“Bart and his wife, Terry, run the place.” Ripley shifted, stretched her legs out on the bench. “They’ve got your calzones, your pasta, and yadda yadda,” she said, tossing Nell a laminated menu. “But it’s really all about the pizza. You up for that?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Anything you don’t like on it?”

Nell scanned the menu. Why couldn’t she think? “No.”

“Even better. We’ll get a large, loaded. What we don’t eat, I’ll take home to Zack. He’ll pick off the mushrooms and onions and be grateful.”

She slid out of the booth again. “Want a beer?”

“No. No, thanks. Just water.”

“Coming up.”

Seeing no point in waiting for table service, Ripley walked up to the counter, placed the order. Nell watched the way she joked with the long, thin man behind the counter. The way she hooked her sunglasses in the collar of her shirt. The way she stretched gorgeously toned and tanned arms out for the drinks. The way her dark hair bobbed as she turned to walk back to the booth.

The noise receded, like echoes in a dream, until it was a wash of white sound under a rising roar. Like waves cresting. As Ripley sat across from her again, Nell saw her mouth moving, but heard nothing. Nothing at all.

Then, like a door flung open, it all swarmed back.

“. . . right up through Labor Day,” Ripley finished, and reached for her beer.

“You’re the third.” Nell gripped her tingling hands together on the table.

“Huh?”

“The third. You’re the third sister.”

Ripley opened her mouth, then closed it again in a long, thin line. “Mia.” She ground the two syllables together, then gulped down half her beer. “Don’t start with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand. Just drop it.” She slapped the glass back on the table, leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. Mia can think, believe, whatever she wants. She can behave however she wants as long as she doesn’t break the law. I don’t have to buy into it. If you want to, that’s your business. But I’m here for pizza and a beer.”

“I don’t know what I buy into. It makes you angry. It just confuses me.”

“Look, you strike me as a sensible woman. Sensible women don’t go around claiming to be witches descended from a trio of witches who carved an island out of a chunk of Massachusetts.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. There’s reality and there’s fantasy. Let’s stick with reality, because anything else is going to put me off my pizza. So, are you going to go out with my brother?”

“Go . . .” Confused, Nell pushed a hand through her hair. “Could you rewind that question?”