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  “Guess we have our answer right there.” Jacqui laughed.

  One beat later Cydney joined in.

  Hannah mustered up a weak chuckle, then cleared her throat. “How can I help you ladies today?”

  “Wrong question,” Jacqui chirped.

  Cydney made a grating “you lose” sound like an annoying game show buzzer.

  If Cydney had more to contribute than obnoxious sound effects, Jacqui didn’t wait for it. “You want to know what you should be asking, Hannah?”

  “I…uh…” Hannah shivered. Not from cold, though it had turned cool and cloudy this October afternoon. “Hold on a second, Jacqui.”

  For good measure, she decided to steel herself against the chill, real or perceived, and wrap herself in Payt’s robe. The metaphorical arms of the man poised to whisk her away from all this.

  Shifting the receiver from her left ear to her right as she fumbled to slide her arms into the wide sleeves, she got it on and crammed the dog toy into the deep pockets.

  There. Ready. Ready as she’d ever be. “Okay, Jacqui, what question should I be asking?”

  “Not ‘What can I do for you?’ Oh, no.”

  “No, no, no, no.” Cydney’s voice took up where Jacqui’s left off. “You should be asking—”

  “I started all this, Cyd.” Jacqui did a quick verbal nudge to push Cydney out of the way and conclude by herself. “What you should be asking, Hannah, is ‘What can you do for me?’”

  Heat rose in Hannah’s cheeks. She tried to speak, but her mind and mouth betrayed her. She stammered for a moment before managing to blurt out a vaguely benign version of what she really wanted to yell into the phone, “I…I…don’t know what I ever could have done to deserve this.”

  “Oh, no, no. You mustn’t think that.” Jacqui showed no sign she picked up on Hannah’s dismay. “You deserve any and everything we can throw at you.”

  “I do?”

  “Of course you do!” Silly. She didn’t say it. But then Jacqui was the kind of person who often said way too much, even on those rare occasions when she had her mouth closed. “Why, we feel so awful about the dreadful way we acted.”

  “Dreadful,” Cydney reiterated. “Just awful.”

  “We have no choice but to do everything in our power to make it up to you.”

  “That’s not true. You have many, many choices.” Missionary work in a tropical island sans telephones. Volunteering to redecorate for the homeless—because they’d be the least traumatized by the effort. Vows of silence. “Many, many choices. And you certainly don’t owe me anything.”

  “Don’t we?” Jacqui asked.

  “No!”

  “We owe you our gratitude, and certainly we owe you our services,” the other sister said.

  “I couldn’t possibly impose.”

  “Impose? No.” Jacqui began and Cydney rushed to finish. “No! We want to do this.”

  “Do what? Exactly?”

  “The Christmas pageant!” they chorused.

  Hannah’s heart sank.

  “Cydney Snowden, volunteer set designer reporting for duty, madam chairperson!”

  “Set designer?” Images of flocks of big-tooth sheep sprang to the forefront of Hannah’s jumbled thoughts.

  “And costume mistress,” Jacqui interjected with determined yet perky forcefulness. “Already have some sketches drawn up, and as soon as I find my sewing machine under all the paint tarps and scraps of wood and those three spare ceiling fans in my guest bedroom, we’ll be in business for sure.”

  “Wow.” Hannah muttered.

  “I knew you’d love it. Didn’t I say she’d love it, Cydney?”

  “Love it. Jacqui’s exact words. We’ll talk more about this later.”

  “Guess I better go start excavating my guest room!”

  She thought they said goodbye. She thought she’d replied in kind, but if pressed about it, Hannah wouldn’t have gone on record regarding anything about that phone call except to say it left her feeling woozy.

  She rubbed her temple as she hung up the phone and wondered aloud, “Maybe Payt can prescribe motion sickness pills to keep everyday life from sending my head spinning.”

  “What?” Sam poked his head around the wall dividing the front room and the kitchen.

  “Oh, it’s just a joke I made to Aunt Phiz once. How long have you stood there listening in?”

  His eyes grew wide. “Uh, n-not long.”

  “Too bad.” She reached out to ruffle his hair. “I hoped maybe you could tell me if I sounded more like a complete fool or just a half-wit.”

