Lane squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. Sleep deprivation and her sister’s excitement weren’t a good combination.

Ms. Byrdie peeked her head out of the kitchen. “Everything alright in here?”

“Lane was just getting ready to tell me about the man she’s daydreaming about.”

“I am not.” Lane’s cheeks grew hot. Her eyes bounced to Ms. Byrdie and Meagan’s gaze followed.

“You know him?” Meagan’s pitch rose. “Who? How come I don’t know this?”

“How are those cheddar biscuits coming?” Lane raised her eyebrows in Ms. Byrdie’s direction, hoping she’d get the message. “And we need to finish itemizing these donations so you can get them out of my café. These boxes are a fire hazard.”

“The biscuits are finished,” Ms. Byrdie said, flashing a playful smile in Meagan’s direction. “And I’m heading to the church to help there. I’ll be back later to pick up the biscuits.”

“I’m disappointed in the town gossips,” Meagan murmured as she lifted the unlabeled box. From the corner of her eye, Lane could see her sister pretending to be interested in the box, but her lip was twitching. Was she going to ask more questions or race after Ms. Byrdie and pry the information from her? But what would she get? Lane and Charlie could hardly be considered an item. They hadn’t even gone out on a date.

Yet.

Was going to the benefit with Charlie such a good idea? After tonight, there’d be no shortage of whispers—maybe she should cancel. Stay in.

Meagan opened her mouth to speak when Noah’s animated voice echoed up the back porch. Lane breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Saved.

The screen door swung open and Noah tromped inside in Pops’s brown military dress hat with the familiar Marine emblem on it and green paint smeared across his cheeks. Pops followed, his white hair mussed, sweat pressing it to his head, and the same paint spread on his wrinkled but smiling face.

“Has the war been won?” Lane tilted Noah’s cap up and planted a kiss on his damp forehead. Sticky proof of an afternoon of fun with her grandfather.

“Mommy, soldiers don’t get kisses at war. They get kisses when they come home from war.” Noah wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and scrunched his eyebrows together in a tight scowl.

Lane’s throat grew thick. Noah was two when Mathias returned home from war the second time. Too young to really remember, but he’d seen the pictures she had at the house. The two of them holding balloons and a homemade sign in hand as they waved their hero home.

“Soldiers and Marines”—Pops tapped the hat on Noah’s head—“should get kisses any time they can.”