“ANY MORE BOXES and you’ll have more art than food.”
Lane looked at the small room she used to store food items at the back of the Way Station Café. At the moment, Ms. Byrdie was right. Most of the boxes stacked against the wall belonged to her sister, Meagan.
“A few more weeks and it’ll all be gone.” Lane signed for the delivery of more auction items and sighed. “I hope.”
“Do you want me to help you move this one?” Ms. Byrdie gave an appraising look at the tall, thin box.
“Ms. Lane, I can get that for you.”
This evening two regulars were visiting the café. Dottie and Harley Jones. A couple with personalities as unforgettable as their appearances. Tonight, the bottled blonde wore glittery blue eye shadow that matched her blouse, shorts, and nail polish on her toes. In contrast to all Dottie’s femininity, her husband, Harley, was the opposite. His long black hair interspersed with gray was pulled back into a ponytail. Black shirt, black pants, motorcycle boots. It was the same wardrobe every time Lane saw him. The only color he wore came in the form of tiny beads in a rainbow of colors strung together on a shoelace tied around his neck. A gift from a tribe in northern Sudan that Harley received while serving there on a missionary trip.
“It’s not too heavy.” Lane slid-pushed the box into the dining area and settled it against the wall behind the sofa.
“Momma, do I have to eat these green beans?”
Lane swung her gaze over her shoulder to Noah, who was sitting at the counter pushing his food around with his fork. “Yes.”
“How ’bout if I eat these green beans can I play with my Sarcosuchus for”—he tilted his head, thinking—“for fifteen minutes?” Noah held up his hand, palm flat, fingers splayed.
Lane bit her lip. Her willpower seemed to melt when it came to Noah. “Fifteen minutes—if you eat all your green beans and two more bites of your mashed potatoes.”
Noah sighed and then looked at his plate. With a determined expression, he scooped up the first bite and ate it.
“I’d have negotiated for twenty minutes.”
“Hush now, Harley.” Dottie grinned before giving Lane a playful wink.
“Can I get you two more sweet tea?” Lane went to the counter and lifted a pitcher.
“We’re good. This was delicious as always, Lane.” Harley lifted his fork and pointed it at Noah. “And if he doesn’t want his, I’ll take it.”
“Oh, he’ll eat his if he wants to play with his—” What was the name of that dinosaur? “Well, he’ll eat if he wants to play with his toys. Nonnegotiable—”
The screen door at the back of the café slapped open, silencing the room and jerking everyone’s attention to the lone figure that entered. Miguel.
“Hi, Miguel!” Lane started for him but stopped short at the sight of his hands.
“Miguel, what happened?” Lane reached for his hands. Deep red gashes were etched into his palms. Most of them were scabbed over, but a few oozed bright red. He drew them back. “You’re hurt.”
Ms. Byrdie appeared from the kitchen, concern in her eyes.
Miguel’s dark eyes darted around the room. “I-I just . . .”
“Momma?” Noah’s voice sounded tiny.
Lane was unable to take her eyes off the slices in his palms. “You need to go to the hospital, Miguel.”
“Momma, is he hurt?”
“No. I sh-should go.” His voice was scratchy and low. “Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t have come h-here.”
“Wait.” Lane rested her hand on his shoulder, but Miguel jerked away from her touch. “Let me get you something to eat before you go.”
“Noah, why don’t you come help me make a plate for Mister Miguel?” Ms. Byrdie took Noah’s hand and led him to the counter.
Miguel shifted but remained silent. Lane hustled back to the counter. Where had he been? What had happened to his hands? They needed to be cleaned with antibiotics, maybe even stitched up, but if a meal was all he’d wait for, then that’s what she’d offer him. She grabbed a Styrofoam cup and filled it with ice and tea.
“Is he okay?” Ms. Byrdie looked up from the to-go container she was filling with food. Noah was sitting at a stool near the counter, concentrating on a coloring book of dinosaurs.
Lane put a lid on the cup. “His hands look like they’ve been put through a slicer.”
“Where’d he go?” Dottie asked.
The hallway where Miguel had stood seconds ago was empty. Harley stood and walked down the hall toward the back door.
“Wha—he was just here.” What was going on? “His hands. He needs to go to the hospital.”
“He’s gone.” Harley came back inside, carrying a flat, rectangular box in his hand. “This was near the steps though. Delivery guy must’ve forgotten to bring it in.”
“Just set it on top of the others,” Lane said. “Should we go after him?”
“Miguel carves wood. Sculpts.” Harley lifted his napkin from the floor and set it on his empty plate. “Did it a lot when he first came home from Nam. Painful hobby, but it seemed to help him cope with his monsters.”
Lane bit her lip. She understood monsters. “Something’s not right. This is the first time we’ve seen him in what, a couple of weeks? And then when he does show up, his hands are a bloody mess.”
