shouldn’t have by listening in when the adults thought I was otherwise occupied.
“Come on into the kitchen,” said Bronwyn. Her anklet of bells jangled as she led the way.
I had only ever seen Rebecca in her usual guise: sleekly put together; highlighted chestnut hair worn in a smooth, styled coif; makeup perfect; clothes spotless, neutral, and expensive. So I barely recognized the woman sitting at the brightly painted kitchen table: Her cheeks were tearstained, her big amber eyes rimmed in red.
Bronwyn had been only nineteen when she gave birth to the daughter she originally dubbed Rainbow, raising her in an urban commune right here in the Haight. Rainbow left for college a year early, changed her name to Rebecca, married an ambitious young scientist, and moved into a posh condo on upper Broadway, where she was now a stay-at-home mom with live-in help. As far as I could tell, she seemed to visit her mother, Bronwyn, only when she needed emergency child care.
“Hello, Rebecca,” I said.
“Hi,” she said with a loud sniff, and little warmth. She turned to Bronwyn. “For the love of God , mother, could you refrain from the witchcraft crap, just for the day? You know I don’t allow that sort of thing in front of the children.”
Bronwyn hummed under her breath, ignoring Rebecca’s remark. She busied herself at the stove, heating a kettle of water and preparing a pot with homemade herbal tea pouches.
Ironically, Rebecca needn’t have worried about any potential powers from her mother embarrassing her. Any change of heart the landlord experienced had been due to simple ethics rather than any enchantment Bronwyn had managed. My friend was many things, but her true gift—her magic, so to speak—was in her wide-open heart and the unconditional friendship she offered her friends. When it came right down to it, Bronwyn couldn’t enchant a squaddie onto a swayback.
But still, Bronwyn was a devoted Wiccan and she lived by the Wicca Rede: She harmed no one. She enjoyed practicing certain pagan rituals, observing the solstices and making simple offerings—usually wine and cake—to the ancient lord and lady, to the gods and goddesses of nature. There certainly was no harm to it, and it was a durn sight kinder than a whole lot of organized religions I could mention. Not for the first time, I wondered whether Rebecca would be as disdainful of her mother for being Episcopalian, or Jewish, or any other religion considered more acceptable by the greater society.
“Tell Lily what’s going on, Rebecca,” said Bronwyn as she poured water from the steaming copper kettle into a porcelain teapot decorated with a daisy chain. “She might be able to help.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Rebecca said, her gaze running over my vintage outfit and her nostrils flaring slightly, apparently displeased. She had a discomfiting way of looking down her nose at those around her, reminding me of the children I grew up with. It amazed me that she and Bronwyn were of the same blood.
“I can’t guarantee I can help,” I said, taking a deep breath and concentrating on emanating understanding. “But I’ll do what I can.”
She blew on her tea, looked around the kitchen, and finally spoke.
“It’s my husband, Gregory . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she sipped her drink. “He was accused in . . . a murder.”
I tried to keep the expression on my face neutral. I knew from a few vague comments from Bronwyn that Rebecca’s marriage had been on the rocks lately, so I had expected Rebecca to mention a separation, perhaps a divorce. Nothing like this. I was doubly glad I had created a cocoon of silence for the children.
“Of whom?” I asked. “He’s been arrested?”
“Not exactly,” Bronwyn said, handing me a cup of fragrant tea in a chipped earthenware mug. I smelled rose hips and chamomile along with orange peel and . . . was it cardamom? Bronwyn was forever experimenting in search of the perfect cup of tea. “He was
“Come on into the kitchen,” said Bronwyn. Her anklet of bells jangled as she led the way.
I had only ever seen Rebecca in her usual guise: sleekly put together; highlighted chestnut hair worn in a smooth, styled coif; makeup perfect; clothes spotless, neutral, and expensive. So I barely recognized the woman sitting at the brightly painted kitchen table: Her cheeks were tearstained, her big amber eyes rimmed in red.
Bronwyn had been only nineteen when she gave birth to the daughter she originally dubbed Rainbow, raising her in an urban commune right here in the Haight. Rainbow left for college a year early, changed her name to Rebecca, married an ambitious young scientist, and moved into a posh condo on upper Broadway, where she was now a stay-at-home mom with live-in help. As far as I could tell, she seemed to visit her mother, Bronwyn, only when she needed emergency child care.
“Hello, Rebecca,” I said.
“Hi,” she said with a loud sniff, and little warmth. She turned to Bronwyn. “For the love of God , mother, could you refrain from the witchcraft crap, just for the day? You know I don’t allow that sort of thing in front of the children.”
Bronwyn hummed under her breath, ignoring Rebecca’s remark. She busied herself at the stove, heating a kettle of water and preparing a pot with homemade herbal tea pouches.
Ironically, Rebecca needn’t have worried about any potential powers from her mother embarrassing her. Any change of heart the landlord experienced had been due to simple ethics rather than any enchantment Bronwyn had managed. My friend was many things, but her true gift—her magic, so to speak—was in her wide-open heart and the unconditional friendship she offered her friends. When it came right down to it, Bronwyn couldn’t enchant a squaddie onto a swayback.
But still, Bronwyn was a devoted Wiccan and she lived by the Wicca Rede: She harmed no one. She enjoyed practicing certain pagan rituals, observing the solstices and making simple offerings—usually wine and cake—to the ancient lord and lady, to the gods and goddesses of nature. There certainly was no harm to it, and it was a durn sight kinder than a whole lot of organized religions I could mention. Not for the first time, I wondered whether Rebecca would be as disdainful of her mother for being Episcopalian, or Jewish, or any other religion considered more acceptable by the greater society.
“Tell Lily what’s going on, Rebecca,” said Bronwyn as she poured water from the steaming copper kettle into a porcelain teapot decorated with a daisy chain. “She might be able to help.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Rebecca said, her gaze running over my vintage outfit and her nostrils flaring slightly, apparently displeased. She had a discomfiting way of looking down her nose at those around her, reminding me of the children I grew up with. It amazed me that she and Bronwyn were of the same blood.
“I can’t guarantee I can help,” I said, taking a deep breath and concentrating on emanating understanding. “But I’ll do what I can.”
She blew on her tea, looked around the kitchen, and finally spoke.
“It’s my husband, Gregory . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she sipped her drink. “He was accused in . . . a murder.”
I tried to keep the expression on my face neutral. I knew from a few vague comments from Bronwyn that Rebecca’s marriage had been on the rocks lately, so I had expected Rebecca to mention a separation, perhaps a divorce. Nothing like this. I was doubly glad I had created a cocoon of silence for the children.
“Of whom?” I asked. “He’s been arrested?”
“Not exactly,” Bronwyn said, handing me a cup of fragrant tea in a chipped earthenware mug. I smelled rose hips and chamomile along with orange peel and . . . was it cardamom? Bronwyn was forever experimenting in search of the perfect cup of tea. “He was
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