Frankie
“Ash!” Gaia leaps from her chair and goes to kiss her grandson on one stubbly cheek. “There you are. We were just talking about you. Come sit down. I’ve brought all your favorites.”
Ash doesn’t look very happy to see her.
“What are you doing here?” he demands. The duvet has slipped to the floor, but fortunately, he’s got on briefs. Still, they’re
briefs. I’m not sure he wants to be displaying what he’s got going on down there for his boss, even if she happens to be his grandmother.
But it doesn’t seem to bother either of them, since they’re standing in my kitchen, arguing.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Gaia asks. “I came to thank your lovely girlfriend for saving your life—”
“I’ve told you,” he interrupts, without a hint of his usual good-natured humor. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”
“What am I doing, darling?” Gaia is so petite, she has to crane her neck to look up at her tall, mostly naked grandson. “Paying a social call to the woman you love? What’s so wrong with that? I felt it was time I got to know her. Is that some kind of crime?”
“Yeah!” Ash cries. “When you break in, it is a crime!”
“Oh, don’t be so silly, Ashraf. I didn’t break in; I used the key. And Francesca doesn’t mind. Do you, Francesca?”
“It’s Frankie,” I say. I’m too numb to think of anything else. “It’s Frankie, not Francesca.”
“Oh, no,” Gaia says. “You’re much too beautiful to be called Frankie. You’re a Francesca.” To Ash she says, “You know, I’m
surprised at you. You have a beautiful woman here who saved your life, and what are you doing? Sleeping in. Aren’t you ashamed?”
Ash looks frustrated in that special way only parental figures can frustrate us as adults. “Guy. I’m serious. I want you to
get—”
“You know, darling, Francesca and I were just discussing what it was that brought the two of you together, and it made me
wonder: is it possible that, for the first time ever, your gift has failed you?”
Ash looks confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, only that, as someone suffering from the curse—as you often refer to it—of finding lost things for others, isn’t it
possible what you’ve found here in West Harbor is something you felt was lost from your own life, as opposed to someone else’s?”
Ash looks even more confused. “Are you talking about the house? I bought that house for you.”
“You didn’t buy that house for me, darling.” Gaia moves back to the table, but this time she sits in the chair across from
me, leaving the one beside mine vacant for Ash. “You should know by now who you really bought it for.”
It takes a second or two for Gaia’s implication to sink it. But when it finally does, Ash explodes.
“No,” he thunders, tugging his fingers through his hair as he always seems to when he’s frustrated. “That’s not what happened, and you—”
“But I’m glad, darling! You never find things for yourself, only for others. I think it’s about time you—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” I’m not sorry, it just seems polite to say I am. “But I can tell that you two need a little space
to work this out, so I’m just going to go outside and—”
“No!” Ash takes a few steps toward me, then looks down at himself. “Frankie, don’t go. Or wait just a minute and I’ll grab
some pants and go with you—”
But I’m already unlocking one of the sliding glass doors and stepping outside, taking my coffee with me. “You stay here, Ash,”
I say. “Work it out with your grandmother. I think the two of you really do need some time alone.”
“Francesca,” Gaia calls, “don’t go, darling! There’s nothing for us to work out. Everything is fine. Come and have some shakshuka
before it gets cold.”
But I’ve already closed the sliding door behind me, then turned . . . and caught my breath.
Outside, it’s cool, much cooler than it was yesterday, and the sky that stretches overhead is as blue as the ceramic dishes
that Gaia manifested onto my dining room table. There isn’t a cloud to be seen.
But what causes me to catch my breath is that somehow in the night, autumn finally arrived.
It’s turned all the leaves on the trees from green to the colors of flame—red and orange and yellow, but most of all gold.
The air itself seems to have a golden glow to it, as rich and bright as the jewelry around Gaia’s wrists and neck.
That gold is reflected in the water of the lake, gleaming like a mirror. It’s a cool, crisp, golden fall day.
As I go down the steps from my back deck to my dock, I see only a few boats out on the water—unusual on such a glorious afternoon,
even if it is a Monday.
