Fair Play by Deirdre Martin

coffee, the next thing you know he’d be on her about dinner, and then . . . she shuddered.
    â€œI have to go,” she said abruptly, gathering up her things. “I’ll be in touch again soon. In the meantime, if you need any help with Anthony, let me know.”
    â€œSure, no problem,” Michael said glumly.
    Theresa hurried out the door and back into the brisk air, where she could clear her head and concentrate on more important things.
    Like what she was going to wear when she met Reese Banister.
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    â€œMikey! What a surprise!”
    Michael smiled as his cousin Gemma drew him into an embrace, crushing him against her as the overwhelming scent of her patchouli perfume, strong and musky, tickled his nostrils. Gemma ran the Golden Bough, a New Age shop in the Village. He’d come to see her because he was desperate for female advice.
    Gemma was the black sheep of the family. Not only was she thirty-one and happily single, but she’d committed the cardinal sin of moving into the big, bad city, far from Brooklyn and all that was pure in this world, or so his family thought. Worst of all, she was a stregh —a witch. She’d explained it to him once, all about paganism and white magick and Wicca. Michael had teased her about worshipping furniture, but his feeling was that if it made her happy, who was he to criticize?
    The rest of the family took a less charitable view. Gemma was rarely invited to family events for fear their sainted grandmother Nonna Maria might find out she’d “gone over to the dark side” and promptly keel on the spot. Anthony now made the sign of the cross whenever he saw her. None of it seemed to phase Gemma, who had always been Michael’s favorite cousin, even if she was a bit, well, spooky. When they were kids, Gemma was always freaking him out, accurately shouting out who was on the other end of the line when the phone rang, or predicting things before they happened. One time, Gemma airily announced to him, “You’re gonna fall and go to the hospital.” Five minutes later, he tripped and fell down the steps at Nonna’s and had to get five stitches to his chin. At the time, he was certain she’d somehow made him fall. Nowadays he was content to admit some things simply defied explanation and leave it at that. It wasn’t an area he cared to delve into too deeply.
    â€œSit down,” Gemma urged, leading him to one of the tall stools behind the counter. A few customers were silently browsing the book section, which Michael noticed carried books on everything from astrology to Zoroastri anism. He didn’t mind the books. It was all the other stuff, the tarot cards and the crystals and the incense and the candles, that gave him the willies. Maybe it was a case of “You can take the boy out of Catholicism, but you can’t take the Catholicism out of the boy.” He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that just being there made him feel slightly uncomfortable, like he was doing something vaguely sinful. It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help what he felt. Or smelled. The cloying sweetness of incense wafting through the small store was so strong he knew that by the time he left he’d have a whopping headache.
    He turned to his cousin, her forehead wrinkled as she concentrated hard on staring into his face, eyes narrowed.
    â€œWhat?” he asked, alarmed.
    She touched his wrist lightly. “You’re in pain?” she asked with concern. “Someone’s hurt you?”
    Jesus H, did she have to start in with the witch stuff right off the bat?
    â€œIn a way,” Michael admitted. “There’s this girl—I mean woman . . .”
    He proceeded to tell her all about Theresa, pausing only when one of the customers came to the counter to pay for a book on Santeria. Michael jokingly asked if she’d read the sequels on the Nina and the Pinta, only to be punched in the shoulder by his