Practical Magic

"The aunts didn't seem as disappointed as I thought they'd be," Gillian says. "In me."

The rain is coming down hard; it's washing those blue stones out in the yard clean as new.

"They'd be stupid if they were disappointed," Sally says. She loops her arm through her sister's. She thinks she may actually mean what she's just said. "And the aunts are definitely not stupid."

Tonight Sally and Gillian will concentrate on the rain, and tomorrow on the blue sky. They will do the best they can, but they will always be the girls they once were, dressed in their black coats, walking home through the fallen leaves to a house where no one could see into the windows, and no one could see out. At twilight they will always think of those women who would do anything for love. And in spite of everything, they will discover that this, above all others, is their favorite time of day. It's the hour when they remember everything the aunts taught them. It's the hour they're most grateful for.

ON THE OUTSKIRTS of the city the fields have turned red and the trees are all twisted and black. There is frost covering the meadows and smoke rising from the chimneys. In the park, in the very center of town, the swans rest their heads beneath their wings for comfort and warmth. The gardens have been put to bed, except for the one in the Owens yard. Cabbages are growing there, although some of them will be plucked from the rows this morning, and cooked with bouillon. Potatoes have already been dug up, boiled, and mashed, and are currently being flavored with salt, pepper, and sprigs from the rosemary that grows beside the gate. The willow-ware serving bowl has been rinsed clean and is drying on the rack.

"You're using too much pepper," Gillian tells her sister.

"I think I can manage to make mashed potatoes." Sally has fixed them at every Thanksgiving di

"I know about pepper," Gillian insists. "That's too much."

"Well, I know potatoes," Sally says, and as far as she's concerned, that had better be that, especially if they want to serve di

They arrived late last night; Ben and Gillian are staying in the attic, Kylie and Antonia are sharing what used to be a sitting room, and Sally is in the chilly little alcove up near the back stairs on a fold-out cot. The heat's on the fritz, so they've dragged out all the old feather quilts and built a fire in every fireplace, and they've called the boiler man, Mr. Jenkins, to come repair whatever's wrong. Even though it's Thanksgiving morning and Mr. Jenkins doesn't want to leave the comfort of his easy chair, when Frances got on the phone with him they all knew he'd be there by noon.

The aunts keep complaining that too much fuss is being made, but they smile when Kylie and Antonia grab them and kiss their cheeks and tell them how much they love them and insist they always will. The aunts are advised that they mustn't be concerned that Scott Morrison is taking the bus up from Cambridge, since he'll bring a sleeping bag and will camp out on the living room floor; they'll barely even be aware of his presence, and that goes for the two roommates he's bringing along as well.

The only cat left is Magpie, who is so ancient he gets up only in order to get to his food bowl. The rest of the time he's curled onto a special silk cushion on a kitchen chair. One of Magpie's eyes doesn't open at all any more, but his good eye is fixed on the turkey, which is cooling on an earthenware platter in the center of the wooden table. Buddy is being kept in the attic—Ben is there with him, feeding him the last of the carrots from the aunts' garden—since Magpie has been known to catch baby bu

"Don't even think about it," Gillian tells the cat when she sees him eyeing the turkey, but as soon as her back is turned, Sally takes a bit of white meat, which she herself would never eat, and feeds old Magpie by hand.

The aunts usually have a broiled chicken delivered from the market on Thanksgiving Day. One year they made do with frozen turkey di

"Oh, let them cook," Jet tells her sister, who can't stand the clinking and clanking of pots and pans. "They're having fun."

Sally stands at the sink, rinsing off the potato masher, the very same one she used as a child when she insisted on making nutritious suppers. She can see through the window to the yard, where Antonia and Kylie are ru

"Those girls are pretty cute," Gillian says when she comes to stand beside Sally. She meant to argue some more about the pepper, but she drops the subject when she sees the look on her sister's face.

"They're all grown up," Sally says in her matter-of-fact voice.

"Yeah, right," Gillian sputters. The girls are chasing the granddaddy squirrel around in a circle. They shriek and throw their arms around each other when he suddenly jumps onto the garden gate and glares down at them. "They look real mature."

In the begi

"Gary Hallet," Gillian said right away. "He slipped that ring to some dead guy who couldn't be identified. You know what this means, don't you?''

"He just wanted to see that justice was done, and it has been."

"He's completely hooked." Gillian couldn't seem to let this go. "And so are you."

"Will you please shut up?" Sally had said.

She refused to think about Gary. She really did. She rubbed at the center of her chest with two fingers, then grabbed her left wrist between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand to check her pulse rate. She didn't care what Gillian said; something was definitely wrong with her. Her heart did actual flip-flops; it beat too fast and then too slow, and if that didn't mean she had some sort of condition, she didn't know what did.

Gillian shook her head and groaned; that's how pathetic Sally had looked. "You really don't know. That heart-attack thing you've been having? It's love," she crowed. "That's what it feels like."