I had bought it for my daughter, Jennifer, when she was fifteen. She’d rolled her eyes and said, « Mom, it’s not vintage if it still smells like somebody else’s perfume. »
I set my coffee down so fast, it sloshed across the floorboards. « Oh my God. »
The baby moved one hand free. I crouched, touched her cheek with two fingers, then slid my hand to her chest just to feel it rise.
I knew that jacket.
She was warm and quiet.
« Okay, » I whispered, though I was speaking more to myself than to her. « Okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. »
I lifted the basket and carried her inside.
***
Five years earlier, my daughter had vanished at sixteen.
One minute, she was slamming cabinets because her father, Paul, had forbidden her from seeing a boy named Andy, and the next, she was gone so completely, it felt like the world had swallowed her.
