Page 69 of Taken Away

“Can I stay here forever?” she asked, eyes on the rabbit.

Mabel kept her voice light.

“Forever, huh?”

Aubrey nodded, still tracing circles on the towel.

“Why would you wanna do that?”

Aubrey shrugged. “You and Uncle Harold are always happy when I come.”

Something pinched behind Mabel’s ribs.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Aubrey lifted one shoulder again, like it didn’t matter.

“I like it here,” she said.

Mabel slid an arm around her and drew her fully into her lap.

Aubrey came without hesitation, curling in as if she’d been waiting to be gathered up.

Mabel wrapped both arms around her and pressed a kiss into her hair.

For one selfish moment, she let herself imagine Aubrey staying. Growing up here.

Bare feet on these porch boards every summer. Scraped knees and sticky fingers and laughter running through these rows until she was too old to be caught.

Knowing—without ever having to ask—that she was wanted.

The screen door slammed somewhere down the hill.

Aubrey went still, shoulders inching up as if she could make herself a little less noticeable.

Anne.

Mabel felt the change like a string pulled tight—the small body in her lap tensing, the quick tilt of her head toward the sound.

Six years old, and already reading weather in other people’s footsteps. Mabel heard the sharp scrape of heels on the porch boards and knew, without looking, what kind of storm was coming up the hill.

Mabel closed her eyes.

Later, Mabel would remember this as the day she realized the past hadn't stayed in the past. It had found Aubrey too.

If she ever got the chance, she would bring Aubrey home. Not for the land or the wine or the legacy, but because this child had always belonged here. There ought to be at least one place in the world where she never had to wonder if she was wanted.

The memory thinned at the edges.

The sound of the slammed screen door faded, replaced by the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the present-day library.

Mabel blinked.

The photograph of newborn Aubrey lay trembling slightly between her fingers.

Outside, late light slid across the upper path toward the white gazebo.

“It’s time,” she whispered to the empty room.