Mom Over Miami Part 3

Up to a point.

Hannah, at least, liked it in theory. And in the way it made her feel safe and not cast adrift in the unknown territory of her new life. And that it made the world a cozier place to raise her children, but...

But they'd moved to Ohio hoping to escape some of the very things close proximity to everyone provided. She hated thinking that the people across the street might call out to her some Monday morning, "Hey, we didn't see you in church yesterday, is someone sick? Should I bring over a ca.s.serole?"

She could do without that, thank you very much. Well, except for the ca.s.serole. That That she-and those fated to eat her cooking-might actually appreciate. she-and those fated to eat her cooking-might actually appreciate.

But the idea of living so totally exposed and available? Hannah s.h.i.+vered. Would it mean that any given evening, as she snuggled up to her hubby on the couch in the few moments of private time they managed to s.n.a.t.c.h out of the day, a knock could come at the door and the head of the PTA could be standing there with a box of envelopes that needed stuffing? "Hi. No one showed up for my committee this afternoon, but I saw your lights on and knew you wouldn't mind contributing a little of your time."

Her s.h.i.+ver transformed into a shudder.

"Honestly, Sam, honey, I didn't wake you up because I can't go anywhere around here without running into someone I know." That meant she always left the house primped, pressed, armed with a repertoire of small talk. And ready with a list of polite and reasonable excuses for not being able to stop and indulge in any talking-small or otherwise. "I never set foot outside this house without looking fresh and fabulous. Even if I just need to run out for a case of tomato juice to de-skunk the dog."

Hannah lifted the leash, and the dog responded by spinning around and sending the odor wafting out in all directions.

"Ugh." Sam wrinkled up his nose.

Hannah spun counter to the dog to keep the poor thing from making things worse by adding getting tangled in her own leash to an already-trying morning. In doing that, Hannah caught a glimpse of herself in the sliding-gla.s.s door. "Make that a double ugh."

She yanked first at one, then the other, of short, frayed braids sticking out from either side of her head, trying to even them out a bit. It didn't help. "Guess you can see why I couldn't just roust you and Tessa out of bed and go along with Payt, not with me looking like Pippi Longstocking on a bad hair day."

"Pippi who? who?"

"Never mind. The important thing is-"

"The important thing is that we're the best hiders in the whole neighborhood?" Sam beamed up at her.

"Hider?" Her pulse did a quick jig. "Sam, I'm not trying to hide from anyone." Well, not exactly exactly. "It's more a case of..."

He tipped his head up, his mouth open and his nose still pinched closed.

How could she explain to that sweet face that she sometimes felt so insecure about herself that she'd let people talk her into doing way more than she should ever even attempt? She couldn't-not without planting a seed in his mind that she only agreed to take him into her home out of guilt, and the driving desire to please people and show everyone how much she was needed. Of course, at eight he wouldn't have the sophistication to put it in that framework. But being a kid in the foster system, he'd pick up on the nuances on a gut level.

Hannah knew. She'd grown up as that kid from the less-than-normal household. She understood how a child might take a seemingly innocent remark and bury it in his or her heart. Where no one would know it lay hidden. But the child would know. The child would keep those words deep inside for always, and they might affect how that child grew up-who that child eventually became.

The very story of her own life had begun with her mother abandoning their family. In telling about it, her father always added, "And with Hannah just three weeks home from the hospital."

Growing up with that ingrained in her makeup, what could any human being ever say or do to make her feel truly loved and wanted?

They would try, of course. And on an intellectual level, she accepted their a.s.sertions. On the surface of things, she'd moved along with cool ease and confidence because up there-on that surface-she realized that everything in her life looked pretty great.

To whine or complain about pretty much anything would seem shallow and petty. And since she lived her life always trying to make sure she never gave anyone any more reasons to reject her, shallowness and pettiness were qualities she could not afford. So she'd put her best foot forward. Her best shoes, best clothes, best hair and-always, always, always-best smile. Since it was all she knew she could rely on, she kept a tight rein on that that tidy veneer. tidy veneer.

But deep down, hidden in the dark pockets of her soul, she'd always carried a very real fear.

If her own mother didn't want her, then who could?

And because she was a flawed being, she would find plenty of reasons why no one would choose her as a daughter, sister, friend, wife or mother. So she would-perhaps without always realizing she was doing it-go for the next best thing.

