THREE
JUST KEEP SMILING. Lane Kent pressed her lips into what she hoped looked like a smile more than it did the grimace she was holding back. The two older women standing at the counter in front of her stared at her expectantly.
“Well?” Mrs. Babcock asked. “What do you think?”
What had they been talking about? Lane had stopped listening—truthfully hadn’t really been listening in the first place. Her thoughts were back in the woods with the body.
“It’s too much. Too soon. Right?” Mrs. Kingsley slipped in front of her friend, pressing her arthritic hands onto the Formica. “I don’t blame you, dear. Who wants to be the one piece of caramel popcorn dropped into a bed of ants? Now, my grandson, Henry—”
“Gladys, what in the world does that even mean?” Mrs. Babcock elbowed her friend. “Lane should have options. Besides, my grandson—”
“Ladies.” Ms. Byrdie emerged from the kitchen with a towel over her shoulder and two foam takeout containers. “You’ve been such a great help this evening, but I think Lane and I can finish up the rest of the cleaning. I’ve packed up some peach cobbler for y’all to take home to your husbands.”
Whew. Lane cast an appreciative glance in Ms. Byrdie’s direction. Shielded—was that even what it was?—once again by the same woman who’d protected her countless times in high school. She might have been the school librarian, but she acted more like a guardian.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Babcock looked around. “We could wipe down the tables when everyone leaves.”
“We don’t mind staying to help,” Mrs. Kingsley added.
“You ladies have been incredibly helpful. Right, Lane?”
It took a subtle bump to Lane’s side by Ms. Byrdie to jar the words from Lane’s mouth. “Yes. You ladies have made tonight a real success. Thank you.”
Mrs. Kingsley and Mrs. Babcock exchanged proud smiles before they began to untie their aprons. Lane scanned the remaining few still filling the seats of her café. On Friday nights, the Way Station Café closed early to regular customers, but it didn’t mean the café would be empty. Tonight the seats had been filled with Walton residents who needed a warm meal. Ms. Byrdie started the Friday Night Club ten years ago when she retired from the high school. Bored and still feeling like she had something to contribute, she offered to come in and make home-cooked meals free of compensation to serve the community.
“Lane, dear.”
Fighting hard not to cringe, Lane turned to find Mrs. Babcock and Mrs. Kingsley smiling at her. “Yes, ma’am?”
Mrs. Kingsley’s eyes brightened a second before her face took on a serious expression. “Marge and I are worried we might have upset you.”
“You’re young, darlin’,” Mrs. Babcock added. “No reason a pretty girl like yourself needs to be lonely.”
“Hush, Marge,” Mrs. Kingsley hissed. “We are sorry for your loss, dear.”
Where was Ms. Byrdie now? Just keep smiling, Lane reminded herself. But she couldn’t. The best she could muster was a tight-lipped nod.
“It won’t be long until you’re ready again.”
Mrs. Babcock patted Lane’s arm encouragingly, but numbness had set in, blocking Lane’s senses to the point that she could no longer hear the words still being spoken to her. Pretend. Lane nodded and pushed the words out of her mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
The two women each gave a sympathetic nod before making their way toward the exit. Mrs. Kingsley looked over her shoulder and gave a tiny wave. Pretend. Lane waved as the two women stepped out of the café. When the door closed behind them, a whoosh of breath escaped her rattling chest. Ready again? Was it really so simple to recover from having one’s heart ripped from their chest? Their lives, future, hope—demolished in the blink of an eye?
No. Life wasn’t that simple. Or easy. But all Lane could do was go on pretending like it was.
It was the only way she knew how to survive.
“The peach cobbler and ice cream were a great idea, Lane.” Ms. Byrdie returned with the creamer refilled and set it on the counter. She paused. “Honey, don’t you pay any mind to those old biddies. Their hearts are in the right place even if their good sense hasn’t caught up.”
“It’s okay.”
