“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.”