Page 18 of Taken Away

Finally, she eased her foot off the brake and followed the long drive down between the black fences. Tires crunched over gravel. The front of the house was framed with white hydrangeas, old boxwoods, and climbing roses. A fountain burbled beside the porch steps like something out of a bridal magazine.

On the bluff beyond the house, the big black barn loomed—weathered wood, high gambrel roof, massive sliding doors. Painted on the front, beneath the peak, was a quilt square in cream and faded green—a Tree of Life pattern, intricate and old-fashioned against the black.

Behind it, more black buildings tucked into the hillside—production, bottling, storage.

Trucks. Employees. Forklifts.

A real business. Not some hobby vineyard run by a little old lady with too much time and a Pinterest account.

“Oh my God,” Aubrey said again, but softer this time. More like a prayer. Or a warning.

She turned off the engine, and in the sudden quiet, her heart started throwing heavy punches against her ribs.

Ted would have told her to breathe. To count to five. To read the contract.

Her mother, if she’d been herself, would have told her to sell it and take the money to the beach.

A movement at the edge of the property caught her eye.

A man stood beside a maintenance truck near the edge of the vineyard. Older. Lean. A ball cap shadowed his face. He watched the house for a beat—still and intent.

The moment Aubrey noticed him, he turned away and disappeared between two rows of vines.

She told herself it was just one more employee.

Aubrey climbed the porch steps and unlocked the front door.

The inside should have been old-fashioned. Dusty. Full of mothballs and old people.

Instead, it was stunning.

The foyer opened into wide, airy rooms with pale walls, dark hardwood floors, and enormous windows that flooded everything with light. The original staircase curved gracefully toward the second floor, but everything else had been updated. Beyond the living and dining rooms, a library and sunroom spilled light toward the back porch.

The kitchen nearly took her breath away. White cabinets. Soapstone counters. Brass fixtures. A huge black range that looked expensive enough to require its own security detail. Open shelves lined with cream pottery. A farmhouse sink under a window overlooking the vineyard. A marble island the size of her first apartment.

“What the hell,” Aubrey whispered.

She walked slowly through the rest of the rooms, past the dining room and library, through the sunroom with wicker furniture and French doors opening onto the back porch.

This wasn’t a house. It was a dream.

And somehow that only made her angrier.

Because now she could see exactly what Mabel had done.

Walking away didn’t feel nearly as simple as it had an hour ago.

Aubrey wandered upstairs, her heels quiet on the runner. The master bedroom was enormous. Soft cream walls. A four-poster bed. French doors opening to a balcony with a view of the vineyards and the mountains beyond.

She hovered in the doorway, fingers still curled around the frame.

It took her a full three seconds to realize exactly what she was looking at.

This was the room.

The bed where Eleanor had said they’d found Mabel, her heart giving out peacefully in the middle of the night.

A thin strand of cold unspooled down her back.