Ms. Byrdie wrapped an arm around Lane’s waist and leaned in. “No, it’s not.”
Lane swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. No, it wasn’t and she didn’t need to lie to Ms. Byrdie. The woman always seemed to know or see the truth anyway. Inhaling deeply and then letting it go, Lane lifted her head and met Ms. Byrdie’s gaze.
“Apparently, there’s going to be a singles’ mixer an hour before the seafood festival. Mrs. Babcock wanted to know if she could add me to the list.”
“Honey, Mrs. Babcock has been trying to marry off her grandson since he was in diapers.” Ms. Byrdie laughed, sending soft tufts of white hair dancing across her brow. “I think Dane actually enjoys teasing his grandmother by purposely staying single.”
Lane rubbed her thumb over her wedding band and glanced at the photo propped against the chalkboard menu. A happy family—a little boy, a husband, and a wife—smiled at her. They looked . . . perfect.
“It’s been a long day.” Ms. Byrdie’s violet eyes held compassion. “Why don’t you go on upstairs? I’ll finish up down here and close up.”
Ms. Byrdie’s worried glances hadn’t stopped coming in Lane’s direction since she had returned from the river, soaked and emotionally numb. Lane guessed the sheriff had spoken with his wife before her arrival. Ms. Byrdie didn’t ask a single question as she ushered Lane upstairs and into a hot shower, which was good because even now Lane couldn’t shake the image of the dead girl from her mind and the thought of retelling the experience made her sick. Suicide. It was too close to home. Literally and figuratively.
“I’m fine.” Lane picked up two bowls of cobbler and ice cream. “It helps to stay busy.”
Lane ignored the knowing look on Ms. Byrdie’s face as she walked toward a small table tucked into the corner of the Way Station Café. A pair of craggy old men with long whiskers sat there with anticipation on their faces and spoons at the ready in their hands.
“Peach cobbler a la mode.” Clarence wore a tattered veterans cap, while Wilbur wore his military service tattooed all over his arms. Lane handed them their desserts. “You boys doing alright?”
“Even better now.” Clarence winked before digging into his dish.
“How was your visit with your grandkids?” Lane asked Wilbur.
“Taught ’em how to fish. The oldest, Eric, he caught a big one.” Wilbur held his hands apart about seven inches. “First time. He was so proud.”
From the glow on Wilbur’s weathered face, Lane could see the pride that reached across generations. Clarence and Wilbur began talking fish and Lane excused herself to a third man chatting up Ms. Byrdie at the counter.
“And what about you, Ducky?” Not his given name but a title earned by the number of fowl casualties he amassed with his boat, or so the rumors said. “Can I get you a refill on the coffee? More peach cobbler?”
“Nah.” Ducky’s shoulders hunched at an angle and his right eye drifted. “I’ve had three bowls already. I’m just sitting here taking in the view.”
Lane frowned and then followed Ducky’s gaze over to Ms. Byrdie, who was putting the rest of the cobbler into a plastic storage container. “Ya know, if the sheriff catches you eyeing his wife, you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of the law.”
“But the right side of love.” He smiled, exposing a toothless mouth before erupting into a fit of laughter, which sounded more like he was choking.
For a moment Lane was able to forget the morbid events of the day. She glanced around the room. Once upon a time the old home was built as a kindergarten, some said at the direction of Henry Ford. The first floor was spacious for desks and a sizable kitchen to feed the children. Upstairs, an apartment was kept for the teacher and was where Lane and Noah called home. But most days, the Way Station Café was Lane’s excuse to ignore reality.
Lane tossed a glance out the tall windows of the Georgian home turned café. “Have you seen Miguel?”
Ms. Byrdie’s gaze swept the room. “Actually, I haven’t.”
“He’s never missed Friday Night Club.” Lane looked at her watch. “We’ll be closing soon.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, dear.” Ms. Byrdie grabbed a towel and wiped the counter. “I think the only reason he comes in is to see you.”
