Early in 1992, when snow was still falling on the peaceful Grand Rapids, Michigan, suburbs, Elizabeth Montgomery quietly made her way to Dick York’s humble house. There was only a woman on a discreet assignment and a chilly breeze; there were no photographers or reporters waiting.
Since their time on Bewitched, when they captivated millions with their warmth and humor in portraying Samantha and Darrin Stephens, she hadn’t seen York in years. She was informed about his deteriorating health, though, and she felt a gut instinct that it was time.
York was pale and frail, a shadow of the man who had energized a set with his charm and vitality, lying inside a tiny bedroom that smelled of used paperbacks and mint oil. Montgomery sat next to him, her presence subdued and silent. Both of them remained silent for several long minutes.
There was an unspoken connection between them as she softly grabbed his hand in hers. It was a meaningful and nostalgic silence, the kind that only longtime friends or former co-stars could share.
Montgomery didn’t discuss Bewitched’s legacy or celebrity. She made no mention of ratings, remorse, or the show’s continued success following his departure. Rather, she started to remember, gently narrating their best moments from those early seasons—before York had to be replaced, before the enchantment dissipated behind the scenes, before chronic discomfort compelled him to move aside.
York’s eyes brightened when she brought up a scenario from season one in which Darrin’s attempt to use magic to cut wood results in the burning of the living room rug. The only sound he made was a whisper, but he laughed, truly, appreciatively.
They had not collaborated for decades, and his departure from Bewitched in 1969 had been sudden. No formal farewell or farewell party was held. After years of injuries and overwork, his spinal condition had gotten worse, making it hard for him to continue.
He was on site for one week and then disappeared. Montgomery had always harbored a silent shame about that—about not keeping in touch, about allowing time and distance to separate them. Thus, she expressed regret during that interaction. Not for anything she had done, but for allowing their relationship to deteriorate.
We both had to keep going, York replied, squeezing her hand. It was a simple sentence that stated it all. They were just Elizabeth and Dick again, two individuals who had once shared a screen, a rhythm, and a tiny bit of magic, but life had drawn them apart, as it always does.
An hour later, she got up and walked out. York was worn out but clearly moved. She muttered, “You’ll always be my Darrin,” and gave him a gentle forehead kiss. Neither of them anticipated that it would be their final encounter. Following York’s death later that year, Montgomery kept her visit a secret. It wasn’t included in a press release or tribute. Simply put, she had to do it for herself and for him.
It wasn’t until much later, at a private discussion with a reliable buddy, that the story was revealed. According to the acquaintance, “she told me he was more than a co-star.” “He contributed to something magical that we made together,” she remarked. No interview could possibly express what that one sentence did. A love and respect that transcended time, studios, and screenplays was exposed.
That visit was never used by Elizabeth Montgomery for publicity. In her memoirs and retrospectives, she made no reference to it. The event remained private, a silent gesture of goodwill and resolution. Her eyes were wet and her heart was full when she left his house that snowy day.
She was aware that the real magic of Bewitched had always been outside of the stage lights, in the quietly gracious presence of showing up when it really counted, in the whispered apologies, and in the laughing exchanged between takes.
