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have birthdays. I’m…well, let’s see if you can figure it out for yourself. Here’s a clue.” She flashed three tens slowly and then added one finger to the mix. “I’ll be this many on my next birthday.”
    “Wow…that’s bunches.” Aubree’s lips curved into a little oh , deepening the dimples at her cheeks. She murmured under her breath, counting to herself. “Thirty-one, right?”
    “That’s right. You’re very good at counting. Next time I blow out the candles, I’ll be thirty-one.”
    “You’re lucky. I’ll bet you get to stay up ’til ten o’clock every night if you want to. Daddy says my bedtime’s eight o’clock sharp ’cept for tonight ’cause this meeting’s really ’portant. And sometimes I can watch a movie with him ’til nine, but only on Saturdays.”
    “Goodness!” Frannie laughed, low and throaty. “My, but you’re a chatterbox tonight.” She glanced Daylin’s way. “I’m sorry. She’s not usually this rambunctious with people she’s just met. I think she’s taken a shine to you.”
    “What’s a shine?” Aubree asked.
    “That means you like Daylin.”
    “Oh, yes…lots.” Aubree punctuated the matter-of-fact assertion with a single firm nod of her head as she studied Daylin. “You have pretty hair.”
    “Thank you.” Daylin sipped the coffee, very carefully now, that Vera had just poured into her mug. “It’s called strawberry blonde.”
    “’cause it’s made of strawberries?” Aubree leaned in to sniff the strands.
    “No.” Laughter bubbled up. Daylin’s gaze drifted to Frannie, who grinned as well. Their bond was instantaneous, as if they’d never missed a day of seeing one another, and Daylin felt a sudden, deep sense that she’d made the right decision in coming here tonight. “It’s not made of strawberries.”
    “Well, it smells good.” Aubree cocked an eyebrow and scrunched her nose. “Can I touch it?”
    “Sure, you can.”
    “Thanks.” Without missing a beat, Aubree leaned across the seat to snatch a few strands that slipped across Daylin’s forehead. Her breath was audible as she rubbed the wisps between her fingers. The scent of apple shampoo drifted, and Daylin noticed a smudge of chocolate ice cream painting Aubree’s upper lip. “Is your hair real?”
    “Aubree!” Frannie’s admonishment was quick and stern. Creases formed along the edges of the older woman’s narrowed eyes as she leaned in to bring an end to the conversation. “Hush, now. That’s enough.”
    Patrick turned their way, his gaze questioning the firm tone of Frannie’s voice. Obviously, it wasn’t a tone that was used with great frequency.
    “It’s OK.” Daylin dismissed both Patrick’s concerned gaze and the fact that Frannie appeared positively mortified by the bold question. “You can ask me anything you want, Aubree.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned in to address the inquisitive child. Her voice held an air of invitation. “What do you mean by real, honey?”
    Aubree leaned in as well, narrowing the distance between them to mere inches. She lifted her chin and inspected the crown of Daylin’s head. “Well, there’s a lady at church with hair like yours and Gran says it comes once a month in a box. Did you get your hair from a box?”
    “No.” Daylin laughed heartily as she smoothed a hand over the length of the strands. “I got it from my mom and dad. I was born with it.”
    “Oh, so it’s g’netic?”
    “Yes, it’s genetic.”
    “My CF is g’netic, too. Daddy said so. It’s like wearing the other kind of jeans, like pants, ’cept you can’t take CF off, even on Christmas or when you go swimming. It’s there all the time.”
    “Oh, my…” Daylin pressed a hand to her mouth as the words sank in. Such a simple explanation for something so heart-wrenchingly complicated. Her gaze rose to connect with Frannie’s, and the woman’s slight nod confirmed what Daylin had just learned.
    Aubree—Patrick’s child—was