My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
At ten in the morning, the bell above the door jingled.
Linda walked in, her eyes scanning the booths until they locked onto mine.
She clutched her leather handbag tightly against her chest, her knuckles turning white under her wool gloves. She did not go to the counter to order.
She walked straight to my table, her boots clicking softly on the linoleum.
“Olivia,” she whispered, her voice shaking slightly. “I hoped I would find you here.”
“Sit down, Linda,” I said.
She sat on the edge of the vinyl bench, keeping her handbag pressed against her stomach like a shield. She looked toward the counter, then back at me.
“I will be right back,” she said.
She stood up and walked to the pastry display, speaking in a low voice to the girl behind the counter.
A minute later, she returned with a tray of warm cinnamon rolls. She set them between us, the sugar icing still bubbling around the edges.
“I wanted to bring you something,” Linda said. “To show I do not want any more fighting.”
