![]() ![]() The redolent aroma of rich, wet soil filled my nostrils. I was on my hands and knees pruning weeds in the herb garden. Today was one of those summer days in July when clouds seemed hinged to the horizon, not a single sliver of one interfering with the orange disk of sun sliding gracefully over the icy blue toward the mountains in the west. This secrecy had existed from the moment Baby Celeste had been born, a little more than two and a half years ago. Mama never brought her out during the daytime for fear someone, even from the distance in a passing car, might see her and learn that she existed. She was standing there with Baby Celeste beside her, which was quite unusual. She had a radish-red bandanna tied across her forehead, which she said would ward off recent curses whenever they were thrown in her direction, so I knew something had spooked her today. Her hazel brown, shoulder-length hair fell straight alongside her cheeks. ![]() ![]() I turned to see her waving at me from the front steps of the porch. "Noble," Mama called with urgency resonating in her voice. ![]()
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