Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,61
down and snapped her own seat belt into place.
Payt climbed into the driver’s seat. He checked the mirror, then nudged Hannah. With a nod of his head he urged her to look into the mirror to catch Hunter trying to fasten a safety belt around the pizza box while Sam lectured Tessa on the importance of always wearing a safety belt.
She smiled at her husband. “Too cute, huh?”
“Just cute enough,” he said. “Give you any ideas?”
“No, but it should give you one—buckle up, Bartlett.” She jerked her thumb toward his shoulder harness. “And stop trying to distract me from the fact that you just said we’re a couple of old coots.”
“We? Did I say we?”
“Do they make safety belts for mouths, because I know someone who might like to try one.” She gave him a good-humored glare. “You were saying?”
“I was saying that aging isn’t scary, sweetheart.”
“Sure, not for you. You’re a gorgeous physician.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Don’t even pretend with me that you don’t know that aging is easier on attractive men in positions of wealth and/or power.”
“What power do I have? Because I sure don’t have wealth.”
“You have me and the kids—we’re priceless.”
“I’ll remember that next time I’m paying bills.” He gave her a grin and a wink.
“Anyway, you know what I’m saying. Look at Dr. Briggs. He’s a prime example of a man that knows he doesn’t have to be young or particularly charming to still get his way in life.”
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“Payt, I’m just saying—”
“I’d have thought you of all people would know better than to rush to judgment about another human being.”
“Right.” She folded her hands in her lap and focused on the passing landscape of rain-washed buildings.
“Sorry, I…I shouldn’t have jumped on you. I only wanted to say that aging isn’t inherently frightening. But that I do find the thought of getting older and looking back with regrets scary. To realize that I missed out on things I shouldn’t have because of some unfounded hesitation or distraction because I was too busy with things that didn’t matter in the long run—that’s scary.”
“You draw a very compelling big picture there, Payt.” She tucked her hair back and waited while the windshield wipers thrashed back and forth a few times before adding, “Maybe a little too big. Kind of like those photos that take a simple object and magnify it until you can’t tell if you’re seeing the surface of Mars or a close-up of an orange peel.”
“Let me scale it down for you. Scaling down, scaling back—it’s all part of the same argument anyway.”
Scale down. Scale back. Just hearing the words made her feel better. “Scaling down—you wouldn’t happen to be referring to your suggestions that I quit the column?”
“Hannah, sometimes you have to pick and choose.”
“And you’ve suggested that after the break I’ll be too busy for everything I’ve been doing.”
“Sometimes less is more.”
“And tossed in a little cowboy philosophy about not looking back with regrets.”
“Time comes to set your priorities, Hannah.”
“Why do I have the feeling it’s not my priorities you’re big-picturing here?”
“Mine, yours, ours—is there really that much difference?”
“Spit it out, Bartlett. What have you got in mind for us to pick and choose, more or less?”
He didn’t say a word, just looked up at the rearview mirror and stared at the kids all cozy and safe in the back seat.
And Hannah knew exactly what he meant.
“Oh, no. You have got to be kidding.”
18
Subject: Countdown to Miami
To: ItsmeSadie, WeednReap
Hey, y’all. I should be working on my column, but instead I’m counting down:
10—number of enormous bags of unpopped popcorn from the warehouse club sitting in my living room
9—number of times I’ve told Payt I cannot come in and clean the office one more time before we leave for Florida
8—rewrites done on this week’s column, due in
7—hours
6—hours until we leave for the airport
5—e-mails with attachments, including costume and set design ideas marked “urgent,” sent by the DIY sisters this morning
4—moms who volunteered to help with the class fund-raising project
3—bags packed (and repacked) waiting by the door
2—plane tickets tucked neatly in a zippered compartment in my purse
1—last straw standing between me and…
“Here, let’s do the baby ones first.” Lauren Faison held up the fabric shell of a soon-to-be-stuffed beanbag frog. “Babies should be easy, don’t you think?”
“Me? I think babies are…” She blinked in the direction of Tessa’s nursery. The child had kept her up most of the night. Not that she minded since anticipation kept her from sleeping anyway. But this