Page 3 of Finders Keepers

A bell chimes above the door, and the smell of coffee and bacon wraps around us like a perfect hug. The place has a decent amount of people in here for a Wednesday morning, filled mainly with what I figure are regulars, ranchers with weathered cowboy hats placed on the bar top next to them; a pair of elderly women sharing their morning meal side by side at a table for two; and a small family with a little boy with the cutest curly brown hair, who’s parents seem to be looking at some type of document and crossing things off it while the little boy is happily eating his crunchy bacon.

“Sit anywhere you like, sweeties!” calls a voice to our right at the checkout counter, and I turn to see a short elderly woman with soft green eyes and silver hair pulled back into a loose bun. Her name tag reads “Ms. Lucille.”

I choose a booth near the back, where I can keep an eye on the door, a new habit I guess I’m forming. Sophie slides in next to me instead of across, pressing close to my side and she props Mr. Hoppy right next to her.

Ms. Lucille appears with menus and a genuine smile that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. She peers over her glasses and happily says, “Welcome to Lucy’s Diner. Coffee for mama and maybe some chocolate milk for this little one?” Her southern accent is thick.

Sophie peeks up shyly, and I manage a small smile. “Umm, just the chocolate milk, if you don’t mind.”

I can’t afford to spend too much money here; we still need to find a place to sleep tonight.

“Absolutely not, every parent needs their coffee fix. Back in a flash, honey.” She returns moments later carrying our beverages and brings along some crayons with an activity sheet that has the kid’s menu on it.

“There you go, darling, this should keep you busy until your food arrives.”

“What do we say?” I prompt softly.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sophie whispers, already reaching for the crayons.

“Now, what’ll it be, honey?” She asks, holding her notepad in front of her.

I give our order, pancakes for Sophie, just toast and an egg for me, I notice her eyes lingering on my face. I turn slightly, letting my hair fall forward again, but she doesn’t look away.

“You know,” she says quietly, leaning in a bit, “I’ve got some arnica gel in my office that would help with that bruise.”

My chest immediately seizes, and I struggle to find words. “Oh, I… I’m fine. I just ran into a door.”

Shame washes over me, almost more than I can bear. I wish I hadn’t argued back with Matt—now this woman who I don’t even know is staring at me with sympathy written all over her face.

“It’s alright, honey,” she says, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. But I know that look. Many years ago, I was sitting in a diner just like this one, with a bruise just like yours, wondering where I was gonna go next. Someone showed me kindness when I needed it most, and it changed my whole life. Sometimes the good Lord puts people in our path for a reason.”

This woman’s small admission makes my heart seize. Her words hang in the air between us, carrying the weight of shared experience I’m not ready to acknowledge. My fingers tighten around my coffee mug, seeking its warmth as I struggle with the realization that my situation might be more transparent than I’d thought. Someone who’s been where I am can recognize the signs—the flinching, the excuses, the careful way I’m holding myself.

I glance at Sophie, but she’s absorbed in her coloring. Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them back hard. “We just needed… a fresh start.”

She nods, her expression understanding. “And where are y’all headed?”

“I don’t really know,” I admit. “Just… away.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve got a guest house out back of my place. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean and safe. It’s yours if you want it.”

My eyes shoot up to meet hers and I start to shake my head, my heart pounding at her unexpected offer. “Oh, no, we couldn’t—”

“Now, don’t you dare say no before you even give it a thought,” she interrupts, holding up a hand, her green eyes stern behind her dark glasses. “I’m not asking for anything in return. Just can’t bear the thought of you and this little angel staying in some unsafe motel when I’ve got a perfectly good space sitting empty. Lord knows I’ve seen enough young mothers trying to make it on their own to know when someone needs a helping hand.”

“But you don’t even know us,” I protest, my voice wavering with uncertainty. Sophie presses closer to my side, and I instinctively rest my hand on her small shoulder. “We’re complete strangers to you, Ms. Lucille. I mean… how can you be sure you can trust us?” Even as the words leave my mouth, I realize I’m really asking myself if I can trust her, this kind-eyed woman who’s offering us shelter when we have nowhere else to go. My free hand fidgets with the strap of my purse as I wait for her response, wondering if I’m foolish to even consider her offer or more foolish to refuse it.

Her eyes soften. “I know enough. I know you’re brave enough to leave, and that’s not nothing. Besides,” she adds with a wink at Sophie, “something tells me this little one could help me test out some new pancake recipes. I’m always looking for an expert opinion.”

Sophie peers up through her lashes, her eyes growing a little larger. “I like pancakes.”

Ms. Lucille beams. “Well, that settles it then.” She flips a page on her notepad and scribbles something down. “Here’s my address. Come by after you’re finished eating, and we’ll get you settled. Jake, my ranch hand, will see to it.”

Jake? A man I’ve never even met. The uncertainty hangs in the air, making my stomach tighten with unease. I glance at Sophie, who shifts her gaze up to me, and I can’t shake the discomfort crawling up my spine. Going to a new place is one thing, but following a strange man—even one who works for this kind-eyed Ms. Lucille—feels like stepping off a cliff blindfolded. My grip tightens around Sophie’s shoulder as I try to keep my expression neutral, but I feel her slightly tense underneath my grip. I’d just escaped one bad situation. The last thing I needed was to walk straight into another one with my daughter in tow.

She hands me the torn piece of paper and before I can form any words, she’s gone, moving to check on the other customers with that same confident stride that makes me think she’s been doing this job for decades. I sit there, stunned, staring at the address written in neat cursive on the paper in my hand while my daughter continues her coloring.

I can feel the turmoil churning inside me, like waves crashing against rocks. My thoughts race in chaotic patterns, unable to settle on a clear path forward. One moment I’m convinced we should keep running, the next I’m desperate to believe that this stranger’s kindness is genuine. My hands tremble slightly as I fold the paper with the address, tucking it into my purse pocket. I glance at Sophie again, so innocent with her crayons, unaware of the storm raging within me. How can I make the right choice for both of us when I can barely trust my own judgment anymore?

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