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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.
    â€œSo,” Theresa said to Gemma, “will I see you at Miss X’s christening next weekend?”
    â€œOf 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.
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    â€œI’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 . . .
    â€œWhere’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,