Fair Play by Deirdre Martin Page A

cousin. The customer awarded him such a look of condescension that had he been a dog, he would have slunk away with his tail between his legs. When the shop was empty again, Gemma listened carefully as he finished his story, nodding thoughtfully.
    â€œLet me ask you a question,” she finally said.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œWhy do you think this girl has changed so much since you first met her? You said that when you were first introduced a few years back, she was easygoing and funny. But now she’s stiff and formal and looks like a schoolmarm.”
    â€œA HOT schoolmarm,” Michael felt compelled to point out.
    â€œWhatever. What do you think is going on?”
    Michael felt uncomfortable. “It could have something to do with what happened to her.” He checked Gemma’s expression to make sure she knew what he was referring to. “But why does she need to hide? When I fed her some of Anthony’s pastry, the real Theresa came out. But the minute she realized it, bam! It was back to cold fish Theresa.”
    â€œShe’s obviously trying to protect herself.”
    â€œYa think?” Michael retorted.
    â€œSo, maybe you should leave her alone,” said Gemma, pointedly ignoring his sarcasm.
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œWhy? Why do you refuse to accept that she doesn’t want anything to do with you?”
    â€œWell . . .” Michael scratched his left ear distractedly, trying to formulate an answer not only for Gemma, but for himself. “Because I just have this feeling I can’t shake, that if she would just give me a chance . . . trust me . . . let her guard down . . . she’d see we were right for each other somehow. I don’t know how to explain it.”
    Gemma’s mouth gave way to a knowing smile. “It’s called intuition, Mikey. Everyone has it. But some are more willing to pay attention to it than others.”
    Michael rolled his eyes. “Don’t get all airy fairy on me here. Just tell me what you think I should do.”
    Gemma sighed. “I’m not sure. Hold on a minute.” Reaching down, she pulled out a small, purple velvet bag from beneath the counter.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Michael asked suspiciously.
    â€œTarot cards,” she informed him, removing a deck from the bag and placing it on the counter.
    Michael groaned. “Gemma, c’mon, you know how I feel about this stuff.”
    â€œIndulge me.” She handed the cards to him. “We’ll just ask one question at a time and see what they say. Think of a question, then shuffle the deck as many times as you want. When you’re done, put the deck down and turn over the top card.”
    â€œOkay.” He held the cards tight in the palm of his hand, thinking. “Is Theresa the one for me?” he asked quietly. He began shuffling the well-worn cards, surprised to find he was somewhat nervous. “I swear to God, if you tell anyone in the family I did this, I will hunt you down,” he threatened his cousin.
    â€œConcentrate on the cards and the question, Michael,” Gemma urged. The cards and the question. The cards and the question. A number came into his head: thirty-three. His uniform number. Shuffling the cards thirty-three times, he put them down on the counter as instructed and turned over the top card. There was a picture of a couple dressed in medieval garb, holding hands in front of what looked like a preacher or a judge. “The Lovers” it said in flowery print beneath them. His eyes darted to Gemma’s, hopeful. “That’s good?”
    â€œVery good. The card symbolizes love, beauty, the beginning of a romantic relationship. Maybe even marriage, eventually.”
    Michael felt vindicated. “See? It’s in the cards. Literally.”
    â€œThe cards you think are a bunch of bull,” Gemma pointed out.
    â€œMaybe not,” Michael admitted, encouraged. Maybe there was something to this