But that’s because Haley and her minions sank almost all my neighbors’ watercraft. A salvage crew is already working to recover
Mrs. DeLong’s kayaks and runabout. I’ll have to get their number for Ash.
Even if the lake weren’t already too crowded for me to swim safely, I wouldn’t go anyway. The temperature has plunged. As
I watch, a flock of Canadian geese lands on the surface of the lake, honking noisily. I might be losing my mourning doves
for the winter, but I’ll have plenty of other company.
As I lower myself onto the edge of the dock, sitting with my feet swinging over the water and my coffee cup on the sun-warmed
wooden planks beside me, I can see no visible sign at all on Center Island of anything that happened the night before.
But it did. I know it did.
And the only question I have now is: How am I ever going to go back to my normal existence? How am I going to meet with patients
all day, and listen to their problems, knowing that magic—magic, the Underworld, goddesses, witches—actually exists?
And yet . . . isn’t there a part of me that’s always known this?
Not the part that died the day my father passed—the childish part that believed parents were indestructible and that, yes, Santa Claus and fairies were real—but the part of me that’s always wondered at the beauty of a sky like the one overhead right now, or the music of the birds?
Wasn’t that the same part of me that got so angry when Ash’s renters played the stereo so loud, and drowned out that music?
Because nature is a kind of magic. Dina seems to have always understood that.
That’s why it was always so easy to respect her beliefs, even
though they’re so far from my own.
Sure, all of it can be rationally explained . . . those mourning doves come back to nest in my tree every year because their
instincts tell them to.
But isn’t it a sort of magic that they do, year in and year out? Or that Daisy—sweet, silly Daisy—chose my front porch to live under, out of everyone’s in the neighborhood?
Or that Ash chose that house, the one right next to mine, as an investment property?
Is that magic? Or is it simply a conjunction of incidents without any overt causal connection?
Why couldn’t it be both?
“Hey.”
I turn and see Ash standing behind me on my dock. He’s put on some clothes. I don’t know where he got them because they aren’t
the same clothes he was wearing last night.
But there he is, looking impossibly handsome and sweet and . . . uncertain. Yes, he seems unsure of his reception.
I know the feeling. My family is a lot, too.
“How are you?” he asks, coming to stand beside me along the dock. “All right?”
“You mean because of her?” I squint to look up the steps toward my house.
I can’t see Gaia from here—she’s either left or is staying indoors.
But I know that’s who he means. When Ash nods, I shrug.
“Yes, of course, I’m fine. What do you think, that I’m going to freak out because of the discovery that magic—and gods—exist?
” My voice is rising. There is perhaps a note of hysteria in it.
I fight to lower it. “Because that’s not going to happen. ”
Ash doesn’t smile. Nor does he sit down on the dock beside me. When he finally speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically calm
and quiet.
“I know,” he says. “But like you said, this is a lot to wrap your head around. Guy went back to the city. And if you want
me to go, too, just say the word.”
“Go?” My sunglasses are inside. I can barely see him, since he’s standing with his back to the sun. The golden glow around
him is so bright, it almost hurts to look at. I have to lift a hand to shade my eyes. “Did she leave the shakshuka? Because
I wanted to try it. And where are you going to go?”
“Yes, she left the shakshuka. And I’ll go back to the city. I’ll put the house on the market. You’ll never see me again, if
that’s what you want, Frankie.”
“That’s not what I want,” I say, and hold my hand away from my eyes and up to him. He immediately seizes it in his warm, strong
fingers, just as I’d known he would. “Why would I want you to go?”
He gestures back toward my house with one hand while keeping my hand firmly clenched in the other.
“Because of her.” Then he gestures toward Center Island. “And her, and everything that happened out there last night. That was all because of me and my family. I can’t even imagine what you
must think of Guy.”
“Yeah, your grandmother may be a witch,” I say as I start climbing to my feet. “But you haven’t seen my family on Christmas
Eve.” He’s pulled me the rest of the way up, but doesn’t release my hand. “Ever heard of the Feast of the Seven Fishes?”
