Authors: Annie Jones
Mom Over Miami
“Jones beautifully conveys a range of emotions, from the depth of despair to the pinnacle of joy…readers will nod their heads with empathy toward characters who seem like real people. Throughout the novel, compassion and family bonds bring hope, and God’s love is shown to shine through even the darkest of circumstances.”
—
Romantic Times
“Annie Jones writes about characters we all know and—despite their quirks—love. Sadie Pickett is an endearing character whose foibles and charms will leave you smiling as you think,
Yes, life is just like that.
Carry on, Sadie, and thanks for inviting us along for the ride!”
—Angela Hunt, author of
The Immortal
“
Sadie-in-Waiting
is great mom lit…those with teenagers and aging parents will quickly relate to Sadie and her problems.”
—
A Romance Review
“Sadie-in-Waiting
is full of funny one-liners and sayings that will have you laughing…. Overworked mothers of teenagers and daughters of aging parents will see themselves in Sadie. More mom lit than traditional romance,
Sadie-in-Waiting
is an enjoyable read for a cold winter evening.”
—
Romancejunkies.com
“Annie Jones…a top-notch creator of love and laughter.”
—
Romantic Times
“Annie Jones writes with a heart, humor and soul that holds the reader hostage till the last page. Don’t miss Annie’s newest!”
—Linda Windsor, Christy Award-winning author
“Annie Jones never fails to draw in readers with delightful characters, snappy dialogue, humor, emotion and a story that lives in your heart long after the last page is turned.”
—Diane Noble, award-winning author of
The Last Storyteller
“Annie Jones has a proven ability to bring to life characters with whom we can identify, and whose trials and triumphs become our own.”
—Hannah Alexander, bestselling author of
Last Resort
“With her unique blend of humor, poignancy and perceptive insight into human nature, Annie Jones gives her readers a book to treasure.”
—Sharon Gillenwater, bestselling author of
Twice Blessed
Mom Over Miami
No book ever made it from the author’s hands to the reader’s without the hard work, dedication and talent of many, many people.
I would like to thank some of those who helped
Mom Over Miami
make that journey.
To the Princesses of Quite A Lot Prayer Group, Lynn, Sharon and Diane. Each year and each new book I owe you more and more. Thank you for being my safety net.
To my agent, Karen Solem, for believing I could write “big” books and then helping me to make that happen.
To my children and all the years of research they provided so I could write authentically about a stressed-out mom.
To my husband, Bob, who took over driving duties when I was behind in the book, behind in the laundry and just couldn’t climb back behind the wheel and trek to school and beyond one more time. The little ways you show support have always meant so much.
To Anna Cory-Watson for her patience e-mailing info back and forth and answering my questions.
And to Joan Marlow Golan, who has believed in the stories of Solomon’s daughters and who planted the seed of Hannah’s story with a great suggestion, and with her encouragement helped it grow.
Thank you.
1) Hannah notes that in modern American motherhood not all the competition is limited to the soccer field. If you are a mother, have you ever felt a sense that you were competing with other mothers? How did you handle it? In what ways can we, as women, become more supportive of, and less competitive with, each other?
2) Hannah often found herself at odds with the people who thought they were helping but in truth created more work for her. Eventually, by being honest with them and by seeing them as people who had their own issues and emotions not unlike hers, she found a new appreciation of them. Do you have people like this in your life? How do you handle them?
3) Hannah uses e-mail to keep in touch with her family and as a link to her work. Do you think the Internet has helped you to form closer bonds? How so?
4) For at least the first two-thirds of the book, Payt was cute but clueless. He eventually came around, at least to some degree. Was that realistic? Do you think men are fairly and realistically portrayed in women’s fiction? Should they be more or less realistically shown?
5) Hannah made a journey from someone who followed the verse she had been raised on (from Daniel 10:19—“Peace. Be strong.”) to 1 Samuel 2:3 (“Do not keep talking so proudly or let your mouth speak such arrogance, for the LORD is a God who knows, and by Him deeds are weighed.”). Do you find you draw strength from different verses of the Bible at one stage of your life, then grow into others? Do you have a chosen verse that you rely on in troubling times? What is it and how does it help you?
6) All the characters in
Mom Over Miami
are people who rely on faith to help them make decisions. Can you see that faith at work in the decisions of Hannah? Aunt Phiz? The DIY Sisters? Payt?
