And Patricia, busy over by the sink said, “You don’t want to get on her bad side.”

Peyton covered her laugh with a hand. She sat with Nancy at the kitchen table while Patricia puttered with food, yet obviously hadn’t missed a word of their conversation.

“The pot speaketh of the kettle,” Nancy said with a laugh.

Peyton was put to bed in Patricia’s craft room while Scott and the kids shared the guest room. She actually had a very nice time, but it wasn’t hard to understand his decision to get out of Dodge.

In the morning, they were up early. Scott took over the kitchen and made a big breakfast for everyone. Of course, Suzanne was there, but Nancy and her kids declined. Once he had filled his kids with food and run them around the block a couple of times, they were off in the direction of Portland as the farm was southeast of that city. The kids, in their safety seats, had their little movies to occupy them, and within a half hour, they were out cold.

It seemed that was just the moment Scott had been waiting for. At the very next rest stop, he pulled over and parked under some big, leafy trees, unsnapped his seat belt and turned to Peyton. He grabbed her chin in a hand and kissed her. “I don’t like not sleeping with you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about the craft room. I don’t think my mother even does crafts!”

“It was just fine,” she said with a laugh. “I can’t wait to see where my parents put you for the night. Do you like chickens?”

“Was it unbearable? The visit?”

“Not at all,” she said. “The grandmothers are a little intense in their own individual ways, but their hearts are in the right place—they love their grandchildren. Are they always like that?”

“Always. They don’t spend any time together that doesn’t include Jenny and Will. Before Will came along, it was the same with Serena and me—everything had to be perfectly divided or there was hell to pay in the form of guilt and badgering. We only spent a few years in Vancouver, always looking for an opportunity elsewhere.”

“Didn’t your mothers realize they were driving you away?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Not even when we said so. But with the kids, they have this interesting division of duties. Suzanne spoils and plays, Patricia teaches and disciplines. Suzanne excuses, Patricia praises. Suzanne fusses, Patricia rewards. They need all of it. They’re in heaven. As long as they’re not a pressure on the kids, I can deal with them. At least they’re getting old enough to spend time in Vancouver without me. I can take them up there, spend a day or two, leave them for a couple of weeks, go back for them.” He grinned at her. “Thunder Point was pure genius. For a lot of reasons.” And then he kissed her again.

“You’d better get it all out of your system, Dr. Grant. My family is completely different but no less challenging. Don’t be too surprised if my mother or father takes you aside and questions our relationship and your intentions.”

“I have the best intentions in the world. It’s your intentions that need a little work.”

“My parents are actually more progressive than a lot of the family. They knew I lived with Ted. They still put us in separate bedrooms, but they knew. They’re good, except when they’re plotting to arrange marriages.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“A time-honored custom. Their kids were not very excited by the notion and didn’t want the assistance. I suspect meddling, just the same. I don’t think Lucas and Adele are purely an accident, even if she did do some PR work for his restaurant.”

“Just make out with me a little before we take on the next family challenge.”

She giggled and put her arms around his neck, kissing him intensely.

“Dad?” Will said from the backseat. “We there?”

Scott let go of her reluctantly. “Almost,” he said. “Not much longer. Watch your movie.”

* * *

Even with all of Peyton’s description, nothing could have prepared Scott for the farm. When they pulled into the yard the dogs were set to barking and that brought a woman of around sixty to the porch. She was tall and slim like Peyton, wore jeans and laced boots, a gingham blouse over a tank top, and her long hair was pulled up into a clip. Her hair was dark like Peyton’s, with the slightest bit of gray threaded through it. Her face was rosy with health, and her smile was bright, her lips red. She was drying her hands on a towel, and she began waving at the car.

Scott parked and helped Will out of his seat while Peyton helped Jenny. Their feet had barely touched the ground when Mrs. Lacoumette was swinging her dish towel over her head, yelling, “Hurry, hurry, hurry! We have so much to do!” Then she crouched down to better receive the kids. “Well, now, you must be Will! And you would be Jenny! Are you hungry? Need the bathroom? We can have a snack, take care of business, then it’s time to collect the eggs. Do you know how to collect eggs?”

They just shook their heads in wonder, making Scott laugh.

She extended her hand. “Dr. Grant, we’re so pleased to have you join us.”

“Please, it’s Scott.”

“And I’m Corinne, Peyton’s mother. Come in, everyone.”

Parked between the house and barn was a very large semitrailer surrounded by trucks and cars. The sound of engines of all types could be heard, but they seemed to be far off. Then a pickup truck pulled up next to the trailer, and two men leaped out, grabbing bags of what he assumed to be pears and loading them in the trailer. He watched for a moment, and they were quickly done and off they went.

Scott was the last one inside. He found his children had been swept up in kitchen activity. He counted five women including Corinne, all busy with chores. One was white-haired and at least eighty years old, one was around Peyton’s age and embraced her, three were Corinne’s approximate age, all dark-haired, all working at meal preparations. Pots were steaming, vegetables were being peeled, sliced and diced, meat was searing, bread dough was rising.

Garlic and drying herbs hung from the shelf over a triple wide sink, scoured pans hung over the work island, and extra-large cooking spoons occupied big ceramic pots. The stove was commercial size—three ovens and six burners. There were several wooden knife caddies on the countertops. Jars of all shapes and sizes lined the counters and held ground spices, flour, sugar, grains, pastes and liquids he couldn’t possibly identify. Linens were folded and stacked on several open shelves, dishes and glassware were neatly stored in glass-front cupboards and there were drawers full of eating implements. This wasn’t a kitchen. It was a cooking and eating factory. The pots and pans in use on the stove were very large, large enough to imply an army would be eating here.

Corinne swung the kids up on to stools at the long breakfast bar. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out two already-prepared sandwiches, then she ladled a little soup into two soup cups. She poured milk, shook out napkins, brought out spoons—all done like a woman who knew how to feed eight children in just minutes. Then she smiled at him. “Can I get you something to eat, Dr. Grant?”

“He can always eat, Mama,” Peyton said. “He has an unbelievable appetite. Scott, this is grandmamma Josephina, Aunt Sophia, Aunt Maria, my cousin Maida. Maida only cooks for momentous occasions, like harvest and holidays.”