Mom Over Miami

by Annie Jones

  Hannah crooked her own arm and let it swing. “‘Don’t do that.’”

  “One of the first things we learned in medical school.” He caught her hand midsway and kissed her knuckles one by one. “That.”

  Kiss.

  “And…”

  Kiss.

  “That you have to eat.”

  Kiss.

  “To stay alive.”

  Kiss and turning her hand over, kiss again.

  “I’ll warm some of this up later.” She tapped the box.

  “Good. You have to keep your strength up for our trip.”

  “Our trip.” She shut her eyes and could almost feel the warmth on her face. Maybe the future of her writing career looked bleak, but her marriage had definitely taken a turn toward the sunny side. She smiled and whispered, “Miami.”

  “You deserve the break.” He stood, too, placing his hand on her back.

  Hannah savored the warmth of his touch as she would a long, sweet embrace.

  Tessa kicked.

  The boys reached the table, finally. After they had stopped along the way to check for a penny on the floor and went back to start at the same spot so they could determine once and for all who could hop on one foot the longest between the game room and the table.

  Payt bent and released the tray on the high chair enough to get Tessa out. He lifted her up.

  She kicked hard, sending droplets of pudding from her shoes plopping on Payt’s pants and Hannah’s arm.

  “And after we get back from our trip, maybe you won’t want to keep up with the column anyway.” He handed the baby to her.

  “Why?” For a half a second she considered carrying her chocolate-covered baby to the car at an arm’s length. Then Tessa laughed and Hannah pulled her close, drawing in the smell of oat cereal and pudding. “After a break most people are ready to get back to their work with a whole new attitude.”

  “Sure, but after you get back from this break, maybe you’ll be too busy.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Jacqui and Cydney are pitching in on the pageant. That should lighten my load. Especially after they blow up the set and sew the costumes into one big circus tent for our performance.”

  “Don’t worry about the pageant. It’ll go great.” He nabbed the box and directed the boys to lead the way out. “Think beyond the pageant to the big picture.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we should try to make the pageant into a big picture. Maybe one of those small, independent films that doesn’t make any money but gets the rave reviews.”

  “Stop kidding, Hannah.” He stepped back to hold the door for everyone to go through ahead of him. “I’m talking about our life. Our family.”

  “I’ll stop kidding if you’ll stop sounding so scary serious.”

  “Serious, yes, but not scary.”

  An unexpected autumn rain must have blown through while they were eating and had drenched the parking lot. They walked together through the scent of damp pavement and rain-filtered air.

  “I’m listening.” Hannah wrestled Tessa into the car seat while the boys scrambled into the back bench of the minivan and buckled up.

  “Hannah, it’s just that we’re not getting any younger.”

  “Hey, you promised no scary stuff.” She sat down and snapped her own seat belt into place.

  Payt climbed into the driver’s seat. He checked the mirror, then nudged Hannah. With a nod of his head he urged her to look into the mirror to catch Hunter trying to fasten a safety belt around the pizza box while Sam lectured Tessa on the importance of always wearing a safety belt.

  She smiled at her husband. “Too cute, huh?”

  “Just cute enough,” he said. “Give you any ideas?”

  “No, but it should give you one—buckle up, Bartlett.” She jerked her thumb toward his shoulder harness. “And stop trying to distract me from the fact that you just said we’re a couple of old coots.”

  “We? Did I say we?”

  “Do they make safety belts for mouths, because I know someone who might like to try one.” She gave him a good-humored glare. “You were saying?”

  “I was saying that aging isn’t scary, sweetheart.”

  “Sure, not for you. You’re a gorgeous physician.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Don’t even pretend with me that you don’t know that aging is easier on attractive men in positions of wealth and/or power.”

  “What power do I have? Because I sure don’t have wealth.”

  “You have me and the kids—we’re priceless.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I’m paying bills.” He gave her a grin and a wink.

  “Anyway, you know what I’m saying. Look at Dr. Briggs. He’s a prime example of a man that knows he doesn’t have to be young or particularly charming to still get his way in life.”

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “Payt, I’m just saying—”

  “I’d have thought you of all people would know better than to rush to judgment about another human being.”

  “Right.” She folded her hands in her lap and focused on the passing landscape of rain-washed buildings.

  “Sorry, I…I shouldn’t have jumped on you. I only wanted to say that aging isn’t inherently frightening. But that I do find the thought of getting older and looking back with regrets scary. To realize that I missed out on things I shouldn’t have because of some unfounded hesitation or distraction because I was too busy with things that didn’t matter in the long run—that’s scary.”

  “You draw a very compelling big picture there, Payt.” She tucked her hair back and waited while the windshield wipers thrashed back and forth a few times before adding, “Maybe a little too big. Kind of like those photos that take a simple object and magnify it until you can’t tell if you’re seeing the surface of Mars or a close-up of an orange peel.”

  “Let me scale it down for you. Scaling down, scaling back—it’s all part of the same argument anyway.”

  Scale down. Scale back. Just hearing the words made her feel better. “Scaling down—you wouldn’t happen to be referring to your suggestions that I quit the column?”

