The Parent Playbook (Love on Thin Ice)

3. Angel

CHAPTER 3

ANGEL

“ E xplain to me again how you got on the roof of the school?”

I’m finding this kid’s explanation a little more than fantastical. And if he weren’t my son, I’d say he was telling a big, fat lie.

But he is my kid, and I believe every word. I just don’t understand the physics.

“Come on, Mom. It’s not like it’s hard. I went to the janitor’s closet and took out the step stool?—”

“That closet should be locked!”

“It was locked. That’s not the point.”

I rather think it is, but he’s on a roll now.

“The step stool gave me access to the hooks in the garage where they keep the hoes?—”

“The school has a garage?”

“Mom! Stay with me.”

His tone of voice makes me wonder how many times I’ve said those words to him. I turn left onto our country road as he goes back through the MacGyver act he did to climb, unlock, open, and scale up to the school roof—all with a sign he prepared in advance.

“Look, Mom—” there’s that tone again , “—you are fighting for the rights of children who have less than they should. I’m fighting for the rights of our planet which are being destroyed in the name of educational activities. How is that so different?”

In the name of educational activities?

When I was twelve, I was worried about two things: my next meal and how I could steal clothes from folks on the other side of town so that I could replace my jeans that always had holes in the knees. My climbing skills were less adept than Andy’s, but I did it anyhow because I needed those pants. Andy’s got a mission, an honorable one, even if his tactics are a bit disruptive. The apple really doesn’t fall far.

“Listen, MacGyver?—”

“I hate when you call me that. He’s so old.”

“—I want a two-page manifesto on the dangers of climbing on the roof without adult supervision.”

“Mom!”

“Two pages, double-spaced, in cursive ,” I add, knowing the effect it will have as I pull into our parking spot.

“Not cursive !” He grabs his heart and falls against the window with a thud that must have hurt, though he shows no sign of concussion. “Anything but cursive!”

“And no cheating on the letter ‘i’ either! I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

Andy mumbles as he marches to his room, and I head for the main barn.

Yep, another typical day at Happy Horizons, or as I’ve fondly started to call it, “Chaos Central.”

I’m knee-deep in grant applications, a maze of paperwork that somehow multiplies every time I blink. As I reach for the proposal that took me the better part of last week to finalize, I notice it’s missing. Fantastic.

I scan the barn, my makeshift office, with a sigh. Papers are somewhat organized in piles that only make sense to me—and apparently, to Edgar. Edgar is not my assistant; no, he’s a particularly mischievous goat who’s developed a taste for important documents.

“Edgar, you furry little anarchist,” I mutter, spotting him by the doorway with what unmistakably looks like my missing proposal hanging from his mouth. The edges are already decorated with his signature chew marks. I march over, trying to keep my cool. “Come on, give it here, you walking paper shredder.”

Edgar meets my approach with a defiant bleat, a sparkle in his beady eyes. It’s a standoff, ranch style. With a swift, practiced move, I manage to retrieve my now slightly soggy document from his mouth. “Thank you,” I say, dripping with sarcasm. “Your input is always so enriching.”

He chews on the remnants of what was probably last week’s feed schedule, completely unfazed by my sarcasm. I look at the proposal in my hands, the top corner lovingly gnawed. “Great, Edgar. Just great. Let’s hope the foundation appreciates your critique as much as I do.”

Only at Happy Horizons Ranch can your financial forecast be threatened by a goat with an appetite for paper. If only I had an accountant. As I smooth out the creases, I decide this document now has character—and a story. I could add a postscript about Edgar’s endorsement. A little barn humor couldn’t hurt, right?

I finally sit down to go through it when my cell phone rings, and with it, a stomach-drop of dread.

I’ve assigned that ringtone to only one person—the babysitter.

“Hey, Angelica,” she croaks out, and from the sound of her voice, I know my evening plans are about to nosedive. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got the flu. I can barely stand up.”

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. “Okay, but hear me out … what if you just lie on the couch and we strap a GoPro to the kiddo for safety monitoring.”

“Angel, I have a fever of 102.”

“Sure, but,” I have to give it one more try, though I’m already losing hope, “is it a strong 102, or more of a watch-old-episodes-of- I-Love-Lucy 102? Because there’s a big difference.”

