Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,16

with that remark, Bartlett. Do I tackle your implication that I do think about myself all the time, or your bald-faced audacity in calling me a liar by saying my opinion is a work of melodramatic fiction?”

“Bald-faced audacity.” He chuckled. “See, you do have a way with words…Bartlett. And for the record, I never said melodramatic fiction or called you a liar. I just think your assertion is a bit…” He tilted his head, his voice trailing off.

“What? Tipsy?”

“No.”

“Lopsided?”

“Ehhh, not exactly.”

“Askew?”

“That one!”

“You’re saying my thinking about your thinking about my thinking is askew? How could you say that?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m not even one hundred percent sure what you said. But, hey, if the askew fits…”

“Do not try to kid your way out of this. I said I don’t think about myself much, and you called that a pile of drama and fiction.”

“Again, I have to defend myself. I didn’t use the word pile. Though you are building it up much bigger than necessary.”

She started to speak, stopped herself, started again and couldn’t get a single intelligible syllable off her tongue.

“Shhh.” He put his finger to her lips. “Let me help you out with this. I said you had a flair for the dramatic and for fiction. You’ve read and studied enough to know that pretty much all fiction boils down to a kind of fact cooked up into something more palatable.”

“I don’t know what worries me more—that you would compare my writing efforts to my cooking or that you are actually making sense to me.” She pressed the heel of her hand to the center of her chest. Deep breath. In. Out. She made herself let go of the worst part of her instant physical reaction to Payt’s seeming accusation. “Go on.”

“Hannah, do you ever listen to yourself? Really listen?”

I try not to listen to myself too much. She discarded her initial response as quickly as it sprang into her head. Instead she chewed at her lower lip, raised one shoulder then let it drop in a halfhearted shrug.

“If you did, do you know what you’d hear? Aside from all the nice, sweet, smart and wonderful things you say—those aside, do you know what you’d hear?”

“I’m almost afraid to answer.”

“Bingo.” He touched the tip of his nose to show she’d gotten his point.

Then why did she feel so utterly confused? “Payt, I can’t—”

“Bingo again! You are on a roll today!”

She prodded the gentle throb that had started in her temple. “I wish I had a roll—all this nonsense talk is making me hungry.”

He laughed. “Listen. You said ‘I’m afraid.’ You said ‘I can’t.’ And if I’d let you go on talking, pretty soon you’d have added, ‘What will people think of me?’ Sounds like someone who spends a lot of time and energy thinking about herself, doesn’t it?”

The dull throbbing intensified. “Do I really come off so self-centered?”

“Not at all.” He slid his hands to the taut muscles between her shoulder blades and began to massage. “Hannah, honey, it’s not that you think about yourself. It’s how you think about yourself. That’s the root of your difficulty. It’s what’s stopping you from just taking this opportunity and running with it.”

The warmth from his hands penetrated her work-weary muscles even as his message sank into her worry-weary heart. “I wish…”

“Don’t waste your time wishing about it, Hannah. Think about it, sure. Pray about it, always. Then do something about it.”

“Really?” Could it all be that simple? “You believe I can do it?”

“I believe you can do anything you set your mind to. You are a woman of extraordinary abilities, Hannah.” He swept his hand up to push her hair aside and dropped a kiss on the back of her neck. “And you’re a mighty fine writer, too.”

She tipped her head back and exhaled slowly. “You are a wise but sometimes wicked man, Payt Bartlett.”

“That’s why you love me.”

“That’s not the only reason why I love you.” She unwound herself from his embrace and scrambled to her feet. Standing over him, she offered her hand to help him up. “But, my oh my, does it sweeten the pot.”

“So, you’re going to forgive Sadie for submitting your letters to the paper.” He didn’t ask. He summed up. Done deal.

“Not in a million years.”

He stood and brushed dog hair from his dark pants. “But she’s your sister.”

“And she, of all people, should know better than to hold me up to the whole town’s scrutiny. All our lives, Daddy embarrassed us at every