“It’s ’cuz she’s pretty,” Ducky barked.
“Partly, yes.” Ms. Byrdie winked at Lane. “But I think it’s because of the way you treat him.”
Lane balked. “I think it’s for your home cooking.”
“Honey, I’ve been running the FNC for several years, and if Miguel stopped by it was by chance. But that first night he came by and you were here—” Ms. Byrdie paused. There was a sheen in her eyes.
“Miguel’s never talked to a soul,” Wilbur said, holding his empty bowl. “Not even me and we were in basic together.”
“Nam was hard.” Ducky lifted his cup of coffee to Wilbur and Clarence. The three men shared the same solemn expression.
“I better take the trash out to the dumpster,” Lane said over the tightness in her throat.
It was devastating to think about how many American veterans were like Miguel. They came home from a war, forever changed. Even now, she had heard the reports of soldiers returning from overseas and the effects of what they witnessed chasing them until they could take it no more. Lane bit down on her lip. What was her excuse?
“Lane.” Ms. Byrdie caught her as she was about to walk out. “You have a good heart, sweetie. Compassionate and kind. One of these days I hope you can see how much you affect those around you—and not in the way you believe—but in the way I do. The way God does.”
Lane dropped her gaze to the trash bag. “I’ll just take this out now.” She slipped out the back door, avoiding Ms. Byrdie’s gaze and the pressure of having to respond.
What could she say? There was no response worthy of the woman who continually offered little pieces of hope that Lane carried through the roughest years of her life—or so she thought.
“Are you still open?”
“Wha—” Lane spun, shock stealing her breath at the sight of the man standing in the shadows.
“Sorry.” He stepped into the light. He had tan skin and black hair pinned against his head with enough oil that Paula Deen would be jealous. He rolled a toothpick between his teeth and smiled at Lane. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Something in his smile belied the sincerity of his words. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the night.”
“That’s too bad.” His lip curled and he removed the toothpick. Lane couldn’t help but notice the tattoos on his fingers. He took another step toward her. “I’m not from around here. Was hoping to get a home-cooked meal before I hit the road.”
His dark eyes held on to her gaze far longer than she felt was comfortable and a chill skated down her spine. “Besides fast food, I’m afraid most of the home-cooked places in Walton have shut down for the night.”
A sharp bark echoed in the darkness as a little white dog bounded through the bushes at the back of her property. The dog raced toward Lane, sending the strange man stepping back.
“Bane!” A deep baritone voice called out.
The little dog sniffed the trash bag at Lane’s feet before sitting. He tilted his head like he was waiting for scraps. Lane turned in the direction of feet pounding the pavement and her heart stalled.
“Bane! I’m sorry. He just took off—Ms. Kent?”
Halting to a stop next to her was the tall, handsome deputy who had found her at the bridge. Wait—handsome? Where had that come from? Well, he was handsome, but where had he come from? She bent to pet the dog between his ears. “Yours?”
“Yeah, sorry.” The deputy bent over and picked up the dog. “He’s not trained very well.”
Lane rose and noticed that the man with the toothpick was gone. She glanced around. Weird. No, creepy. Definitely creepy. Or maybe it was just odd and she was putting a creepy spin on it because of what had happened earlier?
“Everything okay?”
The question drew Lane’s eyes up to his. The deputy’s puzzled expression triggered something inside of her. “Yes . . . it’s just—never mind.” Way to make the deputy believe you’re normal. “It’s nothing.”
“Need help?”
“I got it.” Lane hurled the bag into the dumpster before wiping her hands together. “Thanks, though.”
“So, you work here?”
Lane looked up at the home turned business. “Actually, I own it.”
A strange look crossed the deputy’s face. “Interesting.”
Interesting? Lane shrugged. “Maybe stop by sometime and grab a bite. Ms. Byrdie is the cook/baker extraordinaire, and you won’t find a better meal in all of Walton.”