“Let’s say you could fry an egg on my forehead.”

“Okay, okay, last offer, how about we set up a quarantine zone? Like a little bubble boy situation? He’s always wanted to try that after seeing it in a cartoon.” I can picture the bewildered look on my son’s face if I actually proposed the idea to him.

She’s trying to catch her breath as she laughs, probably from both the flu and the absurdity of my desperation. “Angel, you’re hilarious. But I can’t get out of bed without feeling like I’m going to pass out. I’m so, so sorry.”

Defeat. And the hockey season hasn’t even started yet. “Of course, I get it. Don’t worry. Focus on getting better, okay? And avoid I Love Lucy . Your laugh-cough is pretty rough.”

“Will do, Angel. Again, I’m really sorry.”

I hang up and turn to face my son, who’s giving me a look that’s a little too hopeful for the situation.

“So, I guess I’m tagging along. Does this mean no cursive homework?”

“Nice try, but we’re talking about your life of crime later. Right now, I’ve got to figure out what to do with you.”

“I could always stay on my own …” Andy wiggles his eyebrows.

“We’ve talked about this already. You only just had your twelfth birthday and you haven’t done the first aid course on how to set your own broken bones. Plus, I don’t know what time I’ll be out until, so all that adds up to babysitter or bust.”

His face scrunches up. “Why can’t I just come?”

“Because it’s a big fancy event with the hockey team. Media and mingling. And it’s not kid-friendly.”

He grimaces sympathetically. “Sounds like something you’d hate.”

Doesn’t he know it.

I trudge into the house, the weight of the evening suddenly feeling heavier. Looks like Andy’s coming with me and I’ll have to figure something out once we get there.

I hate every second of squeezing into tights that feel like they’re conspiring against me. A dress I haven’t worn in ages somehow feels both too tight and too loose in all the wrong places and my hair refuses to cooperate, ending up in a messy bun that’s more mess than bun. As for makeup, a swipe of lipstick and a dash of mascara will have to do.

The mirror says it’ll do, but I’d rather be in sweatpants, plotting the downfall of elementary school roof access. But duty calls, even if it’s dressed in uncomfortable clothes and tipping over the edge in high heels, much like my patience.

Time to buckle up. With Andy in the passenger seat. And all this to face a room full of dudes with silver spoons so far up their behinds that they’d never understand why a boy might feel the need to save the planet, one school roof at a time.

“Wait here.”

It’s more of a plea than a command, but Andy knows that tonight is a big deal, even if I don’t want to be here. He may get himself into trouble, but he—mostly—respects his mother.

“Yes, Mom.” His face is earnest. I believe him.

“I’m going to find out if there’s a place you can hang with a TV.”

“Did you know that screens are bad for children under the age of three?”

“Lucky for you,” I gently poke his nose, “I couldn’t afford a TV before you were the age of eight. Cheeky monkey.”

“Moooooom.” He swats my hand that has already returned to my phone to check the time.

“Here we go. ”

A quick exhale to prepare myself and wish I’d worn warmer stockings. The breeze stings my cheeks, but I’d better get used to it. Hockey arenas aren’t known for their heating systems. Thankfully, tonight’s event is in the Regent’s Hotel, so named for a onetime visit from the King of England, and it’s still a big pull for tourists. King or not, the place is a gorgeous sprawling estate with gardens that in daytime are every color of the rainbow, and at night are illuminated by thousands of solar-powered twinkling lights. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m here for a wretched evening of backside-kissing, it would be magical.

At least there will be food. There’s always food at these things, and I love a good hors d’oeuvres .

Walking up to the Regent’s Hotel feels like stepping onto the set of some old-timey movie where everyone’s decked out in pearls and fedoras. The place is a slice of 1920s America, dropped right in the middle of Maple Falls like it took a wrong turn at Seattle and decided to stay. The steps leading up to the massive carved doors are lined with flickering lanterns, giving off a glow that makes the whole scene unnervingly inviting.

“Angel!” Ian, who works the door at the Regent’s, can always be counted on for a big smile that reaches his eyes. He and my mom were neighbors when they were kids, and he’s looked out for me ever since I was born. “I figured I’d see you here tonight, what with the Happy Horizons Ranch being the charity of honor.”

