Page 44 of King of Praise
The unexpected criticism of his son startles a laugh from me. The sound surprises us both—genuine, unguarded. When was the last time I really laughed? I can’t remember.
“He was,” I agree, emboldened by Micah’s candor. “Lucas thought my dream of opening a bakery was ridiculous. He said it was beneath our social status. That no wife of his would work intrade.” I inject the last word with all the snobbish disdain Lucas had used.
Micah’s expression shifts with recognition. “Sounds familiar. Sandra had similar ideas about acceptable careers. Anything too working class was beneath us, never mind that we barely had two nickels to rub together when we met.”
“Really?” I lean forward, eager for this glimpse into his past. “What did you want to do?”
He shrugs, but I sense the old frustration beneath his casual tone. “Had some talent for woodworking. Thought about opening a furniture shop. Custom pieces, restoration work. ButSandra…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at the life choices that led him here instead.
“Is that what all these projects are?” I wave toward the workbench near the window, where half-finished pieces wait patiently for attention. “Your alternative career?”
“More of a hobby now.” He glances at the workbench with something like longing. “Keeps my hands busy when I need to think. Like your baking.”
The parallel strikes me forcefully—how we both turn to creative work as therapy, finding peace in the transformation of raw materials to something beautiful and useful. How our dreams were shaped and constrained by others’ expectations. The understanding flows between us, creating a connection that transcends our complicated circumstances.
We fall into easier conversation as we clear the table together, moving around the small kitchen with surprising coordination. Micah insists on washing dishes despite my protests, and I find myself watching his profile in the soft lamplight.
He rolls his sleeves up, revealing corded forearms and a fresh bandage that was hidden underneath his sleeve. The sight sends a spike of concern through me, but I resist the urge to question him about it. It’s probably the reason for his mood when he first got home and I don’t want to spoil the calm we now share.
Instead, I dry the dishes he hands me, our domestic choreography comfortable despite its newness. He tells me stories about club patrons—sanitized versions, I’m sure, but entertaining nonetheless. His dry observations draw more laughter from me, each genuine sound seeming to please him.
“You know,” I say, putting away the last plate, “you’re not nearly as scary as you try to appear.”
His eyebrows rise. “No?”
“No.” I lean against the counter, feeling oddly bold. “Oh, you look intimidating enough. But I’ve seen you with Powder. No one who baby-talks to their cat is truly terrifying.”
“I do not baby-talk to the cat.” He protests, but his eyes crinkle with suppressed amusement.
“Really? So when I heard you calling her ‘daddy’s precious princess’ the other morning, I imagined it?”
Color rises above his beard, and he points the dish towel at me in mock threat. “That information does not leave this cabin.”
I raise my hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Your secret is safe with me. Though it might improve your reputation, you know. The big bad enforcer with a soft spot for fluffy white cats.”
“My reputation is just fine, thank you.” But he’s smiling now, a real smile that transforms his entire face. It makes my breath catch.
In this moment, the barriers between us seem less insurmountable than before. They’re still there, still serious, but reduced somehow from impassable walls to obstacles that might, possibly, be overcome.
I push away from the counter, needing distance from these dangerous thoughts. “Coffee? And there’s apple cobbler for dessert.”
“You’re trying to fatten me up.” He accuses, but he’s already reaching for coffee mugs.
“Maybe.” I busy myself with dessert preparations, not meeting his eyes. “Or maybe I just want to see that smile on your face more often.”
He looks at me, his smile much softer now. “Keep it up. I like smiling.”
Chapter 12
Dangerous Truths
Micah
Morning sunlight streams through the cabin windows, painting golden paths across the worn floorboards. I wrap my hands around a steaming mug of coffee, letting the warmth seep into my palms. Across the small kitchen table, Naomi cradles her own mug, her green eyes watchful. She can sense the weight of what I need to tell her—she’s too perceptive not to.
The peaceful refuge we shared last night has evaporated, replaced by a tension that makes the cabin feel simultaneously too confined and too exposed. Even Powder seems to sense it, the normally affectionate cat maintaining a careful distance as she observes us from her perch on the windowsill.
I take a slow sip of coffee, buying time as I consider how to begin. The conversation ahead could shatter the fragile peace we’ve built here. But Naomi deserves to know what’s going on, however uncomfortable. I’ve never lied to her, and I won’t start now.
