The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic #2)(92)

“Please, Franny, I have to leave,” Madame Durant called from the front hall.

And then Franny saw it. A guitar, propped up against the bookcase.

Madame came up the stairs after Franny. They met in the hallway. She wasn’t young, and chasing after Franny was an effort. “My car is here.”

“To take you to the country?”

“Yes.”

The yellow flowers. When Franny concentrated she could see two men walking in the pale sunlight. “Is that where he is? And William?”

Madame shrugged. “What do you want me to say? He is not here. You’ve looked for yourself. He’ll never go back, Franny. You must know that.”

“That is his guitar, isn’t it?” Franny asked.

Madame looked at Franny and Franny could see it was true.

“Do they stay here when in Paris?” she asked.

“Occasionally. Paris wouldn’t have suited Vincent in the long run. There are fields of sunflowers out in the country. It’s beautiful and peaceful. And, you must understand, Franny, he’s safe.”

“Considering who he is?” Franny said.

“Considering what the world is like.”



Franny took a taxi to her hotel and sat looking out the window of her room, watching the darkness fall. She felt Vincent’s presence in the world, in the beauty of the evening and in the sunflowers Madame Durant had had sent over in a glass vase. That was the message, that bouquet, the most Madame would tell her.

Franny telephoned Mr. Grant at his home in Sag Harbor. It was early in the morning, but he was glad to hear from her.

“They live in the countryside,” she said.

“That would be William to live someplace that reminded him of home. Do you still get the postcards?” he asked.

“Yes,” Franny said.

“They’re happy,” Mr. Grant said. “So we must be happy for them, dear girl.”

They made plans for Franny to visit Sag Harbor. She would bring Jet and they would sit on the porch and have lunch and look out at the sea and the island William used to row toward even in high seas. She had been in Paris six weeks. Soon it would turn cold and the paths where Franny liked to walk would be covered with ice. In the countryside the sunflowers would be cut down and their stalks would turn brown. Birds in the hedges would rise, twittering, to fly over the meadows in the last of the daylight.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Let’s be happy.”



Now when Franny came to see Haylin he was no longer in his bed or at physical therapy, but in consultations. The nurses shrugged. A doctor was a doctor, they said. A man’s situation might change, but the man himself never did. Such was Haylin’s character. He was more interested in the well-being of others than he was in himself.

One day she took him to the Tuileries on an outing from the hospital. He struggled with his walking at first, and called himself a damned peg leg, but by the time they reached a café, he had caught a second wind and his stride was fine. His French was impeccable, hers merely good, so Franny let him order for her. They had white wine and salads with goat cheese and everything was cold and delicious. He spoke about a surgery that had been very successful earlier that day. A sergeant who had taken a bullet to the spine. It was a delicate operation, one Hay excelled at, so the patient had been sent from Germany so that Hay might supervise. He was taking measures to get his French medical license so he would be able do the surgeries himself. He was excited to be helping servicemen who had lost limbs, as he had. He thought he would use some of his father’s money to bring these patients here to France to be treated. He lit up when he spoke of his work, and Franny recalled the way he would speak about science when they were young, the way a lover might speak of his beloved.

He poured more wine. It was a perfect afternoon, one Franny would think about often. He would be in the hospital another six months.

“Just promise me you won’t fall in love with anyone else when I go,” Franny said. “That’s all I’m asking. You can take them home, do whatever you want, sleep with whomever you want, just don’t fall in love.”

“I never would.”

“What about Emily Flood?”

“Emily who?”

They laughed and finished their drinks. “What about the nurse?”

Haylin gave her a look.

“Aha.” Franny made a face. “She’s your type.”

“You’re my type,” Haylin said. He took her hand and brought it to his mouth so he might kiss her. “You’re leaving, aren’t you? Why? Because you think it’s safer for me if we’re apart? After everything that’s happened to me do you think I give a damn about being safe? I’m coming back to wherever you are.”

He refused to listen to any arguments against his plan. They walked back to the Rue de Rivoli, where they found a taxi. It was still difficult for Haylin to shift his leg into a car. “I’ll get better at this,” he vowed. Once inside the taxi, Haylin drew her to him so that she was on his lap. The driver didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention, no matter how heated their kisses became. “We’ll outwit the curse,” he told her. “Wait and see.”



Franny liked to sit in the yard wearing her black coat and her old red boots no matter the weather. These days she kept to a schedule. Every morning, she wrote a long letter to Haylin. She ate the same diet, noodles and apple tart for dessert, or beans and toast and soup. Simple, practical things. She loved the garden: the bats flickering over the pine trees as they devoured insects, the frogs that came to sing in the spring. On most evenings, women arrived, in search of remedies. But tonight was different. She spied a girl standing inside the gate.