  He laughed, his eyes filled with light when he looked up at her. “You’re so funny.”

  Another compliment.

  She put her hand to her chest and met his eager gaze. “I ever tell you that sometimes you just make my day?”

  “No, ma’am.” He blushed the way boys that age do—across the nose and in the hollow of his freckled cheeks.

  If she had thought it wouldn’t send him running to get the dog to lick his face clean, she’d have bent down and given the kid a big old smooch on the forehead. “Well, I should tell you, and more often, too.”

  Grown men who accepted the highest honors given in their most fervent fields of endeavor could not have looked more proud or pleased…or surprised—than this dear, humble, cast-adrift little boy did.

  And to think, a year ago at this time she was still telling her sisters she didn’t think she could ever relate to any little boy, much less a stranger’s child who would need so much. She had almost talked herself out of taking the child at all. But then Payt had promised the life of leisure as a doctor’s stay-at-home wife and that she’d have everything she ever dreamed of.

  On that point he was so right.

  She curved her hand under Sam’s chin. “I love you, Sam. You know that, don’t you?”

  He blinked. His eyes hinted at getting all watery—but only for one fleeting second. Then he squirmed loose, sniffled and scrunched up his nose. “Aw, that love stuff, that’s so girly.”

  He darted down the hall.

  “Is not!” she shouted after him. “I happen to know that Payt loves you, too. And Aunt Phiz. Grandpa Moonie loves you and—”

  “And Jesus,” came back down the darkened hallway that led to his bedroom. “Jesus loves me.”

  “And Jesus,” she said softly. He gets it. Sam understood it was not about a baby in a basket and boys in bathrobes. Jesus loved him.

  She didn’t care if it was all girly—she didn’t feel one bit ashamed when a tear rolled down her cheek.

  No matter what else this roller coaster of a day held in store for Hannah, she felt certain she could deal with it—even without motion-sickness pills. Nothing could spoil the knowledge that for all the things that went awry, that she didn’t seem to have any control over, that she wanted so badly to do and be and always failed, in this one thing, where it mattered most, she had done well.

  “Maybe this is a turning point,” she murmured to Tessa as she passed the baby working a frozen water-filled ring over tiny swollen gums. “In fact, I’m sure it is. Sam, come keep an eye on…on your baby sister…while I go get the mail. Then, if my paycheck from the paper is here, I’m taking the whole family to dinner.”

  A cheap dinner, to be sure. But feeling as she did, it would seem a feast.

  She stepped out the door into the early-fall afternoon filled with hope and expectation.

  And the door slammed shut behind her.

  16

  Hannah Shelnutt Bartlett writes “Nacho Mama’s House” from her home just outside of Cincinnati, where she lives with her husband and two young children. Please feel free to send comments and questions to Hannah via the Wileyville Guardian News.

  —Bio that runs at the bottom of “Nacho Mama’s House” column

  Slam!

  Hannah nearly jumped out of her skin. She clutched her chest and moaned between her teeth. Too bad she hadn’t jumped out of Payt’s bathrobe!


  A bathrobe. An ill-fitting one over her clothes at that, and in the afternoon. It didn’t look good.

  She turned to try the door, knowing what she’d find.

  “Locked.” The action had become second nature to her these days.

  Since Aunt Phiz had struck up a friendship with the woman across the street—nice lady, terrible manners—they had adopted a new adage for getting along with their neighbor. Live and lock up.

  Somehow the woman had gotten the idea that opening a front door and shouting “Knock Knock” was a perfectly acceptable substitute for actually knocking and waiting for her host to ask her in. It didn’t help that in Aunt Phiz’s absence the woman had decided to take Hannah on as a project. So that left Hannah with two situations—she had to get her mail and she had to not draw the attention of anyone who might want to do her good.

  Stealth. That’s what this called for. Or, as Aunt Phiz would say, “Get in, get out, don’t get involved.”

  She could do this. She only had to negotiate the lawn, cross the sidewalk, hop off the curb, whip open the mailbox, get the goods and go.