Maybe people couldn't fully love her, but if she worked hard enough, if she acted sweet enough, if she gave and gave and gave and did not ask for much in return, then maybe people would at least begin to need need her. her.

If Hannah was anything, she was needed. So much so that she couldn't do something as simple as take the family out of the skunk-scented house long enough for a morning run to the grocery store for fear someone would nab her for a favor. Or worse, see her shortcomings and decide she wasn't needed at all.

But how could she explain all that complex stuff, much of which she had barely worked out herself, to a child that she wanted more than anything to protect from those very demons?

"Okay. I'm hiding. But just a little bit." She held her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart and peered at him through the opening. "You see, there are these two sisters. You remember them. The ones that have their own interior design business and told you they'd like to decorate your room for you as a welcome present?"

"The ones that smell like paint and flap their hands when they talk?"

"Uh-huh."

"And they talk all all the time?" the time?"

"That would be them." She shut her eyes a moment. Maybe now Sam would cut her some slack about not wanting to go out this morning and risk seeing them. "Anyway, these ladies-they want me to volunteer at church..."

"Church?" He raised his eyebrows and finally let go of his nose. "You're hiding from church ladies?"

"Well..." She held her thumb and forefinger up again to ill.u.s.trate the minuteness of her sin. Then quickly she moved all her fingers in counterpoint to her thumb, the universal sign for someone yakking her head off, just to remind Sam of who it was she was avoiding.

"B-but-" he shook his head "-you can't hide from G.o.d."

"No! No, I wouldn't. That is, I never intended to..." Or had she? For weeks now she'd dodged the two women that everyone called the DIY sisters and their repeated attempts to enlist her help. "But I just don't see how I could take on any more responsibilities."

"Not even for G.o.d?"

"It isn't exactly for G.o.d, Sam. It's for the nursery."

He folded his arms, his head bobbling with eight-year-old att.i.tude. "At church church."

Oh, he was go...o...o...d.

Sighing, Hannah ruffled her fingers through her hair until a stray red strand fell over her forehead. She gritted her teeth and forced out a sigh. "Fine. If G.o.d asks, then okay. I'm Mrs. Available."

Not too risky of a promise seeing as they were ensconced safely at home this morning.

"In the meantime, let's take Squirrel outside and let her air out a bit."

"Yeah. Let's get out of here." He dashed toward the back door.

"No, Sam! Better take her out front-if we let her out back, she'll just roll in the scent again."

"She's not very smart, is she?" He made a quick detour and launched himself ahead of Hannah and the dog.

"Well, as my Daddy used to say, 'If brains were baking powder, that poor thing wouldn't have enough to bake herself a biscuit.'"

"I like your daddy. He makes me laugh." Sam yanked the door inward.

"Oh, yeah, my daddy is more fun than a barrel of-"

"Church ladies!" Sam grinned up at the two women standing framed in Hannah's front door.

"Oh, Hannah! You're home!" Cydney Snowden, the more...retiring-if you could call wearing handmade clothing covered with your own artwork and plastic jewels retiring-of the pair of sisters threw her hands up.

"We saw your car leaving as we turned the corner and thought you'd be gone." Jacqui Lafferty, definitely the dominant diva, c.o.c.ked her head and narrowed just one eye, sizing Hannah up.

Cydney pushed forward, a sour-apple-green piece of paper in her hand. "So we've been sitting in your drive trying to fit everything we have to say onto one of our business cards!"

Hannah took the card and glanced at the front of it. "The DIY-Namic Duo. Isn't that...cute?"

She did not flip the card over to read the message telling her what they had wanted. Hannah knew what they wanted.

And she had just promised Sam that she'd give it to them.

CHAPTER 4

Subject: What have I done?

To: ItsmeSadie

Hi, Sadie-

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Simple, huh? The Golden Rule. Something we should all aspire to, right?

I thought so myself until it happened to me. Yes, I've been done unto-by a pair of first-cla.s.s do-it-yourselfers. Literally. They call themselves the DIY sisters and they are a handful. Two handfuls? I don't know. What I do know is that Jacqui Lafferty and Cydney Snowden have enough energy to tackle anything-and anyone! And there I was Sat.u.r.day morning, standing in the proverbial end zone, with nothing more substantial to protect me than my fuzzy slippers and my desire to set a good example for Sam.

