Page 11 of The Magic We Made

No one else who was at the courthouse that night seems to have suffered from such a self-harming reaction (if you count the financial hit Richard is taking by withdrawing all that money early from his 401(k)—not to mention divorcing me). Sure, Mark and Dina suddenly decided to elope, to both the delight and outrage of my mother... delight because she’d been campaigning for years for the two of them to get married, and outrage because when they finally did, she wasn’t invited.

But you can hardly call that self-harming. Even the only personthat night who sustained physical injuries during the storm—the former head of “the World Council of Witches, the world’s largest organization to advance the common interests of witches” (since disbanded due to infighting)—was quickly treated, released, and never heard from again.

True, this is why the few media outlets that initially covered the incident started calling it the West Harbor Witch Riot—although no one admitted to seeing any actual rioting. And this, unsurprisingly, led the millions of people on the Internet who viewed video of the microburst and ensuing chaos to come up with their own explanation for what they were seeing: magic.

Yep. According to the rumors on social media (and even some members of my own family), it wasmagicthat caused such a freakishly strong thunderstorm.Magicthat took out the tent and the leader of the witch organization.Magicthat made my brother decide to elope with his longtime girlfriend, and allegedlymagicthat made my formerly logical spouse completely lose his mind.

Magic. Yeah, right. That explanation works if you’re seven-year-old Portia. It’s a little harder for a thirty-something-year-old financial therapist to believe in... especially one who watched her father die right in front of her eyes. Where was magic whenthathappened?

I’ll tell you where: Nowhere. Because magic doesn’t exist. There is a rational, scientific explanation for everything.

I just haven’t figured out the explanation for whatever it is that’s happening here in West Harbor.

I’m startled out of these dark thoughts by my sister Angie demanding, “Frankie, are you going to let me cover those gray hairs of yours before Derrick and Jessica’s engagement party, or what?”

This is one of the many reasons I have a love-hate relationship with Sunday Gravy. “You leave my gray hairs alone,” I say.

Once again, Dina comes to my defense. “Frankie looks amazing, Ange.”

“True, but she would look even better if she’d let me give her a root touch-up, highlights, and a trim.”

“I’m not going to the engagement party,” I say. “I already RSVP’d no.”

Angie looks shocked. Jessica—Dina’s best friend since grade school—got engaged to tall, motorcycle-riding Derrick last year, so Dina offered to host their engagement party since both Derrick’s and Jessica’s parents live out of state. Jessica, like Angie, is the owner of a popular local business—a clothing boutique called Enchantments—so Angie seems to feel obligated to “help” with the party even though I’m pretty certain no one asked her to.

“But Frankie, youhaveto go,” Angie cries. “You used to balance Jessica’s books. And Dina is her maid of honor, and Mark is Derrick’s best man. Your own nieces are going to be flower girls at the wedding!”

“Yeah, Angie, I know. Which is why I’m going to the wedding. But that doesn’t mean I have to go to the engagement party.” When I see Angie’s eyes widen, I add, “Don’t worry, I sent a gift.”

“She did,” Dina hastily assures my sister when she sees the thunderous look on her face. “Which was so nice, but not necessary—”

“I wanted to,” I say with a shrug. “I like Jessica. But I still wonder what the point is of engagement parties. They made sense in medieval times, when marriages were more of a commercial transaction. But now it feels like the whole thing has just become a massive cash grab—”

“You only feel that way becauseyourmarriage was a bust,” Angie interrupts savagely.

“No.” Surprised, I shake my head. “That’s not true. I wasn’t thrilled about what Richard did, but that doesn’t mean I wish Derrick and Jessica anything but the best of luck.”

“Maybe not consciously,” Angie insists. “But how else do you explain why you’ve been such a Negative Nancy for the past year, so down on love and men and marriage and, well,everything?”

“I’m not! I haven’t!” Is this really the image I’m projecting? Or is this just Angie being Angie? “That isn’t how I feelat all.I mean, things haven’t been great, obviously, and I’m not going to pretend like they are. But I’m sorry if it seems like—”

“Hey, Frankie,” Mark interrupts. “Has Jackie said anything to you about those missing girls?”

“No.” I feel a little whiplash from the abrupt change in subject. When I see Dina throw Mark a grateful glance, I realize he did it on purpose to distract me from the subject of engagement parties.

HaveI been too negative lately? I know I always act professionally in front of my patients. But I don’t want to seem like a Negative Nancy toanyone... not even Angie.

“Why would Jackie say anything tomeabout the missing girls?” I ask.

“Well, it’s all anyone is talking about at the restaurant,” Mark says. “And since Jackie is one of your best friends and deputy chief of police, I thought she must have mentionedsomethingabout it. The cops don’t seem to be looking for them anymore—”

“Because all those girls are legal adults who appear to have gone missing by choice,” Dina says. “In fact, I heard they’re part of some new coven that considers West Harbor the center of the spiritual universe—”

I can’t help it: I burst out laughing.

“Sorry,” I say quickly, but it’s too late. Angie—whose head has been bent over her phone screen as she texts someone—looks up, outraged by my smirk.

“What’s so funny about that?” she demands. “It’s no different from Mecca or Jerusalem.”