I give him a big hug and feel my shoulders relax a little. The stress of the event is a little less knowing Ian is around.

He nods toward my car. “Andy came along?”

“He did, but we both know it’s not a good look for me to have him in tow. Any ideas?”

He purses his lips and then snaps his fingers. “Yes, the billiard room was vacated for journalists’ storage, but there’s the annex that has a big TV in it.”

And down go my shoulders an inch more. “I was hoping you might say something like that. ”

“Even better, one of the player’s kids is already in there. He can have a buddy.”

As long as this kid doesn’t become a co-conspirator in political manipulation, that sounds safe enough.

“And I’ll keep an extra eye on them.” Ian winks.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“You know it. Go on in. I’ll take care of Andy.”

I push through the doors—feels like swinging open the gates to a castle, not a bouncy one—and I’m hit with the buzz of the event. The lobby is a spectacle of marble and gold, with the chandelier overhead that’s so big it probably has its own zip code. Jazz, laughter, and the clinking of glasses make a cocktail of sound that’s surprisingly intoxicating.

Journalists are snapping photos like we’re celebrities here to grace the pages of some gossip rag. “Maple Falls’ night of nights,” I mutter under my breath, unable to help the smirk tugging at my lips when I see a giant poster promoting Happy Horizons.

I can do this.

The attendees are done up in semi-formal garb, looking like they’ve stepped out of a time machine, or at the very least, raided some vintage store on the way here.

As I reach the coat check, I have to take a moment to appreciate both the absurdity and the grandeur of it all. I’m trying to keep kids from missing a meal, and yet there’s wealth like this just around the corner. I don’t begrudge the place—it brings in lots of money for the fine folks of Maple Falls—but every now and then, it makes me salty.

Maybe that’s part of why these shmancy hockey players get my goat.

Not that I’ve met any of them yet. They got into town yesterday, and word is that even they hardly know each other.

“Here.” I hold out my coat to the man waiting at the counter. He looks a bit surprised. It could be he knows who I am, since I’ve had stories run in the paper about Happy Horizons, and I bet I stand out like a sore thumb in this place. “Yeah, yeah. I’m attending tonight. I’m not the media, and obviously not a hockey player, but my charity got chosen by the Ice Breakers and I know how to show my appreciation.”

“Ah, of course. I thought I recognized you, you’re?—”

“Angel Davis, of Happy Horizons fame. Yep. But tonight instead of chasing tykes and errant goats, I get to sip fancy drinks.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says in an oddly sincere way. I don’t recognize him, but that doesn’t mean anything at the Regent’s. The hotel draws folks from across the country and the world.

“Not too shabby for a small town,” I say to him, trying to be a touch more friendly and not sure I’m succeeding. “It’s like Gatsby decided to throw a party in Maple Falls, and honestly, I’m not mad about it.”

He smiles and lays my coat on the counter. “Why would you be mad about that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I lean in conspiratorially. “Perhaps because there’s more cash floating in those thickheaded hockey players’ pockets than I could raise in twenty years?”

His eyebrows rise like I just let a squirrel loose at the dog park. “You think so?”

“ Think so?” I shuffle closer to him. “I know so. These dudes sneeze and moolah flows from the sponsors. And what do they do with it? Fancy cars, plenty of women, three swimming pools, a spiral staircase, and a four-poster bed.”

Wait a second, this man smells good .

“Three swimming pools, huh?” His eyes sparkle. Like actually sparkle with little creases in the corners.

“Yep,” I say, trying to slow down my suddenly rising pulse. “I saw that on a cover of Ice Weekly when I learned that my charity was going to be the beneficiary of the Ice Breakers. Not that I read the article, but hey, if these guys want to zoom around and punch each other out and give us the proceeds, then who am I to judge? ”

He shifts in the spot, visibly weighing how to react.

Did I just step in it?

“Wait a second …” I clear my throat, because I don’t want to offend Mr. Handsome. “You’re a fan, aren’t you? And here I am, dissing your heroes.”

He chuckles. “No, it’s not that,” he says, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that tells me he’s gearing up for a bit of a spar. “But I reckon not every player out there is blowing their cash on gold-plated hockey sticks or diamond-encrusted mouth guards.”