  “Hannah, sometimes you have to pick and choose.”

  “And you’ve suggested that after the break I’ll be too busy for everything I’ve been doing.”

  “Sometimes less is more.”

  “And tossed in a little cowboy philosophy about not looking back with regrets.”

  “Time comes to set your priorities, Hannah.”

  “Why do I have the feeling it’s not my priorities you’re big-picturing here?”

  “Mine, yours, ours—is there really that much difference?”

  “Spit it out, Bartlett. What have you got in mind for us to pick and choose, more or less?”

  He didn’t say a word, just looked up at the rearview mirror and stared at the kids all cozy and safe in the back seat.

  And Hannah knew exactly what he meant.

  “Oh, no. You have got to be kidding.”

  18

  Subject: Countdown to Miami

  To: ItsmeSadie, WeednReap

  Hey, y’all. I should be working on my column, but instead I’m counting down:

  10—number of enormous bags of unpopped popcorn from the warehouse club sitting in my living room

  9—number of times I’ve told Payt I cannot come in and clean the office one more time before we leave for Florida

  8—rewrites done on this week’s column, due in

  7—hours

  6—hours until we leave for the airport

  5—e-mails with attachments, including costume and set design ideas marked “urgent,” sent by the DIY sisters this morning

  4—moms who volunteered to help with the class fund-raising project

  3—bags packed (and repacked) waiting by the door

  2—plane tickets tucked neatly in a zippered compartment in my purse

  1—last straw standing between me and…
>
  “Here, let’s do the baby ones first.” Lauren Faison held up the fabric shell of a soon-to-be-stuffed beanbag frog. “Babies should be easy, don’t you think?”

  “Me? I think babies are…” She blinked in the direction of Tessa’s nursery. The child had kept her up most of the night. Not that she minded since anticipation kept her from sleeping anyway. But this morning when the child’s fussiness hadn’t abated, Hannah didn’t feel quite so accepting. She rubbed her fingers over her tight scalp. “Believe me, babies are anything but easy.”

  “Don’t worry. Your aunt has everything under control.”

  Poor Aunt Phiz. Only back in town an hour, and already pressed into service walking Tessa through the neighborhood so Hannah and Lauren could try to make some progress on their school fund-raising project.

  She lifted up the empty beanbag frog she was supposed to turn right side out. “So, absolutely no way we could just throw together a bake sale?”

  “None.” Lauren grabbed her frog by the feet, gave it a flap and the fabric popped. A little shake. A prod with a pencil for the arms and legs and done. A bullfrog-shaped bag ready for stuffing.

  “Why not?” Hannah tugged this way and that. A foot here, and arm there. A twist. A shout. And…the poor thing looked like one right-side-out plaid frog swallowing one of its inside-out brethren. “Is the school worried about kids with allergies? We could label everything clearly to get around that.”

  Lauren dropped her third expertly turned frog onto a stack. “Hannah, I didn’t want to admit this, but you leave me no choice.”

  Hannah ditched her feetfirst frog behind her back. “What?”

  Lauren batted her gorgeous lashes, shifted her size-six hips then tucked a strand of highlighted golden hair behind her ear. Her diamond stud earring flashed. She cleared her throat. “I am the one who put the kibosh on having a bake sale as a fund-raiser.”

  “Kibosh?” Hannah picked a wayward thread from the tip of her tongue.

  “Nixed. Eighty-sixed. No deal.”

  “I know what it means, but I don’t understand why you feel that way.”

  “Why? Isn’t it obvious?”

  You don’t want to risk me poisoning small children? Listen, Hannah. The woman never said anything like that. Not every statement is a judgment. Get a clear answer before you start assuming the worst.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not obvious to me. Seems like getting together a few dozen cookies and cupcakes would be a lot easier than this.” She dangled her wad-o-frog mess before Lauren’s eyes, dropped it in her lap, then spread her arms to indicate the two dozen forms draped over every surface of her living room.

  “Well, yeah, sure. If we could just ‘get together’ the goods. But a bake sale requires a bit more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Baking, for starters.”

  Hannah nodded, chuckling. “One would think.”

  “And mixing and pouring.”

  “Yep. With you so far.”

  “And preheating and cooling on racks and, well, I shudder to mention…”

  Hannah braced herself. If something made Lauren Faison quake, it might likely send Hannah into convulsions.

  “Frosting.” Lauren winced.

  Convulsions? No. But she did suddenly have the urge to bang her head on the floor in humiliation. “I see.”

  “Oh, don’t take it personally, Hannah. It’s a good idea but it’s just—”

  Don’t take it personally? How could she not? The most together mom in the world, whose son had actually bragged about her homemade goodies, who had literally caught Hannah spreading spackling compound on a children’s cake, had just invoked the F-word—frosting!

  “Besides, these frogs will make more money, and we can store whatever we don’t sell in the garage, unlike most baked goods.”

  Most baked goods. Not yours, Hannah. Yours would be right at home on a workbench, but the rest of ours…

  “I understand.”

  “I knew you would. Not like you have time to bake right now anyway, not with the big trip just looming.”

