Head Over Heels Mass market paperback - 1999

Deburle, Ohio
Summer, 1998

On her knees beside a tub filled with two slippery little girls wearing bubble halos, Nan Springfield pushed back the hair from her forehead and inhaled the sweet scent of baby shampoo and clean children. If there was a better smell than that, she surely wasn't aware of it. If there was a better time than bath time, or a better feeling than wrapping a fresh warm towel around a squeaky clean child, if there was anything sweeter than the sound of a three-year-old's giggles, well, she wasn't aware of those, either.

"One more rinse," she told Rachel, the older of the two little dark-haired mermaids. "You be a rose, now, and I'll be the gardener, watering you so that you'll grow." She directed the four-year-old's head under the spray attachment that she'd finally found in a pet shop. The sprayer worked just as well for washing little girls as it would have for the puppy she'd promised her son, Topher, when he'd turned seven.

That had been a mistake, making a promise that she'd been unable to keep. It still grated on her nerves that Phil had vetoed the dog and made her go back on her word. No, it was merely a delay, she reminded herself. She was still working on him, trying to change his mind.

There'd been a time, a million years ago when their marriage vows were fresh on their lips, that she surely could have convinced him that all good ministers have dogs, just as she'd convinced him, once Topher had started school, that they should take in foster children like the girls and poor little Derek James.

Now if she could just make him think that every pastor needed a collie . . .

A dog! What was she thinking? Her marriage needed another strain like a turtle needed antilock brakes. It scared her breathless that unless things changed between her and Phil, there was the awful chance that she could wind up training that dog on some lawyer's separation papers.

"I'm a rose, too!" Robin shouted. "Do me!" she demanded, scooting and swimming about the tub like some little lemming while Nan aimed the hose at her head in the hopes of getting some of the soap out before they all drowned laughing.

"Out you go now," Nan said as she turned off the water. "Roses need to sleep at night so they can bloom in the morning." And mommies need their rest so that they can carpool and type the church bulletin and figure out how that infernal database thing works and pick up a clean T-shirt for Topher to paint on at church camp.

She reached down and lifted Rachel out of the tub, setting her feet on the plush bath mat. Robin scrambled out behind her and was out the door before Nan could get a towel wrapped around either of them.

"Mom!" Topher whined from out in the hall. His voice held all the frustration an eight-year-old boy could cram into one word while being streaked by a three-year-old girl.

"Robin," Nan yelled after her for Topher's sake--halfheartedly, because she was sure the imp was already halfway down the hall and heading straight for the front door.

"Naked lady on the loose!" she called out to warn Phil while she quickly secured a towel around Rachel.

"Naked yady on the yoose!" Robin parroted as Nan chased after her, a Little Mermaid towel spread wide like a net to catch her in.

With her head turned back watching Nan and Rachel and Topher, all in hot pursuit, Robin ran smack up against Phil's legs and fell back onto her little behind with a rush of air.

Phil towered over the child. He wasn't a big man--just five nine, but he was imposing in his silence, and they all quieted immediately so that the only sound in the hall was Robin whimpering.

"For Pete's sake, Nan! The child is running around stark naked. Aren't there any sort of rules around here anymore?"

Nan knelt down and, with the towel in hand, wrapped her arms tightly around the little girl for a brief moment, wishing she could hold her forever, wishing she could claim her for more time than Social Services would allow. Rules? She didn't want to give the children rules--she wanted to give them memories.

"It's after nine o'clock." He stared accusingly at Nan, directing his words at her, as he always did. He rarely spoke to any of the children anymore except Topher. Exceptions could be made for their own flesh and blood, it seemed. "Is there no hope of peace and quiet tonight?"

"They're getting into their pj's now," she answered, nudging the girls and Topher back toward their bedrooms and reminding Topher not to wake up D.J., already asleep for hours in the room they shared.

"Okay, synchronize your freckles," she told the children, looking at her watch while they looked at their wrists. "Meet me back here in three minutes, teeth brushed, pajamas on, foreheads ready for kisses from Dad."

She herded the children without looking back at Phil, who was no doubt grimacing at being called Robin and Rachel's dad. He wouldn't mind being called Father by a whole darn congregation, he just didn't seem to take well to it on a more personal level.

Phil didn't take too well to anything on a personal level anymore.

Not that she didn't still try.

After she'd tucked the children into their beds, kissed them good night, fetched a last drink of water, promised to love them forever, and turned out their lights, she changed into her nightgown and ran a brush through her hair.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Ten years older and seven pounds heavier than when Phil had married her. Should that make enough difference to make her unappealing? Had she changed so much that he just didn't love her anymore? Shouldn't he at least have a physical need for her after nearly ten months with him sleeping on the couch in the TV room while she slept alone in their bed?

She pulled her short-sleeved cotton robe from the hook behind the bathroom door and wrapped herself in its comfortable familiarity. Tightening the sash, she took a deep breath and headed out to try once more to break down the well-fortified wall between herself and Phil. Nearly out the bathroom door, she reached back in, sprayed a little Wind Song at the base of her neck, and then shut the light.

He was sitting at the kitchen table with stacks of papers spread out neatly before him. Sometimes she imagined them being interviewed by Barbara Walters--jeez, she imagined all sorts of ridiculous things!--and Barbara would ask, If they were vegetables, what kind would they be? Phil, she'd say, would be an ear of corn, all his kernels in neat little rows. She, on the other hand, would be a dented can of house-brand succotash.

If Phil were a plant, he'd be a saguaro cactus--no muss, no fuss, just straight and prickly. She'd be a daisy or a petunia or a dahlia, something that needed light, water, deadheading.

High maintenance. If it wasn't her needs, it was the children's. There was always something she needed from Phil that lately he found difficult, if not impossible, to give.

"Still working?" she asked as if there were nothing extraordinary about this night, as if she hadn't come to some sort of decision in her mind about how much more she could stand.

He nodded without looking up.

She reached for the kettle and filled it from the tap. Once upon a time they'd ended every evening with a nice civilized cup of Earl Grey or Royal House Blend. "I'm making some tea," she said softly. "Would you like a cup?"

"Now?" he asked, looking up at her as if she'd asked him to fix the television antenna in an electrical storm. "It's too late for tea now. I'll be up all night."

Once upon a time they could find a way to fill the hours of the night. . . .

"Not that I ever sleep anyway," he added.

Say it! Say it! she demanded silently. Say because I'm not there beside you. Ask to come back to our bed and our life--or tell me it's time to give up and let go.

"A  new  book  by Stephanie Mittman means I'm ready to read."
--Debbie Macomber

"A delightful tale...filled with the same warmth and compassion that have made Mittman's historicals so popular.  Her characters walk right off the page and into our hearts.  Mittman's latest effort will appeal to readers of LaVyrle Spencer and Debbie Macomber."
--Booklist

Stephanie Mittman had love on her mind the whole time she was writing Head Over Heels, since she was planning her son's garden wedding at the same time. Of course, she's always thinking about love, being madly, passionately, head over heels in love with Alan, her husband of thirty years. But this last year was a very special time in her life, standing to the side and watching love blossom. She hopes she captured the feeling in her writing. Although she's busy working on her next book, a historical, she loves to be interrupted by letters from her readers. You can reach Stephanie c/o MLGW, 190 Willis Avenue, Mineola, NY 11501, or at her Web site: www.stephaniemittman.com.