In the quiet winter of 1992, a car pulled up to a modest house in Rockford, Michigan. The woman who stepped out wore a long wool coat and kept her head low as she made her way to the front door. That woman was Elizabeth Montgomery. Inside, lying in a hospice bed set up in the living room, was Dick York, her former co-star from “Bewitched.” The two hadn’t seen each other in over two decades. York, frail and fighting emphysema, hadn’t expected any visitors from his Hollywood past. When he opened his eyes and saw her, tears formed before words did.
Montgomery took his hand without hesitation. No press followed her, no announcement was made. The moment was private, almost sacred. A friend close to York later said she leaned in and softly said, “Hey, partner.” York smiled, whispering back, “Samantha.” It was their first conversation since 1969, when York had left “Bewitched” after collapsing on set from excruciating back pain that had plagued him for years. He had never blamed her for moving on with the show, but the goodbye had been abrupt and unfinished.
For hours that evening, they sat together. Montgomery brought up memories from their early shooting days, how they used to burst into laughter between takes, how he would playfully complain about the ridiculous magical plots, and how she would always nudge him with her elbow when he forgot a line. “Remember the time you sneezed during the levitation scene and we had to shoot it five times?” she asked with a faint smile. York, struggling to speak, nodded and squeezed her hand. Those memories didn’t need to be said out loud. They lived in their shared silence.
No photographers were allowed near the house. Montgomery had contacted one of York’s daughters to ask for permission and privacy. She arrived without a manager, without makeup, and stayed long enough to ensure York knew he hadn’t been forgotten. One of York’s caregivers later said that after she left, he kept repeating the same sentence through his oxygen mask: “She came all the way here. She still cares.”
In her conversations with a close mutual friend, Montgomery reflected on what that visit had meant to her. “He was more than a co-star. He was part of something magical we created together.” Those words were never spoken to the press during her lifetime. She kept the visit, and that memory, locked away.
Their on-screen chemistry had fueled the early seasons of “Bewitched,” making Darrin and Samantha Stephens one of television’s most beloved couples. But off-screen, York’s chronic health issues had made shooting difficult, eventually forcing him to leave the series. When Dick Sargent replaced him, Montgomery adapted to the new dynamic, but the spark of that early era never quite returned.
What struck those around them was the tenderness of that final meeting. York, worn thin from years of illness, held onto her presence like it was a rope keeping him grounded. Montgomery, knowing her visit might be their last, made sure it wasn’t rushed. She never spoke publicly about it. Not in interviews, not in memoirs, not even in friendly retrospectives. The story only surfaced through those close to York, years later.
That winter night in Michigan was quiet. Snow covered the driveway by the time she left. As her car pulled away, York asked one of his daughters to help him sit up. He looked out the window for a long time, watching the car disappear into the distance.
Elizabeth Montgomery’s final gift to Dick York was not publicity, or forgiveness, or apology. It was presence. A quiet acknowledgment that what they shared during those five magical years on “Bewitched” still mattered.
She had come to say goodbye not as a star, but as a friend.