When he shakes his head, I go on. “Well, you’re going to be in for a shock. I hope you like salted cod, because if you stick with me, you’re going to be spending a lot of the holidays rinsing it.”
“What do you mean, if I stick with you?”
“I mean what I said. I live here. You live in the city. But if you choose to stick around—”
He releases my hand, but only to snake an arm around my waist and pull me even closer. “Are you saying that if I did that,
I’d be welcome?”
I stifle a grin. “Sure, especially by the DeLong boys. You still owe them ten bucks, some chewing gum, and a kitten, I think.
They’ll be home from school soon, so I hope you’re ready to pay up. The kitten is going to have to wait to be weaned, but—”
He grips me more tightly. Out on the lake, the geese honk and show off, flapping their wings, and a soft wind causes the golden
leaves to stir in the treetops, making a shhhh-shhhh sound.
“Is there anyone else who might like me to stick around?” he asks, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Maybe,” I say, slowly. “It depends on whether you ditch the truck.”
He gazes down into my face as, around us, a few of those flame-colored leaves, stirred by the wind, begin to fall. “What if
I told you that I sold the truck?”
I give a gasp of mock surprise. I already know he sold the truck to Mark. “You did?”
“I did. And what if I told you that it turns out Guy was right, and I’m pretty sure I did find that house for myself, and not her? And I’m the one who’s going to be living in it from now on.”
I raise my eyebrows, not faking surprise this time. “Really?”
“Really. Oh . . . and I read your binder. Cover to cover.”
“Liar.”
“No, really, I did. Recycling gets picked up on Mondays, except when Monday is a holiday, in which case pickup is on Tuesday—”
I gasp. “You did read it!”
“I did. Does that mean I can have one of Daisy’s kittens, too?”
“If you hurry up and submit an application for one,” I say. “Two of them are already spoken for. And you’re going to have
some explaining to do to Rochelle over at Harbor Hideaways, because she says you promised Mrs. Baumgarten a free month of
rent next summer.”
“Oh, yeah. I did. I guess I was hoping I have a neighbor who’d be kind enough to let me—and my kitten—stay with her that month.”
“A neighbor, huh?” I can’t help grinning. “Is that what I am to you?”
“Neighbor, and maybe something more . . . I hope.”
“Neighbors with benefits?”
“The neighbor who found me when I was lost,” he says, holding me even closer. “Not once, but twice, and who I hope won’t ever
let me go.”
“Hmmm. Nice neighbor. She almost sounds like a neighbor who—”
Loves you.
I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to feel it. It’s both ridiculous and extremely inconvenient, given that I’ve spent so many months hating him, and I certainly don’t
need or want to be in a relationship right now.
Except.
Except that it’s the truth. I know it now.
It slips out before I can stop myself . . . maybe because I don’t want to stop myself.
“She sounds like a neighbor who loves you,” I hear myself telling him, conscious that my heart is slamming against the backs of my ribs. “I love you. And it’s not the oxytocin, or serotonin, or even devil’s weed. It’s not magic, either. I love you. And I don’t
know what to do about it.”
He looks extremely interested—and pleased—to hear this. So pleased that he’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, yeah?” he says. Around us, more leaves are falling. They land silently on the surface of the lake, causing small ripples
across the water that shimmer almost as brilliantly in the sun as the golden leaves themselves. “Well, what if I told you
that I love you, too? And that I know exactly what to do about it?”
“What’s that?”
“This,” he says, and lowers his head to kiss me.
A little while later, as the bright leaves fall gently around us, and somewhere high above, the mourning doves gently coo,
I raise my head from his chest, where I’ve been resting it as he holds me in his arms. Then I blink because I can’t quite
believe what I’m seeing.
The entire lake is bathed in gold, from the foliage to the water to the triumphant light that seems to be shining from Ash’s
eyes. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful.
Or felt anywhere near as happy.
“Is this real?” I ask Ash. “Or is it magic?”
“It’s both,” he says as we start slowly making our way home. “It’s the magic we made.”