Page 13 of The Magic We Made

“Go on, then,” Mom says encouragingly, and her five-year-old granddaughter bows her head.

“‘Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts,’” Bianca lisps, “‘which we are about to receive from thy bounty...’”

As I hold on to Bianca’s sweat-slicked fingers with one hand, and Angie’s beautifully manicured fingers in my other, I inhale the delicious garlicky aromas emanating from the dishes before me and feel a surge of gratitude. For the food. For my sweet, innocent nieces. For my mother. For Mark and Dina. For Cat, struggling to find herself in a five-story walk-up in Queens. For Troy, takingcare of my beloved lake. For the foul weather over the Azores that Richard posted about on his sailing vlog this morning. Even for Angie.

But most of all, I feel grateful for Mrs. Baumgarten. Her moving out of Ash’s house and demanding a refund is likely to ruin his autumn—at least for a while.

And I’m going to do everything I can to prove her case and ruin the rest of the year for him, as well.

Not the nicest thing to think about during grace, I know.

But if there is a god, I figure he—or she—will understand, especially if he—or she—has ever met Ash Merit.

Ash

I’m walking the aisles of the 8:34 p.m. Sunday train from Grand Central to New Haven (with stops in Greenwich, Stamford, Bridgeport, and West Harbor) when I notice a group of girls who look to be about Emma’s age sitting in a row near the door. A couple of them are wearingEquinox in the SquareT-shirts.

It’s September 22, and every witch worth her wand (I know, I know, they don’t use wands anymore) has spent the day in Times Square at New York City’s celebration of the autumnal equinox. If you want to find a witch, this is the place to do it.

But the sun has finally set, the festivities are over, and I still haven’t seen Emma.

So I’m checking trains from the city back to Connecticut in the hope that maybe, just maybe, she’s on one.

I have my phone out, ready to show the girls Emma’s photo, when a pack of teenage boys climbs onto the train, full of beer and self-importance. They’re probably only looking for a row of empty seats so they can continue their party.

But then their gazes fall upon the girls.

“Hey,” a boy with a Mets cap says to the closest of the young women. “Are you a library book? Because I’d like to check you out.”

I’m embarrassed for the kid, even as his friends smirk behind him. This line is even older and more tired thanDon’t I know you from somewhere?

I feel worse for the girls, though.

“Get lost, loser,” the young woman says, and returns to her chat with her friends.

Mets Hat doesn’t like this. He flushes angrily and leans over the girls’ seats, hissing, “I wouldn’t be so stuck up if I was you, bitch. You ain’t even that hot.”

All the oxygen is sucked out of the train. Or at least that’s what it feels like to me. Everyone in the crowded car is staring at the group of kids, wondering what’s going to happen next. The girls look a little frightened. Mets Hat is a big kid, and he’s looming over them intimidatingly while his friends have all pulled out phones to film the interaction.

This isn’t my business, but I’m not going to leave it alone. I’ve never been able to. I come up behind the boys and clear my throat.

“Ooooh,” hoots one of Mets Hat’s friends, turning his camera toward me. “Look out, Dylan. Here comes Chewbacca.”

Dylan (aka Mets Hat) sneers, although truthfully, Iamsignificantly taller—and hairier—than he is. I can tell the bravado is only bluster to impress his friends—and the girls. I see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as I approach.

“Hey, back off, dickcheese,” Dylan says, showing admirable pluck. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I reach into my pocket. “But this does.”

All of their gazes lock onto what I’m holding in my outstretched hand. It’s that easy.

“Did one of you drop this?” I ask, holding up the baseball card.

It’s in a protective plastic sheath, but it’s still easy to make out the face of the smiling player on it, as well as his name. Dylan’s gaze fastens onto it, and I see his jaw drop.

“That’s a... a...” Dylan glances from the card to my face and then back again, flushing. “Where did you—”

“I found it over there on the floor.” I point vaguely in the opposite direction. Dylan and his friends don’t notice. They’re too busy staring. “And since you appear to be Mets fans, I assumed it’s yours.”