* * *
While the guests gathered in the garden, Sally and Gillian exchanged a look, then left through the gate unnoticed. Birdie was in her stroller, already dozing when they took off, headed toward the end of Main Street, past the magnolia that grew on the library lawn. It was said that Maria herself had planted it there when she was a very old woman, helped by her daughter Faith and by her grandchildren, who were descendants of Thomas Brattle, who had written so eloquently against the witch trials and had secretly loved Faith.
The aunts were divided in death, buried in opposite sides of town. Jet’s plot was beside that of her first love’s, Levi Willard, and Franny was interred in the Owens Cemetery, beside her husband, Haylin Walker. It was a tradition to bring the recently deceased a slice of cake after a wedding; Gillian and Sally went to the town cemetery first, with Gillian pushing Birdie’s stroller along the gravel path. Sally held the plates of cake, along with a bunch of daffodils, Jet’s favorite flower. As they neared the gravesite, they saw that a canvas folding chair had been set up. An older man was there, with a sandwich and a thermos of coffee, a little white dog beside him. There were already daffodils on the grave.
The dog began to bark as Sally and Gillian approached.
“Daisy, stop,” the man commanded the dog, who ignored him and continued to yap. “So sorry,” he apologized. “She’s my watchdog.”
It was then the sisters recognized the stranger.
“We’re Jet’s nieces,” Sally said. “We remember you from her funeral.”
“I’m here every Sunday.” Rafael noticed the flowers Sally held. “Her favorites.” He watched as Sally placed the daffodils beside those he had brought, then added the plate of cake.
“We always bring a slice of wedding cake to those we love who are gone,” Gillian explained. “My sister Sally was married today.”
“You should come to the house,” Sally urged. “Dinner is being served right now.”
“What about the curse?”
“We’re rid of it,” Gillian assured him. The sisters exchanged a look. They knew how lucky they were. “Franny and Jet did it for us.”
* * *
Franny’s stone had been installed a year after her death. It was simple granite, taken from the cliffs towering above Leech Lake. The town council had voted to pass a special dispensation which allowed the removal of the granite from town land, which made sense, for long ago the Owens family had donated the outlying woods for community use. Sally and Gillian had both been terrified of Franny at first, and they laughed about it now, recalling her long black coat, her red boots, her pale as the moon skin, the way she narrowed her eyes when you were about to speak, as if she knew you were going to tell a fib before you yourself had even thought to do so. Jet was ready to love you, but you had to work to get into Franny’s good graces, although once you did, it was worth the effort.
When they reached her gravesite in the Owens Cemetery, Sally positioned the plate of Tipsy Cake on the earth. In a year the grass had grown tall and trout lilies and bloodroot had taken root in the dark soil. Sally and Gillian both lay on their backs, hands thrown over their eyes to shield them from the bright sunlight. Gillian had always had an open heart, but Sally had been convinced that she was born to love no one, and that no one would love her. Then she had come to the house on Magnolia Street and she’d taken her mean aunt’s hand and her heart had cracked open, just a little, but a little was enough.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she told Franny through the dark soil. “It’s my wedding day.”
“My little girl is named for you and Aunt Jet,” Gillian whispered.
They would be eternally grateful for their aunt’s love and sacrifice.
Dear, darling Franny, a thousand thank-yous.