  Hannah Bartlett, secret agent girl. Except she wasn’t a girl and nothing she did anymore seemed the least bit secret. Just the opposite. What with her roles as Snack Mom, church helper, doctor’s wife and newspaper columnist, her every move had become fodder for scrutiny.

  Just what every person who fears that no one could possibly love them for themselves needs!

  She stepped gingerly onto her wide, protected front porch. The October air kissed her cheeks. Just before it whipped her loose auburn waves into a frenzied mass. She cinched the robe tight and Squirrelly Girl’s dog toy clunked against her stomach.

  She leaned over the white wooden railing to peer down the narrow shady sidewalk. Left. Right. All clear.

  “Better get this over with,” she whispered. One last scan of the lifeless street and she made her move.

  “Hey, neighbor!” The front door of the house across the street thumped shut and a woman in a pale pink jogging suit shot down into her yard, heading straight for Hannah.

  “Oh, hi, Lol…” She stopped herself just short of shouting out what Payt called the woman—Lollie, as in Lollie Mulldoon, Wileyville’s biggest gossip. The nickname didn’t even fit, really. Their bright, energetic neighbor fell more under the heading of aggressively helpful busybody than gossip. Hannah had pointed that out to Payt, who quickly pointed out right back that the only body their Lollie-wannabe continually tried to keep busy was Hannah’s—by feeling compelled to give her suggestions for the column.

  Grrr. She really hated it when he made a point she couldn’t refute with logic or joke her way out of.

  But he was right. The woman considered herself Hannah’s own Nacho Mama muse, and Hannah felt helpless to do anything about it. She had to see the lady every day, after all.

  In fact, she was seeing her right now—only, instead of looking at her, she was staring like a deer in the headlights!

  Wave, she commanded her arm.

  Smile. Her lips obliged her request.

  And, feet? First chance you get—run for it.

  “Hi!” For the life of her, she suddenly couldn’t recall the woman’s real name.

  “Nice day.” Her pristine athletic shoes hit the street and didn’t stop until they’d carried the woman so close, she propped her arm up on Hannah’s mailbox.

  “Uh-huh.” She couldn’t stop grinning. Not when she popped open her mailbox, not when she lunged blindly with one hand in to try to retrieve her mail. Not even when she realized that the mailman had wedged something in there so tight that it wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.

  “How’s the writing coming along?”

  Hannah tried not to sound panicked as she tugged on a large padded envelope. “Oh, you know, like all work, good days and bad.”

  “Work? That’s so sweet that you call it work.”

  Hannah froze, elbow-deep in the mailbox. “It is work.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that as an insult. I just meant…” She looked away a moment.

  Hannah considered propping her foot against the post and using the leverage to extricate the envelope—and herself.

  Too late. The woman whipped her head around like one of those defense attorneys in old movies who lulled witnesses into a false sense of security just before they homed in for the kill. “Well, an itty-bitty newspaper column in your hometown newspaper—it’s more like writing a letter home than creating literature, isn’t it?”

  “Well…” Hannah straightened the robe’s lapels but didn’t argue.

  “And I think that’s just wonderful!”

  She relaxed a bit. “Me, too.”

  “So cozy and homey.” Lollie-lite slipped her hands into the pockets of her jogging jacket. “And so easy.”

  Yeah, you try it. “I’m sure it seems that way.”

  “Practically writes itself, doesn’t it?” She didn’t give Hannah time to answer. Just pulled her hand from her pocket with a flourish and produced a piece of paper. “My sister just told me the cutest story about my nephew. I wrote it down for you. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you sharing it with your readers if you need some inspiration.”

  “Oh, if I ever get stuck.” That was not a lie. She didn’t promise anything. In fact she hadn’t actually formed a proper sentence.

  The neighbor tucked the story into Payt’s robe pocket. She must not have made contact with the baby-drool dog toy, because she never flinched, just enthused, “Fabulous.”

  Backtrack. Confess. She was never, ever going to want to hear, much less use, the precious story about her neighbor’s nephew.

  “But if you don’t need it, don’t worry.”

  Reprieve.

  “I have plenty more stories where that one came from.”

  “Oh. You…uh…you never have read my column, have you?”

