Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,3
Stilton’s mom was very nice.
That only made Hannah feel all the more inferior to her. Inferior and rotten for her lapses into petty jealousy. “Well, don’t worry about it, Sam. We’ll have furniture in the front room…someday.”
“When the store finds our order, right?”
She smiled. “Right.”
“Because somewhere in a warehouse in Pakquipsee there’s a footstool with our name on it.”
“You sound just like Payt.”
The boy grinned at the comparison to the latest in a long line of father figures he’d known in his young life.
The sight both warmed and wounded Hannah’s heart. “The topping is ready. Go tell the team to come and get it.”
He started off.
“Oh, and put ‘Squirrel’ out, so we don’t have a repeat of last time.” Hannah pulled up a stack of disposable bowls from the towering package she’d gotten at the warehouse club, dropped a handful of greasy corn chips into it and stood there waiting for the onslaught.
A dozen eight-year-old boys stumbled and pushed each other, trying to be first in line, and Hannah knew why.
“Mrs. Bartlett, is this snack homemade?” A black-haired boy with skin the color of dark chocolate took the bowl from her hand. He raised it up until it hid his grin, and just his brown eyes peered over the rim. “Because the snacks are always homemade at my mama’s house.”
She drizzled the melted cheese concoction over the boy’s chips. She knew what he wanted her to say in her distinct central Kentucky accent, but she just didn’t think she had the energy to play the game today. “Hunter, honey, I’m afraid our cheese-making equipment and smooth stones for pounding cornmeal into chips are not unpacked yet, so I couldn’t make any of this at home.”
“But at my mama’s house…”
Hannah raised her head. “Next.”
“Mrs. Bartlett!” The boy shifted from one foot to the other. “At my mama’s house…”
“Mine, too,” the next boy said, cupping the bowl she’d given him in both hands.
“Everything is homemade at my mama’s house, too, Mrs. Bartlett,” Third-in-line chimed in.
They were not going to give up until she gave them what they wanted.
“At my mama’s house…” Hunter started again.
“At my mama’s house, at my mama’s house…” She mimicked the boys with a swagger in her shoulders. Giving them the show she knew they wanted, she plunked her hand on her hip and narrowed one eye. “That may all be well and good, but let me tell you something, boys, this is not your mama’s house—”
“Nacho Mama’s house!” Hunter laughed. “I got her to say it.”
“Yes, you did, Hunter. You got me good.” She poured a thin thread of liquefied cheese onto the next serving of chips and wondered what had happened to her big plans of living the sophisticated and intellectually stimulating life of a lady of leisure?
Hannah looked out over the heads of the boys, and her gaze met Sam’s. That’s what had happened. Sam had happened.
And to a lesser extent Tessa who, even though she wasn’t as demanding as an eight-year-old now, thank the Lord…
As if Tessa had a direct line into Hannah’s thoughts, and had inherited the Shelnutt family knack for usually proving those thoughts wrong, the baby sleeping in the nursery down the hall let out a sudden, toe-curling wail.
“Nacho Mama! Nacho Mama!” The boys who had been served lifted their bowls over their heads and chanted as they snaked their way back to the plastic-protected living room.
Tessa wailed.
Hannah dipped up another serving and then another as fast as she could.
“Nacho Mama! Nacho Mama!” More boys joined the chorus.
Stilton stepped up in line.
Hannah picked up a bowl and flung a few chips into it.
“No, thank you.” Stilton shook his head, one eye squinted at her like he might examine a bug before he decided whether to squash it or set it free. “I’m lactose intolerant.”
Cheese boy, lactose intolerant? Hannah didn’t know whether to smile at the notion or marvel at the boy’s maturity. “Can I get you something else then, Stilton?”
“No, thank you.” After a moment of studying her, he leaned in, tilted his head and whispered, “Do you need some help, Mrs. Bartlett?”
She had a cranky baby down the hall, a mixing bowl of blistering hot cheese stuff that she dared not leave unattended in her kitchen, and a soccer team dancing the Nacho Mama mambo in her living room. And the kid wanted to know if she needed help?
Stilton’s mom would not need help. She’d handle the boys, the baby, the bedlam and probably bake a homemade Bundtcake to boot! Hannah,