Page 4 of Finders Keepers

Ms. Lucille returns with our plates of food, setting a stack of golden pancakes dripping with syrup in front of Sophie and my simple breakfast before me along with some perfectly cooked bacon.

“Oh, I didn’t order bacon.” I start to hand her back the small tan plate.

“This is all on the house, honey.” She pushes the plate back in front of me.

The smell makes my stomach growl again, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. I’ve been trying to ration the food I packed sparingly to last us.

“Now then,” she says, sliding into the bench across from us, “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Lucille, but most folks around here just call me Ms. Lucy.”

“I’m Bailey,” I say softly, “and this is Sophie.”

Sophie gives Ms. Lucille a shy smile and turns her attention back to her pancakes, her little fingers already sticky with syrup as she studies them. I reach over and gently take her fork, slicing the pancakes into smaller pieces.

“Here you go, baby,” I murmur, setting the fork into her hand.

Ms. Lucille’s gentle eyes crinkle at the corners as she watches my daughter.

“And how old are you, sweet pea?” she asks, looking at Sophie

Sophie peeks up through her blonde waves, then looks at me for reassurance. I give her a small nod.

“Four,” she whispers, holding up four tiny fingers before quickly returning to her breakfast.

“My, my, you’re practically a big girl. Do you like pink, sweetheart? Or maybe purple?” she asks, leaning slightly forward toward Sophie without crowding her.

Her eyes flicker up from her plate. “Blue,” she whispers, a tiny smile forming.

“Blue. That’s a wonderful color. Like the sky on a perfect day,” Ms. Lucille nods approvingly.

To my surprise, after a few minutes, Sophie’s one-word answers gradually become full sentences, her natural sweetness emerging under Ms. Lucille’s grandmotherly charm. My normally shy daughter is actually telling Ms. Lucy about a butterfly she saw yesterday and how she wants to draw it when we get home. Home, wherever that is.

Sophie carefully spears a piece of pancake and places it near Mr. Hoppy’s mouth. “Mr. Hoppy likes pancakes too,” she smiles.

Ms. Lucille’s eyes soften as she watches Sophie interact with her stuffed rabbit. “Well, we’ll have to make sure Mr. Hoppy gets his fair share then, won’t we?” She winks at my daughter before turning back to me. “If you don’t feel comfortable with heading down to the ranch with Jake, I get off work in about an hour and y’all are more than welcome to wait here.”

The anxiety rising in my chest is almost tangible, a familiar tightness that makes it hard to breathe properly. My fingers fidget with the edge of my napkin as I weigh my options. My mind is racing with the possibilities laid before me, each one carrying its own set of complications. I glance at Sophie, still feeding Mr. Hoppy, completely oblivious to my internal struggle.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she says gently, as she notices my hesitation. She casually slides a small tube across the table. “The arnica gel I mentioned. It really does work wonders.”

I pick up the tube with trembling fingers, the plastic cool against my skin. “Ms. Lucille, this is… this is too much. The guest house, the food, the gel.” I hold up the tube, my voice catching slightly as the enormity of her generosity crashes over me like a wave.

She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is soft and carries the weight of experience. My stomach twists with conflicting emotions—gratitude colliding with unease, independence wrestling with the undeniable need to run. The walls I’ve carefully constructed around our little world of two seem to be crumbling, and I’m not sure whether to frantically rebuild them or let them fall away completely. My pulse quickens as I realize I’m standing at a crossroads I never expected to find.

She extends her arm over the tabletop and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I immediately stiffen at the contact.

“Besides, it looks to me like that little angel of yours could use a safe place to rest her wings for a while.”

The tears come back with a vengeance, and I try my hardest to blink them back again, watching as Sophie carefully wipes syrup from Mr. Hoppy’s pretend mouth with her napkin. “Still, I should at least pay for breakfast—”

“Don’t you dare,” she interrupts, and slides out of the booth. “Like I said, this is on the house, and I won’t hear another word about it.”

“Thank you, Ms. Lucille,” I manage to say around the lump forming in the back of my throat. “For everything.”

“Please, call me Lucy,” she says with a warm smile. “And Bailey? Sometimes accepting help is just as brave as asking for it.”

She turns to tend to the other customers again, leaving us to finish our breakfast. Sophie continues her elaborate pancake sharing with Mr. Hoppy and the diner buzzes with morning conversation around us, but for the first time in days, I feel like I can catch my breath.

I watch my daughter, so innocent in her play, completely trusting that everything will be okay because Mommy says so. The weight of that trust has felt crushing these past few days, but somehow, in this sunlit diner with the smell of coffee in the air and the sound of Lucy’s gentle southern drawl floating across the room, it feels a little lighter.

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