  “Oh, no, dear. But I know all about those silly women columns. Look at me, I’m so nutty, my family’s so nutty.” She lifted her hands and waved them around as she spoke.

  “I’ve never called my family nutty.” At least not in the newspaper.

  “Oh, honey, it’s all right. I know you make most of that stuff up. It’s good publicity.”

  “I certainly don’t write to draw attention to myself.” She tugged her husband’s robe closed over her clothes. “I write to communicate real problems of modern motherhood—silliness is not a part of it.”

  “Hannah, please don’t misunderstand. Everyone needs a little silliness from time to time. I’m sure your stories make other mothers your age feel so much better about their lives.”

  Compared to the mess mine’s in? Hannah kept her mouth shut and went in after the envelope. She yanked hard once and out it came, flinging the water and electric bills to the sidewalk along the way.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Serious work.” She shook her hair back, smiled stiffly, then bent to pick up the scattered bills. Silly work? Silly, indeed! I’d like to show her my work so she could understand that I have things to say, like—

  Squawk! The sound from her pocket virtually echoed through the entire neighborhood.

  Hannah went bolt upright. “Dog’s squeak toy…in my pocket…forgot.”

  The lady nodded, slowly, her mouth set in a thin line.

  Hannah took one backward step, waved with the envelopes then ran for the house.

  She jabbed the doorbell and Sam came to her rescue as she stood there mocking her own pridefulness. “I don’t think that’s one bit silly. Oh, no, modern motherhood is serious business.”

  “What?” Sam slid to the floor and picked up his picture-book Bible. He pulled it into his lap even as he poked his leg out to jiggle the laundry basket where Tessa lay worrying the teething ring.

  “It’s not important, Sam.”

  He turned to the page about the visitors who followed the star to the stable.

  “But this is.” She raised the bulky padded packet. “L
ook, I got paid!”

  “Wow, you must make a ton of money!”

  She laughed, her humiliation forgotten. “It’s not all money, kiddo. They save up the reader mail and send it with any other information they want me to have and my check.”

  “You get fan mail?”

  “Oh, no.” Fan mail? Her? The very thought of having fans felt far too self-important. “Reader mail. People write to ask me questions or just to say hello.”

  “Hello?”

  “Remember, my column just runs in my hometown newspaper.”

  “’Cause you grew up all in the same place and everybody knows you.”

  Such a simple statement but the wistful longing in his tone went straight through her. Despite the progress they had made, Sam still carried a vulnerability that she readily recognized.

  She brushed his cheek with her hand. “Why don’t you call one of your soccer buds and see if he wants to go out for pizza with us tonight?”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. The team directory is on my desk. I was entering some e-mail addresses into my computer. You can use the phone in there.”

  She hadn’t finished the last sentence before he’d shot off toward her tiny home office space.

  “Okay, Tessa.” She pulled the baby up into her lap. The child nuzzled close and exhaled, and Hannah could feel some of the tension leave her tiny body. She kissed the bright red hair. “If only all the problems you kids will ever have could be solved by pizza and hugs, sweetie. Now, let’s you and me read these letters.”

  She tore into the package and dumped the contents beside her on the couch.

  “Check.” She held it up. “Hmm, maybe your daddy will pitch in on the pizza.”

  Tessa grabbed for the computer-generated payment.

  Hannah whisked it away, sending a note sailing into her lap. Another reminder from her editor that she really should set up a Nacho Mama Web page.

  “Yeah right. Open myself up to a whole World Wide Web of people happy to point out my failings? No thank you.”

  She stifled a shiver and set the note on the coffee table, then fixed her attention on the envelopes in the pile.

  Five. Not bad. Her first week she’d gotten ten, the record. But some of those were e-mails the paper had kindly printed out for her. Four were old friends catching up. One had been a scolding from her seventh-grade English teacher for playing fast and loose with good old-fashioned grammar. After that it had fallen off to two or three a week, mostly kind comments on this or that, the occasional correction and questions that ranged from wanting information on adopting an ex-racing greyhound like Squirrelly Girl to requests to know “Where do you get those really big cans of cheese?”