Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,55

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. “Look, 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