“I believe that.” His lip tugged up at the corner and sent Lane’s pulse thrumming.
“Lane, honey, everything okay?” Ms. Byrdie’s voice called from the back porch.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Evening, Aunt Byrdie.”
Lane’s stomach somersaulted. “Wait. Did you just call her Aunt Byrdie?”
The deputy’s shoulders raised a fraction. “Surprise?”
“Well, now that you’ve met your neighbor, don’t just stand there. Come on in and get the last piece of cobbler before it’s too late.” Aunt Byrdie spun around and let the screen door slam shut behind her.
Charlie waited, trying to discern the surprise—no, shock—covering Ms. Kent’s face. If she didn’t know—
“That means Sheriff Huggins is your—”
“Uncle,” Charlie finished her thought as Bane squirmed in his grip. He clipped the leash on the dog and set him down. “Aunt Byrdie is my mother’s sister.”
Ms. Kent’s face paled. Why?
“This might be a wild guess, but from your expression I’m guessing Aunt B didn’t mention anything about me?” Charlie couldn’t deny the sting of that thought. He’d asked his aunt and uncle to keep his moving to Walton quiet to avoid any rumors of nepotism—at least until he had a chance to prove his value to the force.
“Actually, she did mention her nephew, but I was expecting”—her brows pinched—“well, I don’t know what I was expecting. And you’re my neighbor?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlie tilted his head toward a row of bushes with large white flowers. “Just on the other side of that picket fence.”
The screen door swung open and his aunt appeared. “I can’t fight these boys off forever, y’all.”
“She’s not lying either,” Lane added.
Charlie grinned and followed Ms. Kent up the steps of the two-story house with the wraparound porch.
“Ms. Kent, is it okay if I tie him up out here?”
“Yeah, sure, but please call me Lane. We’re, uh . . . neighbors after all. I think Ms. Byr—I mean your aunt keeps some doggie treats around for some of the customers.”
“The last thing this little tyrant needs is a reward for his mischief.” Charlie tied Bane’s leash to the railing and gave the dog a warning look to behave before stepping through the back door of the Way Station Café.
The sweet aroma of cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee made his mouth water. Hearty laughter echoed against the pine-paneled walls of the large room with an eclectic collection of round and square tables. The room was mostly empty except for a group of men huddled near the counter where his aunt stood.
At Charlie’s entrance, the room went silent.
Lane looked over her shoulder and then back at the remaining customers. “Have y’all met Ms. Byrdie’s nephew?”
A tall man with a bristly beard of gray smirked. “Haven’t had the pleasure, but thanks to the Rubies I’ve heard all about you.”
“The Duke, huh?” The other man neared Charlie so close their toes almost touched. “Esther needs to get her eyes checked. Wayne’s taller. More meat to his bones.”
Rubies? Duke? Charlie grew hot under the collar and he was wearing a T-shirt. What were these guys talking about? He looked to his aunt for clarification, but she busied herself filling a bowl with cobbler.
“If I had a wife, I’d probably hear all about you too,” the third man perched on the stool chimed in. “And I wouldn’t like ya neither.”
Charlie swallowed and sidestepped the man still sizing him up. He might’ve been half a century older than Charlie, but there was enough muscle tone in the man’s arms to demonstrate he wasn’t enjoying the passive life of retirement just yet. “Um, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Wilbur, Clarence, and the ornery one on the stool is Ducky.” Lane patted the back of the one nearest Charlie—Wilbur? “And they were just saying good night.”
Aunt B set a bowl of cobbler on the counter. “Charlie’s here to keep you fellas in line.”
Charlie’s eyes grew round. “What? No—”
“Uh-oh.” The one called Ducky snorted and gave a gummy smile.
What was his aunt doing? Charlie didn’t want any trouble—though he did have age to his advantage, and he was pretty certain he could outrun Wilbur and Clarence. But Ducky, he looked scrappy. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lane with her arms folded, amusement lighting her eyes.
