Free Mom Over Miami by Annie Jones Page A

“Mind if we unload your living room suite first?”
    The furniture? The deliverymen weren’t scheduled to arrive until late this afternoon.
    She tucked the tub of frosting in the crook of her arm and jabbed the spatula into it even as she rounded the corner from the kitchen to the front room. “You aren’t supposed to deliver that until later.”
    “Sorry, lady, but our first two drop-offs weren’t home. If it’s a problem for you, we can put you on the end of the list and get back to you after we do the rest of our load—and the two we missed already. Might be late.”
    “No!” She jerked her hand up, forgetting about the spatula in it, and sent a blob of icing flying across theroom. Without so much as looking in the direction of the glob of white dripping on the fireplace mantel, she gave a cheery wave of the kitchen tool to show her extreme composure. “I mean, no problem. Bring everything on in.”
    “Fine. Where do you want it?”
    She looked around them. “I was thinking maybe in this big empty room here.”
    “Yeah?” He scrunched up his face as if he’d just taken a bite out of a lemon. “Here?”
    “Um, yeah.” She held her arm out to drive home the point. “Here.”
    “Okay, it’s your house, lady. Not my place to judge.” He shrugged, made a mark on the crumpled paper on his clipboard and headed out the door, hollering, “Bring it on inside.”
    “What was that about?” she asked Sam.
    Sam cocked his head and held up his hands.
    “Some people. Huh?” She didn’t really know what she meant by that, but the moment seemed to need something more before she could sigh an “Oh, well” and get things rolling again. “Why don’t you take Squirrelly outside so she won’t be underfoot or try to run out the front door? And while you’re out there, bring that tub of spackling compound Payt has in his work shed.”
    “The powdery stuff?”
    “No. He saved some already-mixed-up compound in a clear plastic container with a blue lid—like we use to store leftovers and things around the kitchen.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “I’ve got to get this cake iced.”
    “With spackling stuff?”
    “No. That’s just in case the movers ding the walls—that way I can fill in any nicks or gouges before Stilton’s mom gets here.”
    His look asked what he’d never voice: What is it with you and Stilton’s mom?
    She felt compelled to offer an explanation even though he hadn’t actually said anything. “You only get one chance to make a first impression.”
    “Mrs. Faison has been here before.”
    “Yes, but that time came off less like an impression and more an indentation.” She grimaced.
    “Huh?”
    She pointed toward the work shed. “Go.”
    In a whirlwind of bored-little-boy energy set loose, Sam grabbed the dog, hit the door and headed outside.
    Hannah plunked the tub of frosting down on the counter and laid the spatula aside.
    How did it go? Plop, then swirl the top, then the sides? Or sides first, top last?
    “Wait.” She held her hands up, suddenly recalling the class she had taken in cake decorating. “I’m forgetting something here.”
    She examined the rectangular cake sitting on a foil-covered piece of heavy cardboard.
    “Let’s see. Top. Sides. Frosting. Spatula.” She ticked off the bits and pieces of the process she knew she had under control. “What else?”
    The back door slammed shut. The pounding of Sam’s shoes thundered through the whole house.
    “Oh, crumbs!”
    The boy pulled up short just six inches shy of hitting the side of the kitchen counter at full force. Tub of spackling compound in both hands, he looked up at her, breathing hard from his run. “Wow!”
    “What?”
    “I never heard you cuss before.”
    “I never…Oh, crumbs!” Hannah laughed. “No, honey, I just remembered I have to brush the crumbs off the cake before I ice it.”
    “Why?”
    “So the crumbs won’t get in the frosting.”
    “Doesn’t it all get mixed-up together