“I think our little club is getting more and more popular.” Ms. Byrdie scooped up potato salad and put it on a plate before using another spoon for the macaroni and cheese. “All these folks needing a home-cooked meal for the soul.”

A little girl, the youngest of the group, with stringy blonde hair and deep brown eyes edged toward the pans of Ms. Byrdie’s banana pudding.

“Would you like some more dessert?” Lane asked.

“Samantha.” A woman with the same dark eyes came to the counter, her cheeks pink. “I’m sorry, ma’am. She’s already had her serving.” The mother tried to take her daughter’s hand, but the little girl’s pleading eyes looked up at Lane.

“We have plenty. If she wants more of anything, y’all are welcome to it.” Lane looked to Ms. Byrdie, who nodded. “In fact, I think we may have enough extras for you to take some home with you.”

A sheen covered the woman’s eyes before she gave a tight smile and then took the bowl of pudding Ms. Byrdie held out to her. The woman and her daughter returned to their table, where a man scooped up the little girl into his lap.

“I don’t recognize them,” Lane whispered.

“They’re from Blythe County,” Dottie said as she walked up behind Lane, carrying a pitcher of freshly brewed tea. “That’s Billy, his wife, Chrissy, and their little girl, Samantha. They’re having a rough time of it and Harley invited them—hope that was okay.”

Lane nodded. “Of course.” She studied the family. Nothing on the outside to indicate they were having “a rough time of it,” but the mother had a distant look in her eyes that Lane recognized. A look that said there was so much more to the façade.

“You alright, honey?” Ms. Byrdie asked. “You’ve been awful quiet since you got back this afternoon.”

“Hmm?” Blinking, Lane saw that both Dottie and Ms. Byrdie were watching her. “What?”

“Everything okay, sugar?”

“Oh, yes.” Lane sighed. “Miguel’s a no-show again.”

Ms. Byrdie looked around. “Yeah, I noticed that too.”

“And where’s Harley?” Lane wiped some stray macaroni from the counter. “I want to thank him for smoking all of this pork.”

“Girls, I didn’t tell you? Harley’s at the hospital.”

“What?” Lane stopped.

“Decided to fillet his hand instead of the fish.”

“Is he alright?”

“Fifty-five stitches. He said one for each year of life he saw flash before his eyes.”

“That’s terrible, Dottie. I’m so sorry.” Lane looked down at the tray of smoked meat. “How did he—”

Dottie shook her head. “He put the meat in early this morning before his fishing trip. He kept calling me from the hospital. I think most of County General knows how to smoke a pig now.”

“Well, it’s delicious. You did a great job.”