Annabelle's Angel by Therese M. Travis Page B

fault the loss was.
    “Quit blaming everyone else. You know it was me,” he bellowed.
    The boys gaped at him as they got out in front of their house.
    Finally, Liam mumbled, “No one said it was you.”
    “Then they should have.”
    The front door opened and all four of the younger kids tumbled outside, laughing and calling something about cookies.
    Rick's stomach growled.
    “You wanna come in?” Joe offered. “Annabelle's a really good cook.”
    Rick looked at the six children in the front yard, and his empty stomach protested again. “There's probably not enough.”
    “Are you kidding? Annabelle's been feeding us for years. There's always enough.”
    They led him through the back door and into the kitchen. Plates overflowing with cookies obscured the counters and a small table.
    “I should eat some real food first,” Rick mumbled.
    “You sound like Annabelle. You'd better eat dinner with us then.” Liam yelled into the kitchen. “Annabelle, Coach is staying for dinner.”
    ''Hey, hey, wait. I didn't say that.” But Rick was talking to an empty room, at least, until Annabelle walked in.
    She stopped, making the same protective gesture over her face. He'd seen that move before, in church. And to his shame, he’d never given a second thought to the woman behind it.
    “Your brothers seem to think I invited myself to dinner.”
    Her smile was small. “No, they think they invited you. And, of course, you're welcome. The little ones are setting a place for you now.” She waved toward a hallway behind her. “I hope you like meatloaf.”
    “Love it.”
    “And don't have any allergies.”
    “Not a one.”
    “That's good. We're a little worried about Mattie. We're not sure if he's reacting to food or if something else is going on.”
    What he could see of her face went red.
    “But you don't want to hear all that.”
    “Why not? He’s the second to youngest, right? The one who wanted to know about snow angels?”
    She nodded.
    “He’s what, eight? And already Joe says he's turning into quite an athlete.”
    “He is.” She looked up, obviously entranced with this subject. It was probably one of her favorites. “But he likes soccer better than football.”
    “So do I but mostly in the spring.” At her blank stare, he said, “That’s when soccer season doesn’t conflict with football.”
    By this time, they'd entered the dining room. Until that moment, Rick hadn't thought to wonder how seven kids and one grandmother fit around the standard four-or-six person table.
    But theirs was far from ordinary. It was a huge table, as long as one from a church hall, made of carved, polished and somewhat scarred wood. It made him think of old-fashioned floor length dresses and stringing cranberries and popped corn for the Christmas tree.
    The snow angel boy—Mattie—yelled, “I'm sitting next to the coach!” all the while jumping up in the air and clapping his hands.
    “No, you're not. Why should it be you? He should sit with me and Liam.” Joe gave Mattie a dark, narrow-eyed glare.
    “He should sit next to Annabelle. And someone else can sit on his other side and someone else can be across the table.” This was uttered by a tall teen who looked a lot like Annabelle, other than the hair in her face.
    Rick glanced at Annabelle.
    She'd be gorgeous if she'd just tuck some of that glossy blond blanket behind her ear.
    He slid into the chair indicated and watched as each child brought in a dish or serving platter.
    The youngest, a tiny thing who reminded him of Cindy-Loo-Who, brought butter and condiments.
    “Annabelle baked the bread,” the middle girl told him. “She says it's healthier if it's homemade—no chemicals or anything unnatural.”
    “Except for Mattie.” The other of the younger boys climbed on the chair next to Rick. “We’re keeping him gluten free ’til we know if he's ’lergic.”
    “I see.” He looked into unblinking brown eyes. “What's gluten?”
    “It's what holds bread