7) As a writer, Hannah receives a critical letter that confirms her worst feelings and fears about herself. Have you had times when others made you feel this way with the nature of their criticism? How did you deal with it?
8) Hannah resorts to a drastic but harmless measure to get the attention of her husband and family. Do you think most moms have had moments like this? Do you think it’s appropriate for a mom to sometimes shake things up in order to let the family know they are taking her for granted? If you are a mother now, did becoming a mom change the way you looked at your own mother?
9) If you could run away from home today, where would you go? How do you think your family would react? What do you think you might gain from such an experience?
10) Does considering the actions of fictional characters help people gain a new understanding of themselves and others? In what ways do you think fiction can help people in their daily lives?
Subject: Hannah’s online at last!
To: ItsmeSadie, WeednReap
CC: SShelnutt, Phizziedigs
Hey, sisters (and Dad and Aunt Phiz)—
I finally got my computer up and running at the new house and couldn’t wait to share some news and musings.
Musings first. Remember how, starting back when I was five or six, every time Aunt Phiz got ready to leave after one of her visits I used to ask her to “pack me up and fly me away”? Well, I’m way too big to fit into any suitcase now, but I have to confess, y’all, some days around here, I sure do feel that powerful pull to just up and fly away!
I won’t, of course. Not diligent, dependable old Hannah.
Not the woman who spent six years at various and sundry jobs to be the sole financial support of the Make Payton Bartlett a Pediatrician Fund.
Or the girl who invested three years of her life in college, majoring in journalism when clearly she never had it in her to realize that ambition.
Not me, who has given my all to countless well-intentioned, if hardly fruitful, home-extension classes in small-town haute cuisine, low-carb cookery and cake decorating for fun and profit. The last of which left me broken and blue—literally blue—from an ill-advised attempt to do an undersea landscape in frosting and food coloring.
I’m not going anywhere.
But tell me, after all that, what does it say about me that the thing that has finally made me “cool” among my foster son’s pals is my ability to portion corn chips out of a warehouse-club monster bag, then drown said chips in pasteurized melted cheese product?
I’ll tell you what it says. It says welcome to Nacho Mama’s house.
Should have seen it coming when I got nominated as Snack Mom for Sam’s soccer team. Moral: If a woman—wearing jewelry and cologne in the middle of the day, too-cute-to-walk-the-dog-in shoes, with a hairstyle that takes more than thirty-five seconds to
maintain—offers you a large glass of iced tea at a team organizational meeting…run away. It’s a trap.
S
nack Mom.
It had all sounded so harmless at that first team meeting when Hannah had returned to the applause of the other moms who had managed to nominate, second, vote for and unanimously elect her while she had made a mad, iced-tea-induced dash to the ladies’ room. All she’d have to do was buy in bulk and show up, right?
Ah. How young and foolish she’d been three weeks ago. That was before she’d learned that in the cutthroat arena of middle-class American child rearing, not all the competition remained on the soccer field.
School. Car pools. Extracurricular activities. Even church. All were littered with potential land mines of mommy-one-upmanship. And Hannah had stepped—no, been
thrown,
really—into the very center of it all.
Hannah Bartlett believed that Loveland, Ohio, was the friendliest town on the face of the earth. And living there was going to be the death of her.
Okay,
death
might be a bit strong.
But as she stood in the barely broken-in kitchen of her darling new house on this dank late-July afternoon, while a dozen eight-year-old boys who’d been rained out of soccer practice—again—played “quietly” in her unfurnished living room, the term “suffocating”
did
keep popping into her mind.
She would probably survive the experience of living in
the upscale-ish subdivision of this charming, convivial, quaint Ohio town. Perhaps she’d even grow stronger because of it. If she wasn’t killed with kindness first.
Or smothered under the weight of her own powerlessness to tell nice people no.
Or stifled by her need to please and show everyone—i.e., her husband, and cutie pie extraordinaire, Dr. Payton Bartlett, M.D.; her older sisters, who still treated her like an inept, gullible child; and her much-adored daddy—that she could handle anything life threw at her.
