Several Post-it notes had been attached to the front door by disappointed clients in search of Franny, whom they planned to make do with now that lovely Jet was gone. When will you be back? I need you. My son. My husband. My daughter. My life. How can I find what I’m looking for? Children were ill or disappointing, husbands strayed or lost interest, love was wished for or wanted extinguished. Antonia collected the notes, shaking her head as she did so. People were always looking for magic. She’d sat on the back stairs and listened to the nonsense of local women who visited the aunts. They wanted to blink away their tears and stretch out their hands to receive a pardon or a cure or the key to love and fortune. Good luck, she thought. You’re on your own now. Try going to a therapist or a doctor or a pharmacy because no one can help you here.
Antonia had decided to become a physician because she wanted a life buoyed by facts rather than an ancient art that left one rooting around in the darkness of could-bes and maybes, untested possibilities that might easily lead to disaster. This was the price of being the older sister. She was vigilant and always looked before she leapt. She was the one Kylie depended on when their mother was preoccupied. Should they walk into the dim woods? Absolutely not. Should they leap from the flat ledges above Leech Lake? Not on your life. There were bees and poison ivy to watch out for, broken limbs and concussions. This is the way a doctor is often formed, an individual aware of possibilities others chose to ignore.
Gillian, who often spoke about topics that Sally kept off limits, always argued that science and magic were twin arts aiming for the same results. “But one is proven!” Antonia would insist, to which Aunt Gillian would defiantly fling back, “And one has no need to be!”
Now as Antonia entered the darkened hallway of the old house, exhausted by dragging her extra baby weight around, she wondered what the Reverend knew about the curse. He was aware of much of what had transpired in this town, both within his family and theirs. When Antonia first heard about the curse at Jet’s funeral, she’d imagined it was little more than a joke, another odd bit of history that had come down through the generations, a story twisted over time, with details that had always been sketchy. There was no law against believing in magic; she’d come upon ingredients that her aunts used for enchantments in the greenhouse, and it did no real damage, or so she’d thought until her sister went missing. Everything was now topsy-turvey, even her own usually calm psyche. She was exhausted and wished she could stretch out on the window seat on the stair landing to nap. She both wanted sleep and feared it. Who was the drowning woman in her dream and what was she trying to tell Antonia?
In the front hall, Antonia stumbled over the mail that had come in through the brass letter slot to collect in a messy pile on the rug. Most of it was from Hardy and Hardy, the law firm that handled the Owens estate, all addressed to Frances Owens. Since Franny was unreachable, Antonia sat in the parlor and tore open the most recent envelope.
Dear Miss Frances Owens,
We have tried to reach you via phone and mail to no effect. Your sister’s will is here with us and it must be reviewed by someone in the family so that her wishes can be seen to properly.
Yours respectfully,
A. S. Hardy, Esquire.
Antonia folded the letter into her pocket. She might have ignored it completely, but she was the practical sister, the dutiful daughter, the niece who looked after the family obligations. She toured the house to make sure there were no leaks, no mice, no lights left on, no faucets dripping, no birds trapped in the parlor, no fluttering moths behind the curtains, no racoons in the attic, no teenagers sneaking into the greenhouse to look for herbs or have fumbling sex, then she took the time to write out the monthly check for the brothers for their groundskeeper fees, even though they always made a fuss and said that Miss Frances Owens never needed to pay for their services.
* * *
She hoped the stop at the attorneys’ office on Beacon Street would be brief. Traffic was bad in Boston, as always, but she managed to fit Gillian’s Mini into a tiny space. The law firm had been at the same address since the late seventeenth century when there were cow paths rather than roads. There had been at least one attorney in every generation. Antonia remembered the old man, Arthur Smith Hardy, from the time she was a child. He’d been Isabelle Owens’s lawyer, a rather intimidating gentleman who wore a gray pinstriped suit and a black tie, clothes appropriate for both legal work and funerals. Antonia felt the sting of anxiety as she was ushered into his office. To her surprise the only one in sight was a young woman with shining pale hair, who was sorting through files spread out on the floor. The woman, not quite thirty and extremely attractive, looked up, somewhat indignant at having been interrupted, pushing her hair out of her large expressive eyes.