“You’re not eating your pizza.” Payt pushed the stark white plate toward her. “Your idea, you know, to come here and celebrate your big payday.”

“Celebrate?” She lifted the crust and let it drop. “I don’t feel like celebrating anything anymore.”

“Over a letter? One lousy, almost unreadable letter?”

“I could read it.” Every word.

He reached across the table to help himself to her slice. “Yeah, well, I wish you hadn’t.”

“Me, too.” She spoke in a small voice. It fit. She felt small. Insignificant.

“Ask ’em. Ask ’em.” The boys returned from the game room. The friend Sam had asked along for pizza nudged him in the shoulder. “Go on, ask.”

Payt leaned close to Sam. “I think your friend…Stilton?”

“Hunter,” Hannah hurried to correct, giving the boys a what-can-you-do?-the-man-never-listens eye roll for good measure. “I can’t believe you got that wrong.”

She couldn’t. Not after she had rattled on and on gushing her gratitude that Sam had picked Hunter over Stilton. About how she felt crummy enough this evening without the offspring of the world’s greatest mom sitting at the table telling her his mom made pizza at home, without cheese on account of his lactose intolerance.

“Bet she brews her own root beer, too,” Hannah muttered.

“Hmm?” Payt’s brow crimped downward.

“Nothing. I was just…” Acting petty. Normal. Small and petty. “It was nothing. I think Hunter wants to ask us something.”

Sam held his hands up in the universal language of kids that says “Don’t ask me why” as he said, “He wants to hear your talk.”

“My talk?” Payt frowned, a big phony, perplexedlike frown. He really hammed it up. Scratching his head and pulling on his ear like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Would you like to attend a lecture on pediatric endocrinology, young man?”

The dark-haired child about to explode into a shower of giggles at the end of the table let out a long, loud “No-o-o-o.”

“Well, maybe I misunderstood you then. You say you want to hear my sock?” He raised his leg and tugged at the red socks he wore to work to amuse the children. “People have told me they were loud, but I don’t think you can actually hear them.”

“No-o-o-o,” Hunter managed to eke out between giggles.

Giggles. Not little, sweet, endearing ones, either. But great trying-to-hold-it-back eight-year-old-boy gulping giggles, like when one accuses the other of unleashing…an obnoxious odor.

Sam joined in.

Payt shook his head.

Hannah clued him in. “He wants to hear our accents.”

“Accent?” Only Payt pronounced it more like aixssent. He proceeded to lay on the hokum extra thick, proclaiming, “We ain’t got no accent. Y’all the ones got the accents.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re the one with the accent.” Hunter pointed at Payt while the boy shifted from foot to foot. “You and Mrs. Bartlett. She says Nacho Mama’s house when she means not your mama’s house!”

“Oh, dear! Do you do that?” Payt put on regal British airs this time. “Shocking!”

“Keep making fun of me and I’ll show you shocking, Bartlett. Knock those red socks right off your feet.”

He leaned in close to her, close enough that she could feel his breath when he whispered, “You always knock my socks off, Nacho Mama.”

“Come on, Hunter. It’s going to get mushy around here.” Sam bumped his friend’s arm in passing as he turned toward the game room a few feet away. “Let’s go back and watch those guys play air hockey.”

Hunter started to go along, stopped, then whipped his head around and wrinkled his nose. “Hey, how come you talk normal, Sam, and your parents don’t?”

Sam’s cheeks blanched. He fixed his gaze on the game room across the way. “They’re not my—”

“Because we’re just a couple of great big old hicks.” Payt pretended to pick his teeth with the straw as he looped his arm around his foster son’s waist and said, “And Sam here is one of them citified sophisticates.”

“Your dad is funny.” Hunter punched Sam in the arm. “Race ya.”

And just that fast they rushed off to watch some older boys play air hockey. At the edge of the wide arch that separated the game room from the main dining room, Sam stopped.

Hannah laid her hand on her husband’s forearm and directed his attention with a flick of her head.

Gratitude. Admiration. Anxiety and hope. With a single brief glance, Sam summed up it all up.

“You did good,” Hannah whispered in her husband’s ear.

“Yeah, who’d a thunk a slob of a kiddie doctor might know his way around talking to a couple eight-year olds?”

“It’s more than that and you know it. You’re a natural with kids, Payt.”

“Thanks.”

She gazed after the boys a moment before fixing her attention on Tessa. On a Tessa with pudding smeared all over her face.

Great. She had brought dry cereal for the child to snack on. Nice, safe, clean dry cereal. In a little yellow tub made just for carting it around.

And Payt had taken one look at the salad bar, sized up what an eight-month-old baby could have and plunked down enough for a kiddie meal. And Tessa had loved it.

Obviously.

Hannah grabbed up a cloth napkin and started to spit and dab on the baby’s cheeks. “You don’t have to stop and think through every little thing to decide what’s the right thing to say or do.”

“Neither do you, Hannah, if you’d just relax a little and trust yourself.” He lifted another slice of pizza from the box and held it out toward her. “And, please, eat something.”

The aroma of freshly baked dough and spicy sauce assaulted her senses. She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is. Just open your mouth, bite down and chew.”

“Hey, just because Hunter thinks you’re funny, don’t go planning your comedy tour, not with that kind of material.” She pushed the slice in his hand away.

“Hannah, we have all this pizza.”

“I can’t eat any. Not now.”

“Then quit.”

“What?”

“Quit.”

“Eating?”

“No.” He dropped the slice of pizza back onto the plate with a dead thud. “Quit writing the column.”