Yes,
anything
. Even volunteering at her small—“small on the attendance rolls, large in the eyes of the Lord,” as her new minister liked to admonish—church. And even learning the ropes of foster parenting Payt’s eight-year-old distant cousin while mastering first-time motherhood at the age of thirty-six. Luckily, at six months, her daughter, Tessa, impressed easily. A game of peekaboo and a lullaby and the girl was eating out of Hannah’s hand…well, or thereabouts.
And Sam, Hannah’s foster son…
“You don’t know anything.” Sam bumped shoulders with the kid sitting next to him.
“Do so.” The boy leapt up to tower over Sam.
Hannah held her breath.
“Nuh-uh,” Sam shot back, his expression the sole province of prepubescent boys—something between a teenager’s I-know-everything sneer and a kindergartner’s you-are-a-big-dummy-head-and-I-don’t-have-to-listen-to-you face.
Sam’s combatant hunched his slender shoulders, obviously working up to a scathing, witty comeback. “Uh-huh,” he said.
Hannah rolled her eyes and tried not to laugh.
Sam wrinkled his nose. His lips twitched.
“Hey, uh…” Hannah hated to single Sam out by only calling for him to knock it off without at least saying something to the other boy. Kyle, Hannah thought the kid’s name was…or Cody. Colby? She glanced down at the enormous can of “American cheese food product” in her hands and a faint light flickered in the very back shelf of her memory. Cheddar? Gorgonzola?
Okay, neither of those were kids’ names…probably. But since most of the adult conversations she’d had in the past week had taken place primarily in her head, she wasn’t going to feel guilty about a few cheesy thoughts. She sighed, shoved the can under the blade of the electric can opener and opted for distraction over inconsequential discipline.
“Hey, Sam?” She kept her tone light. “Will you come help me a minute, please?”
He shot the other boy—whose name might be…Monterey Jack?—one last warning glance, then hurried around the half wall that divided the two rooms.
The can opener whirred under her hand for a good thirty seconds before clunking to a jarring stop.
Sam’s rival melded into the knot of arms and legs and striped blue-and-white shirts with numbers on the back.
Hannah wrestled the can away from the opener.
“What can I do?” Sam leaned both elbows on the gleaming black granite countertop, though he had to stand on tiptoe to do it.
She stared at the big dent that had stopped the whirring blade cold. “Got any ideas for getting cheese out of a half-opened can?”
“If you melted it first, you could just pour it out.”
“Great idea,” she said, and was rewarded by a light in Sam’s eyes that wasn’t there as often as it should be. “Except…” She tapped one finger against the metal side.
“Oh.”
“It won’t microwave.”
“And you don’t know how to cook the regular way.”
“Do so.” Hey, eight-year-olds didn’t own the patent on the brilliant retort.
“Yeah, but in the time it would take you to figure out how to melt that stuff inside the can…” He leaned back and looked at the dozen boys decked out in brand-spanking-new soccer regalia.
“The dog likes me best,” one called.
Another elbowed his way to the front of the heap, vying for the attention of the family dog, a rescued racing greyhound with the affectionate and all-too-apt nickname Squirrelly Girl. “Only because you put your snack on the floor and she ate it.”
“I’m going to put my snack on my head this time.”
“I’m starving. I’m going to put my snack right in my stomach!”
“I see what you mean. If we don’t feed them soon, it
may turn out like…” Hannah started to mention the grizzly story of that soccer team in the mountains turning to cannibalism, but caught herself in time. A reference to the novel
Lord of the Flies
also sprang to mind, followed by a flashback of her first PTA meeting. She shut her eyes and reminded herself to think like an eight-year-old boy now and use his frame of reference. “It might turn out like one of those reality TV survival shows.”
“I know who I’d vote off first,” Sam muttered.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that.” She held the can up and peered through the jagged slit already cut around the rim. “If only we could pry that back just enough to—”
“I got it!” Sam yanked open the junk drawer. He rummaged a moment and pulled out a huge screwdriver. Sam waved it around like he’d freed the sword Excalibur. “Old trusty!”
“Old trusty.” Hannah smiled weakly at the offer. She had used that screwdriver to fish a pot holder out from behind the refrigerator. Before that, she’d used it to stab holes into the plastic covering of a microwavable lasagna. Before that, she’d even used the heavy wooden end of it to pound nails for hanging a picture.
“You got a better idea?”
