Page 180 of Taken Away

“Good,” Bennett said. “Because nobody else can figure out that damn north fence.”

For a few more minutes, they talked like a team again instead of a town under siege. About vines and valves and tourists who didn’t know how to park on gravel.

When the meeting finally broke, chairs scraped, and conversations picked up in smaller knots. Zack and Lockwood drifted toward the stairs, still arguing amiably. Savannah and Chloe slipped out together in a hum of schedules and sarcasm. Eli and the cellar techs followed.

Walter lingered long enough to close his binder with a soft thud and give Aubrey’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You did all right, child,” he murmured.

Then it was just her and Bennett.

He stood at the far end of the table, fingers resting on the back of a chair, watching her.

“That was a good answer,” he said.

Aubrey let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I was hoping it was the right one.”

His gaze softened. The hard lines of his face eased.

“It was,” he said. “For Blackwood.” A beat. “And for you.”

Something in her chest loosened at that.

Before she could decide what to do with it, a knuckle rapped once against the open glass door.

Aubrey turned.

Declan O’Rourke lounged in the doorway like he’d been born in it—dark suit, tie loosened, that familiar, slightly rumpled competence wrapped in an Irish lilt. He took in the emptying room with one quick sweep of sharp blue eyes, then tipped his chin at Bennett in greeting.

“McCrae,” he said.

“Deck.” Bennett straightened, brows flicking up. “You need something?”

“Aye.” Declan’s attention shifted fully to Aubrey. The easy humor faded when he really looked at her. “Eleanor asked me to swing by,” he said. “Figured you might want to hear this from me before the rumor mill gets hold of it.”

Aubrey’s pulse ticked up. “What is it?”

Declan stepped into the room, letting the door mostly shut behind him. Moose, who’d been dozing outside, thumped his tail once and resettled with a huff.

“Your mother just booked herself a flight to Asheville,” he said quietly.

The words landed like a physical blow.

Aubrey’s fingers tightened on the edge of the chair.

“Anne?” she asked, though she already knew.

“Aye.” Declan’s voice stayed soft. “She’ll be on the ground by tomorrow afternoon, far as I can tell.”

The conference room, so full and noisy a few minutes ago, suddenly felt small.

Behind her, through the glass wall, the vineyard rolled down the hill in green lines. The Victorian’s white columns caught the light across the way.

A moment ago, she’d been thinking about Blackwood.

Now she was thinking about the woman coming back to claim it.

THIRTY-EIGHT