“What?” Hannah experienced her own thud—like her heart falling into her stomach. Her husband wanted her to quit writing. He had to be kidding. Of course, the big comedian. She folded her arms. “Are you saying that to try to get me riled, or because you honestly think I should quit?”

“Whichever makes you happy.”

She smirked. “Happy happy or happy enough to wolf down some pizza?”

“Both.” He kissed her once lightly.

She laid her hand along his cheek as he pulled away. “You make me happy, Bartlett.”

“Good, because it’s a sure thing writing this column doesn’t.” He motioned to the waitress to bring them a box for the leftover pizza.

“Wait a minute, you’re the one who told me to do the column. You told me to follow my dream and write.”

“And you’ve done it.” He opened the large white cardboard box on the table and began flopping slices covered in cheese and pepperoni into it. “No one can take that away from you. But if you don’t find it rewarding, you don’t have to keep at it.”

“I never said I didn’t find writing rewarding.” Had she? She did a quick survey of their conversations on the topic.

Frustrating. Yes, she’d said that.

Exhilarating. On a good day. For those few hours after she’d turned in her last piece (before she started worrying about how lousy it was). And when she came up with the inspiration for a new column. Very exhilarating. She must have told him that.

And what else?

Daunting. Uh-huh, daunting. She’d definitely called it daunting at some point.

But unrewarding? Hmm. No, she couldn’t recall having used that particular description for her work.

She whirled around in her seat and angled her chin up at him. “I got an offer to write for a national publication, you know. That’s a pretty nice reward.”

He closed the box lid and popped the tabs in place to secure it. “Hannah, you make me crazy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He slipped his fingers down the lock of auburn hair that brushed her chin. “In a good way. Yeah.”

“Do you…” She picked up the to-go box, stood and waved the boys over to the table. With her back to her hubby—because she wanted to make sure the boys didn’t dawdle, not because she couldn’t bear to look him in the eye—she asked quietly, “Do you think I’m a rotten writer?”

“No.”

“Then why—” She spun around.

Thwack.

The box knocked him in the back of the head.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to…Are you okay?” She dropped the box onto the table and began stroking the soft, closely cropped hair, not sure if she was searching for blood or pizza sauce.

“I’m fine.” He batted her hand away.

“Good.” She gave his head the tiniest of pushes and said, “Then why did you tell me to quit writing?”

“You know that old joke?”

She folded her arms. “So now I’m an old joke?”

“No.” He held his hand up. “Hear me out.”

“Okay.” At least he hadn’t asked her to listen to herself, for which she was extremely grateful, because she suspected she sounded like a lunatic.

“There’s that old joke. Man goes to his doctor and says, ‘Doc, it hurts when I do this.’” He moved his arm stiffly back and forth. His earnest eyes held her gaze. “So the doctor tells him…”

Hannah crooked her own arm and let it swing. “‘Don’t do that.’”

“One of the first things we learned in medical school.” He caught her hand midsway and kissed her knuckles one by one. “That.”

Kiss.

“And…”

Kiss.

“That you have to eat.”

Kiss.

“To stay alive.”

Kiss and turning her hand over, kiss again.

“I’ll warm some of this up later.” She tapped the box.

“Good. You have to keep your strength up for our trip.”

“Our trip.” She shut her eyes and could almost feel the warmth on her face. Maybe the future of her writing career looked bleak, but her marriage had definitely taken a turn toward the sunny side. She smiled and whispered, “Miami.”

“You deserve the break.” He stood, too, placing his hand on her back.

Hannah savored the warmth of his touch as she would a long, sweet embrace.

Tessa kicked.

The boys reached the table, finally. After they had stopped along the way to check for a penny on the floor and went back to start at the same spot so they could determine once and for all who could hop on one foot the longest between the game room and the table.

Payt bent and released the tray on the high chair enough to get Tessa out. He lifted her up.

She kicked hard, sending droplets of pudding from her shoes plopping on Payt’s pants and Hannah’s arm.

“And after we get back from our trip, maybe you won’t want to keep up with the column anyway.” He handed the baby to her.

“Why?” For a half a second she considered carrying her chocolate-covered baby to the car at an arm’s length. Then Tessa laughed and Hannah pulled her close, drawing in the smell of oat cereal and pudding. “After a break most people are ready to get back to their work with a whole new attitude.”

“Sure, but after you get back from this break, maybe you’ll be too busy.”

“Haven’t you heard? Jacqui and Cydney are pitching in on the pageant. That should lighten my load. Especially after they blow up the set and sew the costumes into one big circus tent for our performance.”

“Don’t worry about the pageant. It’ll go great.” He nabbed the box and directed the boys to lead the way out. “Think beyond the pageant to the big picture.”

“Oh, I don’t think we should try to make the pageant into a big picture. Maybe one of those small, independent films that doesn’t make any money but gets the rave reviews.”

“Stop kidding, Hannah.” He stepped back to hold the door for everyone to go through ahead of him. “I’m talking about our life. Our family.”

“I’ll stop kidding if you’ll stop sounding so scary serious.”

“Serious, yes, but not scary.”

An unexpected autumn rain must have blown through while they were eating and had drenched the parking lot. They walked together through the scent of damp pavement and rain-filtered air.

“I’m listening.” Hannah wrestled Tessa into the car seat while the boys scrambled into the back bench of the minivan and buckled up.

“Hannah, it’s just that we’re not getting any younger.”

“Hey, you promised no scary stuff.” She sat 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.”