“Fresh out.” She sighed and took the tool from his hand. A lock of dark auburn hair fell over her eyes, which she ignored. She stuck out her tongue and pried the lid from the can with a screwdriver. At least none of the other mothers—the polished, poised, professional women who
had caught her on a good day and immediately accepted her into their ranks—could see her now.
“There!” At last she scooped up an enormous mound of gelatinous cheeselike substance out of the can. It made a strangely satisfying
splat
landing in the big spouted mixing bowl she’d set out for the job. The aroma—and she was interpreting that term in the loosest possible sense here—filled the room. She popped the glop into the microwave.
Bleep-blip-beep-boop-boop.
Sam looked up at her, his mouth open as if awestruck by her astounding number-punching panache.
It was complex and crazy and corny as all get-out, but at that moment Hannah’s whole being swelled with pride.
When her husband had broached the idea of providing a temporary home for Sam, Hannah had balked. The boy had been passed from family member to family member, his father denying any of them the chance of offering a permanent home through adoption. It sounded like a setup for heartbreak.
Sure, she’d wanted almost desperately to become a mother and, having “lost” her own mom as an infant, felt an instant affinity to any motherless child. But she knew nothing about little boys. The very thought of Sam had filled her with dread…and then she’d laid eyes on him.
Small for his age and scared, clutching a beat-up backpack in both hands, he’d arrived with a set of plastic airline wings on his shirt and a quiver in his lower lip. Suddenly she couldn’t imagine her life without him in it.
She hoped someday he would grow to trust, perhaps even love, her—if not as a mom then as a friend. It meant everything to her.
She brushed the fringe of brown hair out of his huge dark eyes and said, “It won’t be much longer before it’s ready. Do you want to call the boys in here now?”
He glanced over his shoulder to the living room with the plastic sheeting still covering the just-installed taupe-colored carpet.
Sam stubbed the toe of one shoe against the kickboard of the cabinet.
“Sam? I heard you talking to—”
Kraft? Velveeta?
“—your friend. Is there a problem?”
“Not really.” He twisted his body around as if to head off to the next room, then dragged his foot, literally, to keep himself from making the short trip. “I just wondered….”
“What, Sam? If there’s something bothering you, just let it out. I want you to feel like you can ask me anything.”
He turned and fixed his anxious gaze right on her. “Are we poor?”
“What?” She flashed back to try to recall if she and Payt had argued about money recently and if the child could have overheard. But since their move to Ohio, where Payton came onboard with an established pediatrics practice, money had not been an issue.
Well, not one worth bickering about, anyway. In fact, for the first time in their marriage, Hannah had had the financial freedom to be a full-time stay-at-home mom. Of course, up until having her baby and bringing Sam into
the fold she hadn’t been
any
kind of mom, but the point still held.
“Honey, God has blessed us. Blessed us with health and a nice home and each other.” She wanted to pull him into a hug but, mindful of the other boys, settled for giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Even if we didn’t have a lot of money in the bank, ‘poor’ is not a word we would ever use to describe ourselves under any circumstances.”
He nodded, but his lips twitched as though he wanted to say more.
“You want to tell me where you got an idea like that?”
He scratched the tip of his nose. “Stilton’s mom.”
“Stilton’s mom?”
Stilton!
Of course! She stole a quick peek into the other room at the gangly boy who now had both arms wrapped around the greyhound’s graceful neck. “
That’s
Stilton?”
Hearing his name, the boy looked up and blinked at her from behind faux tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses.
She smiled and gave a stiff, awkward wave to the child. “Hi, Stilton. I really got a lot out of talking to your mom at the meeting the other day.”
“Uh, okay.” He nodded, then fixed his attention on the dog again, stroking the silky white spot on the animal’s broad chest.
“Hmm.” Hannah shook her head. Somehow she’d expected Stilton to be…different. Gorgeous and gifted. Maybe even slightly glowing. At least that’s what she had envisioned based on his mother’s descriptions of him at the parents’ meetings.
If Hannah were a superhero in the cartoon comic strip of her life, her archnemesis would be represented by one faux-tanned, French-manicured, fabulously coiffed package of plastic-surgeon’s-trophy-wife perfection—Stilton’s mom. The woman was…
“Stilton said she told him not to tease me about our not having any living room furniture because maybe we’re house poor, and if we are or not, it’s none of his business so don’t go pointing it out.”
Actually, 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.”