Frankie #3
“I agree,” Dina says, before Angie can open her mouth to argue. “Not about West Harbor having too many bars or antiques malls
to be spiritual. There are many spiritual places that manage to cater to both a secular and religious community—Rome is one
of them. What I’m having a hard time believing is that any legitimate coven would advise its members to run away from home
and never contact their families again. The very first tenet of modern witchcraft is to do no harm—”
“But who are these girls harming?” Angie asks. “They’re all witch influencers. They do spells for people online. More people
these days would prefer to pay a witch to cast a spell for them than take the time to see a licensed therapist.” She smirks
at me. “No offense.”
Before I have a chance to assure my sister that nothing she says could ever offend me—after what she did as a child to my
Barbie collection, I no longer value her opinion—Dina chimes in with, “A spell is definitely cheaper than therapy. Asking
an online witch to cast a love spell on someone these days only takes a few minutes, and costs about twenty-five bucks. Therapy
to figure out why someone doesn’t love you can take months, if not years, and cost thousands of dollars.”
“But therapy is an evidence-based treatment promoting self-awareness and a better understanding of one’s relationships,” I cry. “It sets up the foundation for long-term growth and behavior change. A spell is both morally dubious and unlikely to help.”
“The spell of a good witch will help,” Dina insists. “But no truly ethical witch is going to harm her loving family by running away without so much as a
goodbye. That’s what I have a problem with.”
Of course Dina supports the rise of the “psychic services industry,” worth over two and half billion dollars a year in the
United States alone. That industry has proven very lucrative for our little town . . . even me. When Richard left, he told
me (apologetically—Richard is always polite, even when stabbing someone in the heart) I’d have to buy out his share of our
house if I wanted to continue living there.
Which I did. I don’t love him anymore, but I definitely still love my house. I love swimming in the lake behind it when the
water is warm enough and running along the nature trails in the winter when it gets cold. I love how Center Island is shrouded
in such thick marine layers some mornings, I can’t even see it until I’m only a few strokes from the shore. I love the sound
of the water lapping against my old, dilapidated dock, and the chatter of migrating birds in the treetops in the spring; the
wind rustling the leaves in the fall; and the pair of mourning doves that returns to build a nest each summer in the same
tree just outside my bedroom window, their gentle coos to one another a soothing balm to my ears . . .
When I can hear them over the pulsing beat coming from Ash’s back deck, that is.
I even love my neighbors—except for Ash—most of whom are retirees who worked hard to afford the little patch of paradise we share, and who invite me to backyard barbecues in the summertime, and holiday cookie-decorating parties in the winter.
How could I give up any of that?
Thanks to West Harbor’s new “spiritual destination” status, I didn’t have to. Mama Giovanni’s has been doing so well due to
the recent influx of witch tourists that I was able to borrow money from the business, buy out Richard’s share of the house,
and rid myself of him forever—except when I have a weak moment and click on the sailing vlog he and “Devorah” have been posting
to since they left, letting all of us know how their world cruise is going.
So I guess in some ways, even I owe a little something to the witches of West Harbor.
“But if all those missing girls are witch influencers or whatever,” Mark asks in a perplexed tone, “why can’t anyone find
them? It seems like it should be easy. Can’t they just trace their IP addresses, like on Law & Order?”
“Not if they’re using a VPN to hide their IP addresses,” Angie says. I’m not surprised she’s on top of all the latest intel
regarding the missing girls. When you own a hair salon, you end up knowing everything about everyone in town. “But even if
they weren’t, what’s law enforcement supposed to do? Like Dina said, they’re legal adults. No one can force them to go home,
let alone call their parents, if they don’t want to.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” My mother has reentered the room from the kitchen, this time bearing a salad bowl. “Those girls will
be home as soon as it gets cold outside.”
She’s probably right, but I know that if any of her own kids—or, God forbid, her grandchildren—ever took off without a word like Emma Bridle, Mom would be singing a very different tune.
When she heard about Richard, Mom not only put a maledizione (curse) on him, she threw salt all around my doorways to protect me from il malocchio, or the evil eye—“As a joke,” she insisted.
But I know that as much as Mom might laugh it off when we tease her about her belief in La Vecchia Religione—the old religion, also known as stregheria, a combination of Catholicism and witchcraft, which was passed down to her by her own mother—deep down, it isn’t a joke to
her. Superstitions, like conspiracy theories, give some people comfort in a world where so much can feel out of their control.
Angie puts her phone down with a bang. “In case anyone is interested, that was Cat texting me just now. You might be surprised
to learn that our baby sister is much too busy and important to make it to Sunday Gravy today.”
“Zia Cat’s not coming?” My nieces have followed my mother into the dining room. Portia looks crushed. She worships my fashionable,
dynamic youngest sister Caterina, who has made it her life’s mission to escape from West Harbor.
“Everyone come sit down.” Mom plops the wooden bowl full of crisp lettuce, plump tomatoes, olives, and pepperoncini onto the
dinner table. “Dinner is ready. And no, Portia, your Zia Cat isn’t coming. She’s very busy with her writing.”
“Why does Cat always get to skip Sunday Gravy?” Angie unfolds her dinner napkin with a snap. “How come I was never allowed to move to the city to write a novel when I was in my twenties, instead of working at the hostess desk at Giovanni’s?”
“Because you were busy having me,” Portia points out, and earns herself a peck on the cheek from her adoring mother.
“Exactly.” Mom gives the salad an extra toss, ensuring that every lettuce leaf is covered in her tangy homemade balsamic vinaigrette.
“All of my children are equally talented, just in different ways. Mark’s a very good cook, and Cat’s a brilliant writer.
But you and Francesca are good at helping people to look and feel their best, which is important, too, Angelica. ”
This produces a Thanks, Ma from Mark, but only another eye roll from Angie. “Things are always easiest on the baby of the family,” I hear her mutter.
I’m about to remind Angie that Cat’s childhood was hardly “easy”—she was only six when our father died, and our mother was
so overwhelmed with grief and stress from keeping the restaurant going, she left most of the parenting to me, a teenager.
And Cat isn’t writing a novel. She’s pursuing a career in freelance journalism after earning a BA in it at NYU.
But before I can mention any of this, Mom takes the hands of her granddaughters, who are seated on either side of her, and
asks, “Who’s going to say grace?”
“Me!” cries Bianca. “It’s my turn!”
“Go on, then,” Mom says encouragingly, and her five-year-old granddaughter bows her head.
“‘Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts,’” Bianca lisps, “‘which we are about to receive from thy bounty . . .’”
As I hold on to Bianca’s sweat-slicked fingers with one hand, and Angie’s beautifully manicured fingers in my other, I inhale the delicious garlicky aromas emanating from the dishes before me and feel a surge of gratitude.
For the food. For my sweet, innocent nieces.
For my mother. For Mark and Dina. For Cat, struggling to find herself in a five-story walk-up in Queens.
For Troy, taking care of my beloved lake.
For the foul weather over the Azores that Richard posted about on his sailing vlog this morning. Even for Angie.
But most of all, I feel grateful for Mrs. Baumgarten. Her moving out of Ash’s house and demanding a refund is likely to ruin
his autumn—at least for a while.
And I’m going to do everything I can to prove her case and ruin the rest of the year for him, as well.
Not the nicest thing to think about during grace, I know.
But if there is a god, I figure he—or she—will understand, especially if he—or she—has ever met Ash Merit.