“He only sculpts when it’s bad.” Harley scratched the stubble on his cheek. “He might not have died in those rice paddies, but his soul sure did.”
“Honey”—Ms. Byrdie squeezed Lane’s shoulder—“Miguel’s having a bad day. He’ll be back.”
“But what if he doesn’t come back? He looked . . . scared.”
“It wasn’t too long ago that men like Ducky or Miguel wouldn’t be seen coming into town. Too many men came home from Vietnam different from the boys they were when they left, and I’m sad to say too many people in this town have been content to let them disappear into themselves. But not you. You brought him back with good food and a kind heart.”
“Ms. Byrdie’s right. Hard to say which is the worse fate.” Harley grabbed Dottie’s hand. “There was a time when Miguel was convinced no one would notice if he was gone. He doesn’t say much, but don’t think your kindness goes unnoticed. He’ll be back.”
The front door of the café opened and a man entered. Lane didn’t give him a second glance. Her heart ached. How many times had she had that same thought? Believing no one would notice if she just slipped away. For good. Is that why she was drawn to him? She understood what it was like to cope with monsters.
And to do it alone.
Ms. Byrdie’s words echoed in her ear, “You’re not meant to do this alone.” Well, if that was true for her, then it was true for Miguel too.
An hour later a group of teens left fully caffeinated and Lane wrapped up the last of the food and put it away in the refrigerator. A quick survey of leftovers revealed she might be able to offer vegetable soup as the next day’s lunch special.
“I finished the list of items we need to reorder from Gus,” Ms. Byrdie said around a yawn. “There’s one customer left, but he’s paid and just finishing his coffee.”
“Sounds good. Why don’t you head on home. I can finish cleaning and lock up.”
“You sure, honey? I don’t mind sticking around.” But Ms. Byrdie was already untying her apron.
“I’m sure.”
After hanging up the apron on a hook near the convection oven, Ms. Byrdie gave Lane a hug before disappearing down the hall and out the back door. Lane grabbed a towel and headed into the dining area.
“These pictures are nice.”
The deep voice scared Lane right out of her skin. She spun around and saw the man standing near the wall where a dozen or so photographs and paintings hung. Hadn’t Ms. Byrdie said all the customers were gone? No, she said there was one more—a man—finishing up his coffee.
“Are they yours?” The man’s back was turned to her as he studied each picture. Finished coffee or not, he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.
Lane smoothed her apron before checking her watch. It was only a few minutes past closing. And it wasn’t in her to shove anyone out of her café . . . but she was tired. Maybe if she kept the chitchat to a minimum and started to clean up, the guy would get the hint.
“Some. Some are local artists.” Lane began straightening chairs. Ms. Byrdie had done a good job cleaning up. Too good. There wasn’t much left for Lane to do. She took a step toward the front door. “I hope you enjoyed your meal tonight. Ms. Byrdie is making her famous fried chicken tomorrow night—”
“Your mother?” The man returned his attention to the paintings on the wall. “She lives here too?”
Oh-kay. Hint not taken. Lane studied the man closer. Hands shoved inside his pockets, he wore a long-sleeve shirt, the collar pulled close to his neck but not so close that she couldn’t see the edge of a tattoo peeking out. A baseball cap shaded his face, but she caught something familiar there. Did she know him?
Didn’t matter. He needed to leave. The sooner, the better.
“Your husband was in the Army?”
The room seemed to shift for a second. What? Clearly, she hadn’t heard the man correctly. She blinked a couple of times before her gaze landed on his dark one staring back at her. The sense of familiarity lingered, but Lane was certain the man wasn’t local to Walton and therefore wouldn’t—shouldn’t—know anything about Mathias.
“Your niño looks like you though.”
Lane’s gaze whipped in the direction of the family photo she kept up near the cash register. One of the last ones taken of Mathias, Noah, and her. The only one she kept downstairs. Next to it was the baby monitor she still used when she worked downstairs while Noah was upstairs—where he was now. Sleeping.
“I’m sorry to push you out, but we’re closed now and I need to begin preparations for tomorrow.” This time Lane walked straight to the front door and opened it, leaving no mistake that it was time for him to go.
The man’s eyes narrowed a second before the smallest sliver of a smile pulled at the right side of his lips. He withdrew his hands from his pockets and Lane’s heart seized. Tattoos. On his fingers. She did know the man. He was the one from the shadows outside the café. The one asking about a place to eat.
He stuck a toothpick in the side of his mouth before peeling several dollar bills from a money clip. After dropping them in the tip jar, he started for the door before pausing. “Maybe I’ll stop by for that fried chicken.”
The second he walked out, Lane locked the door behind him and hoped he didn’t. In fact, she’d be content never to see the strange man again.