“Harrumph.” Wilbur scratched his beard. “Guess the Rubies are right.”
Clarence sidled up to his friend and squinted in Charlie’s direction. “It’s gotta be the eyes.”
“No, I think it’s the baby beard he’s trying to grow.” Wilbur nodded. “Don’t girls like that Grizzly Adams look?”
“He ain’t no Grizz—”
“Okay, boys, that’s enough hazing for now.” Aunt B giggled and put a hand on Ducky’s arm. “Let my nephew eat his cobbler while it’s warm.”
“Until next time.” Wilbur held out his hand.
Charlie shook it, and then Clarence’s. He still had no idea what was happening. Hazing?
A round of goodbyes sent the three men out the door, with Ducky giving Charlie one final withering look before Lane locked the door behind them.
“What was that?” Charlie exhaled. “The Rubies? Duke?”
“Don’t forget Grizzly Adams,” Lane added.
Was she smirking?
“Would you like some coffee?” Aunt B asked. “Or milk?”
“Milk, please.” Charlie slid onto the vacated stool in front of his aunt and picked up a spoon. “Can someone please explain what just happened.”
“I’ll get it,” Lane offered, reaching for a glass. Her blouse skimmed the waistline of her jeans just enough so that some skin peeked—
“The Duke”—Charlie’s aunt stepped in front of him, cutting off his view, while heat filled his face at the sight of her inquisitive expression—“is John Wayne. The Rubies are a group of seniors, women, at the church. And Grizzly Adams—”
“I know who Grizzly Adams is.” Charlie ate a bite of the cobbler—it was delicious. And so was the second and the third.
“Still want milk with your”—Lane leaned across the counter and peeked into Charlie’s bowl, bringing with her a sweet, soapy fragrance—“last bite?”
He smiled. “Please.”
Lane pulled back and offered him the glass of milk, which he finished in one gulp.
“You are eating, right?” Aunt B raised her eyebrows. “I told your mom you were, but the way you scarfed that cobbler—”
“I’m eating. I finished that meatloaf, which was delicious by the way.” Charlie leaned back. “But I limit my intake of butter and sugar.”
“There’s peaches in there too.” Aunt B swatted a hand at him. She let out a sigh and leaned against the counter. “It’s good to have you here, Charlie.”
“Um, I’m gonna go start the dough for tomorrow.” Lane hitched her thumb in the direction of the kitchen.
“Oh, no, dear.” Aunt B moved toward the kitchen. “I need to do it because I, um”—her gaze crossed to Charlie and then back to Lane—“I have this special thing I saw on TV that I want to try.”
Lane frowned and whispered something to his aunt, who then whispered something back. They did know he was sitting right there, right? A second later, Lane’s shoulders drooped and his aunt marched into the kitchen—triumphant.
“More milk?” Lane picked up his glass and the empty bowl.
“I’m okay, thank you.” Charlie studied her as she placed the dirty dishes in a plastic bin when his eyes caught a glimpse of the gold ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand. Married. How had he missed that detail earlier? The cobbler felt heavy in his stomach. “It’s late. I should probably go.”
“Okay.” When Lane turned, he saw the photo on the counter. A family of three—Lane, a man, and a little boy who was the perfect combination of the smiling faces holding him. Lane glanced back at the photo and then up to him. “I, um, got your message from earlier. About the statement.”
Charlie straightened. He moved here to prove himself and he had a job to do. Lane was reminding him of that. “Right. Yes, ma’am. About the events from today.”
Lane flinched. “Lane, please.”
“I know it must be difficult to think about, but we really need the facts to be fresh in your mind. Is it okay if I stop by tomorrow?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” Lane bit her bottom lip. “I do have an event tomorrow afternoon, but you can stop by in the morning.”
“Tomorrow then.” Charlie stood. “I’ll just tell my aunt good night.”
“Right.”
“Have a good night, Mrs. Kent.”