I think I just snorted at the image in my head. “Oh, is that what they’re doing these days? No monogrammed skate laces?”

He laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that fills the space between us. “Well, you might be surprised.”

“Funnily, you’re not the first person to say that to me today.”

His easygoing nature and quick wit have thrown me off, disarming me more than any polished charm ever could. For a moment, I forget my mission to stay aloof and unimpressed by the glitz and glamor of the evening. “Some of those dudes might be investing in less flashy ventures. Like, say, community projects.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Community projects, huh? Like building a statue in their own honor in the town square?”

He grins, undeterred by my skepticism. “Could be. But then the statue doubles as a jungle gym for the kids.”

This guy’s good. “Okay, you got me there. I’ve been a bit harsh. But if I ever stumble upon a hockey player who’s more interested in jungle gyms than jet skis, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Interesting.”

“Now would you please check my coat and pass me a ticket? I’ve got to go suck up to a bunch of these arrogant, air-headed jungle gym statue dudes.”

I can’t read the look in his eyes, but it’s true that I might have gone a bit far with that last string of slights. He passes my coat to his coat check colleague, who purses her lips in curiosity and passes the ticket back to him .

“By the way,” he says as he hands me the ticket from the girl behind the counter, “I hear Stetsons are tasty. Enjoy the event.”

He steps away, as if about to leave his coat check post.

“I’ll give it a shot?” I reply, though it comes out as a question.

As I turn to join the throng of guests, I find myself hoping I’ll run into him again. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.

His smile lingers as he goes—in a way that gives me shivers. And I thought tonight was going to be like nails on a chalkboard, not … well, whatever that was.

Oh my goat, I think we were flirting.

Is that what that was? I’m not sure I’ve ever done it before, so it’s hard to tell. But the scent of his cologne will not leave my nostrils and the warmth over me feels like a bubble bath, complete with candles and a glass of hot apple cider.

“Hey!” a voice says directly in my ear so loud that I jump halfway across the lobby.

“For the love of a hot dog, Troy! Why are you sneaking up like that?”

He cocks his head to the side with a funny look on his face. “Sneaking up? You were transfixed. I walked like every other normal person here. You, however, could hardly contain your drool.”

“Drool? Please. The dude was nice, but I’ve got more important things to do than entertain silly thoughts for a coat check guy.”

“ Coat check guy?” Troy looks like he swallowed a frog whole.

“I’m not judging.” I give him a light smack on the shoulder. “I’m just saying that life is rather full right now, and you know it. Aren’t the golden boys going to be taking the stage soon?”

Troy’s face looks sour, which I don’t get. Troy has known me forever, and he’s heard me say much worse about guys that had tried to chat me up in the past.

“I’m not sure we’re talking about the same guy,” he says. “But there isn’t time now anyhow. You set to smile for the cameras? ”

I groan, but only loud enough for Troy to hear. “If I must.”

“And you must. Remember the kids, Angel.”

“The kids. It’s all about the kids.”

It’s all about the kids, but I catch myself scanning the crowd for the coat check dude. He left his post … or did I read him wrong and he’s actually one of the staff who mingles to offer personal support to Richie Rich guests? I might have insulted him, handing him my coat like that, but I have bigger fish to fry now. A ballroom full of journalists, a team full of so-called philandering philanthropist hockey dudes, and yours truly will have to go on stage with a show of gratitude.

The gratitude is the easy part. It’s genuine. If only I could be sure that their motives were as pure as that. Everybody knows that Troy’s brother, Zach, needed the reputation boost when he set up the team, though Troy insists there’s a lot more altruism in his brother than Zach Hart will let people see.

Troy leans in as the crowd starts to settle. A bunch of men are walking toward the stage, which must mean they are the Ice Breakers. “So where’s your coat check guy?” he whispers, but I sense something in his voice.

“Oh, whatever, forget him,” but I’m already looking to see where he might have gone, the nice smelling, down-to-earth, sparkle-in-his-eye guy who tried to tell me that not all hockey players are chumps.

There he is .

And he sees me, too. Our eyes lock and he raises an eyebrow with one awfully cheeky grin, and my stomach drops.

He puts on a Stetson and walks up the steps to the stage.