"Oh, no," they said, rus.h.i.+ng into my house-did I tell you we still don't have any furniture and the house smells like we're stewing skunk in tomato soup? Anyway, they worm their way into my house, a.s.suring me they only want me to pitch in as I can. "We wouldn't dream of asking you to take on the whole nursery program yourself. We haven't had an official program director in over a year and we've done all right."

Picture, if you will, a sad, big-eyed puppy saying this-one with flecks of paint in her perky blond hair standing next to an even bigger-eyed puppy wearing a slightly askew vest that she quilted with her own two hands.

They were so sweet. So earnest. So undemanding.

That's how they get you.

Confused? Welcome to my world!

The upshot of it all is that I have stepped forward-pushed, actually, but in such a nice way I couldn't decline-and volunteered to take on running the church nursery program.

There are a few little "issues" of concern. Jacqui made little quote marks in the air as she told me this to clue me in that these "issues" are neither little nor are there only a few. Apparently the Sunday school teachers and those who help out during the services have been, um, pulling rank on the lowly nursery workers. So in hopes of reminding everyone that we are all doing the Lord's work, I made us this sign to post.

In many ways we feed the flock,They also serve who sit and rock.

Cute? Too cute? Cowardly? Maybe I should adapt it and do a drawing of myself as a big chicken-they also serve who sit and cluck!

Your fine-feathered sister "You are so cute." Payton strolled into the almost-bare nursery with a stack of mail under his arm.

"No. You You are," Hannah insisted, looking up at her darling hubby with his close-cropped sandy hair, white s.h.i.+rt and black tie, slightly askew. Yum. Even after all these years of marriage, he still sent a thrill through her. She wriggled in the tiny red plastic chair pushed against the low, round table she'd dragged from the bas.e.m.e.nt to the shabby room she planned to use for the toddlers. "What'cha got there?" are," Hannah insisted, looking up at her darling hubby with his close-cropped sandy hair, white s.h.i.+rt and black tie, slightly askew. Yum. Even after all these years of marriage, he still sent a thrill through her. She wriggled in the tiny red plastic chair pushed against the low, round table she'd dragged from the bas.e.m.e.nt to the shabby room she planned to use for the toddlers. "What'cha got there?"

"Oh, just some mail forwarded to my office."

"Didn't you fill out those postal forms to give them our new home address yet?"

"I'm right on top of it." He plopped down some envelopes and last week's copy of the Wileyville Guardian News Wileyville Guardian News then gave her a wink. then gave her a wink.

She sighed and shook her head. "Do you want me to-"

"That'd be great." He hitched up his pants and made a point of giving their surroundings the once-over. "Look at this place. You've only been here a couple hours, and you've got it all whipped into shape."

"I've been here four four hours, and feel like I've been whipped." hours, and feel like I've been whipped."

When she'd arrived this morning, she found the room connected to the baby nursery stuffed to overflowing with moldering file boxes, half-empty paint cans and a tower of carpet samples from the seventies. After a morning of lifting and lugging and heaving and hauling, it finally bore some resemblance to a workable playroom for the post-potty-training set. Most women would celebrate that small accomplishment with pride and be done with it.

"I'm starting to make some headway," she conceded. "But it's going to take at least another weekend's work before I can put kids in here in good conscience."

"Looks fine to me."

"Yes, but you're hardly an expert, are you?"

"Yeah, all those years in the study of pediatrics, what could I possibly have picked up?" He laughed.

"I just want everything to be..."

"Perfect."

She pursed her lips.

"Perfection is G.o.d's department, honey. No matter how hard you try or how badly you want it, you are not going to muscle in on His territory. We grubby little humans just do the best we can. And you have. You have worked a minor miracle here today."

"Miracle? That's a bit strong. But thank you." She let her palm glide over the cool, slick surface of the table that brushed against her knee.

"You really are something," he murmured.

"No, you are are." And she meant that.

Payt Bartlett was average looking, not a cla.s.sically handsome man, though by all rights he should have been. In fact, if pressed for a word to describe his particular kind of attractiveness, handsome handsome was the word most people used, but always with a decided hesitation. was the word most people used, but always with a decided hesitation.

He was born into small-town Southern aristocracy, the youngest son of a monied family. Deal makers every last son and daughter-except Payt. People expected him to be handsome-and charming-and successful in all he put his hand to. That was the expectation. The reality?