their own business.” He winked at her.

  “It’s not fancy. It’s just what I always wanted to do.”

  He raised his glass to her. “I hear you.”

  “You too? You always wanted to be a firefighter?”

  “Hell, no. I fought that for years! I’ve only been with the department for three years. Before that, I was a stockbroker.” He put his index finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone. People hear that and all of a sudden they treat me like I’m Mer
rill Lynch.”

  Gemma laughed. “I promise, I will never ask you for financial advice.”

  Sean’s eyes caressed her body. “You don’t look like you need it.”

  Gemma blushed, the bold compliment catching her off guard. She scrambled to keep the conversation going. “What made you switch careers?”

  “Destiny. My dad was a ladder man and my granddad was an engine man. You can’t outrun what’s in the blood, you know?”

  “But wasn’t it hard? I mean, you must have gone from making a tremendous amount of money to—” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Sean patted her shoulder reassuringly. “I like the fact you say what most people think. And the answer is yes, I took a big cut in salary. But the money’s not why we do it.” He eyed her curiously. “Enough about me. I want to hear about your store. Where is it?”

  “In the Village. Thompson Street.”

  “I don’t know the Village that well,” he confessed.

  “Oh.” Gemma was surprised. “Don’t you live in New York?”

  “Yeah,” he said evasively. “But I’m from Long Beach, originally.”

  “New Jersey?”

  “Long Island.”

  Gemma nodded. She’d heard of Long Beach, but had never been there. Her only experience with Long Island was with her cousin Paulie’s house in Commack.

  “One of the guys at 35 Engine has an apartment right on the boardwalk,” Sean continued. “Sometimes we switch apartments for the weekend, especially in the winter. He gets to play in the city, and I get to wake up to the sound of the ocean for a few days.”

  Gemma could picture it: the insistent cries of the gulls coasting on invisible currents of wind; the soothing rhythm of the tides; the sun dancing playfully off the surface of the waves, creating a kaleidoscope of diamonds. It had to be wonderful in the spring and summer. But the winter? “Isn’t it lonely in the winter?”

  “Are you kidding? Winter is when the beach is best.” His tone bordered on the rapturous. “There’s no one there. It’s glorious.”