Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,54

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