“Can you see her?” Emma rose on tiptoes and lifted her chin to add inches to her five-foot frame.
I smiled. What Emma lacked in stature, she made up for in sheer stubbornness. She felt tall.
We had parked on the far side of the marina and were approaching from behind the stage, facing the crowd. A sea of heads corralled by masts.
“She isn’t in the first row,” I noted, puzzled. Aunt Tilda was a front-row fixture in all local concerts.
“Look again,” Emma insisted. “If it’s free, you bet she’d staked her claim since the day before yesterday.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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