Page 67 of Taken Away

Aubrey.

Tiny and pink-faced, wrapped in a yellow blanket in the hospital nursery.

Mabel’s fingers trembled on the worn edge.

"My sweet girl," she whispered, tracing one tiny cheek with her thumb.

Beyond the library window, the curve of the upper path and the white gazebo perched above the vines. Once upon a time, there had only been a crooked fence post and a lopsided blanket fort in that spot.

The photograph blurred, and the library fell away. Summer. The vineyard shimmered beneath a hot sun.

Six-year-old Aubrey tore through the rows with all the reckless determination only a child possessed.

“Mabel!”

Her small voice carried up the hill.

Mabel laughed and set down the basket she was carrying.

“Slow down, baby. You’re gonna fall.”

“I found one!”

Aubrey came charging toward her, blonde hair flying like a flag. Dirt streaked her knees. One shoelace trailed behind. She held up a single grape like it was buried treasure.

Mabel gasped.

“Well, I’ll be.”

“Is it ready?” Aubrey asked.

Mabel took the grape with all the seriousness of a jeweler inspecting a diamond.

She turned it over.

Squinted.

“Hmm.”

Aubrey bounced in place.

“Well?”

Mabel popped it into her mouth.

The child practically vibrated.

“It’s perfect.”

Aubrey threw both hands in the air.

“I knew it!”

“You did not.”

“Did too.”

“Absolutely did not.”