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Dark ruby light circled and glanced through his Cabernet Sauvignon. By dessert, Alison had told him that she was from a small town near Madison, Wisconsin, that her father had been an inventor, that her mother was still alive, aging and in need of care. "My father was hurt in an accident at work. I had to take care of him when I wasn't in school. My mother always had other jobs. He was strict.
"Cabernet Sauvigon," she said with new authority. "Your basic meadow red." The firelight cast shadows; the group seemed smaller and more vulnerable. "The first people . . . " Patrick repeated. They were the first people, now, she realized. She bit down on her lip. Her heart broke open like a swollen peach. "There's a little bread left," she said. God, she was crying again.
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