“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.