“Nothing like a good old blast from the past,” she says with a melancholic half smile. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fantasize about running into an ex or two every once in a while . . .”
I don’t tell her my ex happens to be a married father who has long since moved on.
Not sure our fantasies are remotely congruent.
“Unfinished business.” She winks. “I get it. Life is constantly pulling us where we need to go.”
“What brought you here?” I redirect the conversation before she asks another question. “Other than the article you read . . .”
“Needed a fresh start.” She stands straight, dragging in a long breath that lifts her shoulders as she scans the store. A wistful, closed-mouth smile paints her face. “Born and raised just outside Salt Lake City. Never really fit in. It wasn’t until I lost my daughter and my husband in the same year that I decided to start living my truth. We should all get a chance to live before we die, yes?”
“I’m so sorry about your daughter . . . and your husband.”
She toys with an opaque green-black stone hanging from her neck.
“Losing my daughter was devastating. Losing my husband?” Her pale brows rise. “Best thing that ever happened to me. He left me for someone else—a married man from our temple, actually. Last I heard, they’re shacked up in Costa Rica. Guess they needed to live their truths, too.”
All this talk about “truths” sends pinpricks along my arms, but I don’t get the sense that it’s double-talk or that she’s hinting that she knows more about me than I’m letting on. Her eyes are too kind for that, her demeanor too unguarded.
“I’m Delphine, by the way,” she says, handing me one of her cards.
I slide it into my back pocket.
“Do you have a phone number?” she asks next.
Lady, I don’t even have a bed.
Remaining poised, I shake my head no. “I don’t. I’m just getting back on my feet.”
Her brows furrow. “Where are you staying?”
I’ve only been in town a few days. The first night, I slept in a plastic tunnel at the West Grove playground. Night two, I sought shelter in someone’s treehouse. Last night was the post office. I’ve yet to make plans for tonight, but I’ve had my eye on a plaid sofa someone abandoned in the alley behind the organic grocery mart.
“I don’t have a permanent address yet,” I say, “if that’s what you’re asking.”
She reads me for an uncomfortable moment before adjusting her posture. “You looking for a place?”
“It’s on my list of things to do, yes.”
Delphine points to the ceiling. “I rent an apartment above the shop, and I’ve got a spare bedroom I’ve been thinking of subletting. It’d be temporary. Just wanted to get a little extra cash under my belt. Been hoping to do some more traveling, but it’s hard—running the shop on my own. Plus, I have a cat. If I knew everything would be in capable hands, I’d feel so much better about leaving every once in a while . . .”
Her hands clasp into a prayer position.
“Call me crazy,” she says with a sighing smile. And I imagine people do. “But I have a good feeling about you.”
“Thank you.” I think it’s a compliment?
“I think we can make this work.” Her mouth twists at one side. “I assume you’re available to start immediately?”
I nod. “Ready, willing, and able, ma’am.”
She swats an unmanicured hand, all seven of her bracelets jangling. “Please, call me Delphine.”
Working her way out from behind the counter, she approaches me with nimble steps, her gauzy dress flowing. And without hesitation, she cups my cheeks in her warm hands and locks her attention on me.
I recoil.
The last person to touch my face wasn’t so gentle. In fact, he once squeezed my jaw so hard that a molar came loose. And as my mouth filled with blood, he laughed, but not before forcing me to swallow it all. The metallic taste on my tongue and the gummy hole in my mouth are two sensations I couldn’t forget if I tried.
“Oh, angel.” She exhales. “You’re going to be fine here. Just fine.”
My chest tightens, the sensation foreign and heavy. Something brews behind my eyes, but I force it away. I don’t allow myself to cry. Personal policy. I learned long ago never to show emotion. It’s a sign of weakness. Happy, sad, doesn’t matter. Hold your cards close, and no one can use your hand against you.
“You haven’t had it easy, have you?” She lets her hands fall from my face.
I release a held breath as she continues to search my face, and then her attention moves to the space around me, as if she’s observing something that can’t be seen with the naked eye. A chill runs through me, replacing my numbness with temporary tingles.
“You don’t have to answer that,” she says before I can respond. “There’s a heaviness about you. But also a sweetness. You’re here on a mission. You’re here to do good things. To incite change. I know it. I see it in your eyes.”
She’s giving me a reading . . . I think.
I don’t want to offend her, so I give her my full attention, nodding and confirming because I need this job and that room to rent.
Also, she’s not wrong . . .
“I appreciate you taking a chance on me,” I say, ignoring the fact that this woman is literally hiring me off the street without so much as knowing my last name. To most that would be a red flag, but to someone without options, it’s a winning lottery ticket.
I imagine she’s lonely, having left her life behind in Utah and migrated out here solo. Back in Greenbrook, Washington, shops like these served as nothing more than junky souvenir stops where vacationers could buy a piece of jewelry or small token to commemorate their mountainside vacation.
“I have some paperwork for you to fill out.” She disappears into a back office, emerging a second later with a short stack of forms and a pen with a small geode cluster on the cap.
A cool sweat collects above my brow.
I have my Social Security Number memorized, but I haven’t seen my birth certificate since a lifetime ago. And I don’t have a license because, as it turns out, kidnapped people have no need for a set of wheels.
“What is it?” She must sense my hesitation.
“I’ve been off the grid so long . . . it’s going to take some time before I can request a copy of my birth certificate. And I don’t have a license or a valid ID.”
Her mouth bunches at the side. “For tax purposes—and legal ones, too—I really can’t pay you under the table.”
My stomach drops, heavy and fast, despite being empty.
“But if you can work on getting those things . . .” She speaks slower than before, as if she’s weighing risks and benefits. “I’d be happy to take you in. I mean, you’re going to need an address, right? Maybe we could swap room and board for some light housekeeping? You could tend to the cat, get groceries, that sort of thing? And in the meantime, I can show you the ropes around the shop so you’ll be ready to hit the ground running when you start . . .”