  “Looming. Good word.”

  “You don’t sound enthused.”

  “Oh, I am. I…am.”

  “But?”

  Hannah picked up another limp froggy and skimmed her fingers along the quarter-inch seam. “Stilton’s your only child, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, I get it.” Lauren slipped orange plaid fabric over itself and deposited another finished frog body onto her growing pile. “Worried about leaving the kids behind, right?”

  “No.” Hannah’s second attempt fell into her lap half-done. “Worried about bringing another one home with us.”

  “Oh, Hannah! Another baby? That’s terrific. Are you?”

  “No. Not yet.” She sighed. “But Payt thinks it’s time we started, um, a family expansion project.”

  “And perhaps you don’t feel ready?”

  Hannah could only nod.

  “Hmm.” Lauren kept at her work. “How old is Tessa?”

  “Right at eight months, but the thing is, it took me almost two years to get pregnant with her. And as my darling husband pointed out at the pizza parlor last night—I’m not getting any younger.”

  Work stopped. Lauren leaned in, placing her chin in one manicured hand, to study Hannah with her eyes narrowed. “Cheese or pepperoni?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just wondering which kind of pizza you dumped in his lap for that remark.”

  Hannah laughed. “Neither. I just sat there, stunned.”

  “By the age thing or the baby thing?”

  “The baby. Definitely the baby.”

  “Don’t you want another one?”

  Didn’t she? Who wouldn’t want another baby?

  Maybe a woman who daily questioned her ability to nurture and raise her current baby.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I think maybe our family feels complete already with Sam and Tessa. But what if Sam’s biological father takes him away? And if Payt wants another child…”

  “You really are up in the air about this baby issue, aren’t you?”

  “Up in the air. Down in the dumps. No wonder I’m afraid that if I don’t find some equilibrium soon, time may leave me high and dry.”

  “Then don’t let it. And don’t be afraid, Hannah—leave it with the Lord and pray, and you’ll find your answers.”

  “Thanks, Lauren.” She smiled, unconvinced the other woman truly understood her dilemma.

  They sat there in silence for a moment, focused on the project.

  Hannah couldn’t help but steal a peek at the other woman’s long, elegant fingers at work, though. Lauren’s rings glittered but never once snagged. She used her long, lovely nails as tools for poking seams into points, but the polish never chipped. How could someone like that comprehend how tender Hannah found the topic of adding to her family? If Lauren Faison wanted another baby, she’d do it without hesitation or mussing her hairdo.

  If she wanted another child. But Lauren didn’t have another child. That meant she had to have faced the questions Hannah now faced and somehow come to a decision. A decision? Being Lauren, she had most likely arrived at the ideal conclusion.

  Hannah had to hear it. She wet her lips and held her project in both hands in her lap. “Lauren, did you…do you ever think about having another child?”

  “Me? No! Time has already run out on that for me.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Well, I was thirty-six when I had Stilton.”

  “Thirty-six? No way. That would make you…”

  “Don’t start counting on your fingers, if you don’t mind. Suffice it to say the baby train has left the station for me, and that’s okay.”

  “You’re at peace with that?”

  “Uh-huh. Stilton’s dad is sixteen years older than me, you know.”

  Hannah had heard as much before she even met Lauren, but she never delved.

  “And I was no sweet young thing wh
en we met. In fact, I’d given up on finding a good, decent, marriage-minded man of faith completely, and thrown myself into my own real-estate business when Elliot came in to sell his house. He’d been widowed for two years, and the youngest child had gone off to college. He wanted to downsize.”

  “So you sold his house?”

  “Actually, I married him and moved into it.” Lauren laughed. “I won’t pretend I didn’t have plans to fill it up with children then. But then Stilton was born with a heart defect.”

  Hannah gasped. “I didn’t know.”

  “Small thing.” She held her thumb and forefinger close together to illustrate. “Huge scare. But it really taught us the blessing of leaving things in God’s hands.”

  “What a story. So you chose not to have more kids because of Stilton’s health?”

  “Hannah, what part of leaving it in God’s hands didn’t you get?” Lauren patted her hand. “It just didn’t happen and that’s that. All things turn out for the good for those who love the Lord, and all.”

  Then your life isn’t one-hundred-percent perfection every minute of every day? You’ve had disappointments and things to overcome, too? She held her tongue, even though it almost killed her not to blurt out her latest revelation for confirmation.

  “Anyway, my husband has three grown children. And two of them even have children, so if I need a baby fix I have the ultimate luxury of spoiling someone I can give back.”

  “You’re like a grandmother?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “I can’t believe it. You look so…” Rested. Pulled together. “Vivacious.”

  “Ooooh, great word. You must be a writer.”

  “Some would argue otherwise.” She could visualize the blue square envelope leaning against her computer monitor even now. “But back to you, how do you do it? How do you do all the things you do for Stilton and look so fresh?”

  “You know that saying—‘it takes a village to raise a child’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there ought to be a new one—it takes a major metropolitan area to maintain a middle-aged lady.”

  They shared a laugh.