Nora couldn’t decide which emotion to go with. Pain that her daughter thought she was incapable of running a business or panic at the realization that she had no idea what living her own life might look like. She pulled her jacket more tightly around her as a cold breeze blew off the lake. She lifted her chin and gave Becky a bright smile to hide her roiling emotions.
“Maybe I’ve always wanted to run a place like this. Well, not looking like this, but an artsy little coffeehouse...”
“You’ve always wanted to own a coffee shop? For real?”
Nora had never in her life thought about owning a coffee shop. But she did enjoy sitting with a good book in the one near Peachtree Mall.
“Whatever, Mom.” Becky took the box of cobbler from Nora’s arms. “Buy a coffee shop somewhere. Toss away that stupid planner of yours and start living.”
Michael returned with coffee, and they headed next door to the plain brick building with a carved sign reading Peyton Custom Woodworking. A beautiful arts and crafts chair and side table sat in the window. On the table were two dark bowls made of polished burled wood. If Michael’s father had built this, then the man truly was an artist. A bell jingled above the door when they walked in.
Furniture and carved pieces were displayed in the front of the shop, creating a showroom of sorts, anchored by a large oriental rug. In back was a work area. Workbenches full of tiny drawers lined the walls, and in the center sat a half-finished cherry sideboard and an oak dining table with a pile of steel wool sitting in the middle of it. The whole place smelled of sawdust and varnish. Guitar music was coming out of speakers on the wall, bluesy and mellow.
The masculine presence in the room was so strong she could breathe it in and taste it. This was a man’s space, through and through. Exposed brick walls, light bulbs hanging from the ceiling with round metal shades above them. It was orderly, but raw somehow. As raw as the board lumber stacked high against the back wall.
She ran her hand across the silky-smooth top of the sideboard and heard footsteps approaching. A side door opened and a man walked in, wiping his hands on a rag. When he looked up, she took in a sharp breath and stepped back. It was Hot Produce Guy. The man who’d been so rude in the grocery store. The man she’d yelled at on the sidewalk...she cringed inwardly...the sidewalk right outside his business.
He froze, still holding the rag, but not moving a muscle. His icy blue eyes looked first to Michael, who was setting the coffee and pastries on a workbench, and he frowned. His frown deepened when he saw Becky nervously twisting her fingers together in front of her stomach. Then he turned to Nora and the frown faded into confusion.
“What are you doing here, Miss Fixer?”
The name hung in the air for a moment before Becky found her voice.
“Wait—you two know each other? How the hell does he know you, Mom?”
“Mom?” He set the rag down, shook his head and gave a humorless laugh. “Of course. You’re the mom of the little mom-to-be.” He took a long look at Becky, and there wasn’t an ounce of warmth in his gaze. He turned back to Nora. “So, was our chance meeting in the store Tuesday just as orchestrated as the rest of this farce? And I suppose you just happened to be parked right in front of my shop that afternoon?”
“I didn’t orchestrate anything.” His brow rose in obvious skepticism, and she bristled. “Listen, I’m just as surprised as you. It looks like we’re going to have to get to know each other, whether we want to or not.” She held out her hand, but he didn’t take it. She remembered his rage in the grocery store over his son doing something stupid, and understood it a lot better now. “The circumstances may not be the best, but we can still make the best of them...” Becky groaned behind her and Michael’s father shook his head in amusement. Or perhaps derision.
“There you go with the greeting-card platitudes again. Do you work for Hallmark or something?”
Becky snorted at that and Nora glared at her. Why didn’t people understand she was trying to bring everyone onto the same page here?
Michael stepped into the silence that followed. “Dad, this is Nora Bradford, and yes, she’s Becky’s mom. She lives in Atlanta but came here for the holiday. She’s related to...”
“The Randalls. Yeah, she made sure to mention that the other day.”
Nora took a sharp breath, but Michael kept talking.
“Nora, this is my father, Asher Peyton. This is his furniture studio. And, Dad, this is Becky. The girl I’m going to...”
Asher looked straight at Nora, ignoring his son. “Look, this little ambush of yours isn’t going to work. I know you’re trying to make nice, but you can forget it. I won’t let you and your daughter rope my son into a marriage with your little baby scam.”
With that, everyone started speaking, each more furious than the last.
“You think I masterminded some scheme that included my eighteen-year-old daughter getting pregnant?”
“You think my pregnancy is a scam?”
“Dad, if you don’t shut up, I swear to God, I’ll shut you up myself!”
Michael grabbed his father’s shirt in his fist and pushed him hard against the wall. The tools hanging there rattled, and a few tumbled off shelves. Becky burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.
Nora stomped her foot hard on the wooden floor. “That’s enough!”
She rarely used her angry voice, and people tended to be shocked into silence when such a big voice came from such a tiny woman.
“Michael, you let your father go this instant! And you.” Her finger pointed straight at Asher Peyton and her accent grew thick. “Sugar, you should follow your son’s advice and remain silent for the time being.” She didn’t take her eyes from him, and he didn’t move or speak as his son took a step back. She nodded in approval. “Bless your heart, Mr. Peyton, you might just have a brain somewhere in that hard head of yours, after all. Now, there will be no more shouting in front of my pregnant daughter, and there will definitely be no more violence, is that clear?” She arched a brow in Michael’s direction and the young man gulped.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you take Becky somewhere where she can wash her face and calm down while your father and I have a chat?”
Becky chewed her lip, her face tear soaked, looking painfully like the teenager she was. She silently preceded Michael through the side exit. Michael sent a hard warning glance at his father before closing the door behind them.
Nora turned back to Asher, who was still against the wall, his gaze moving from her face to her pointing finger and back again. Storms raged behind those blue eyes. He was like a wounded animal looking for an escape. Her stance softened automatically and she lowered her hand, reminding herself that cornered animals were dangerous.
Asher’s brooding silence was a physical presence in the room. Was the man capable of violence? Did father and son often resort to physical blows? What kind of family was her daughter getting tangled up with? He glared at her for another long moment, then brushed past her, heading for the workbench. He opened a cupboard door and pulled out an almost empty bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He drained the bottle into the glasses and handed her one. Violent and a drinker? Perfect. But she took the glass, figuring she could use a little liquid courage.
“Your son seems like a fine young man, Asher. If you give her a chance, I think you’ll find my daughter is an equally fine young woman, incapable of whatever you suspect her of.” She had to find a way to bring him into this forced family dynamic, to make him see that these young people needed him.