The Parent Playbook (Love on Thin Ice)

13. Angel

CHAPTER 13

ANGEL

T he moment we roll into Maple Fest, it’s like stepping into one of those overly saturated fall postcards. Everywhere you look is an explosion of autumn—orange and red leaves plaster every surface, and pumpkins, so many pumpkins, they’re practically spilling out onto the walkways. The whole place smells like a cinnamon bomb went off in the middle of an apple orchard.

“Welcome to Maple Fest!” I announce as we weave through the crowd. “Think of it as Halloween and Thanksgiving decided to throw a party and invited Christmas for appetizers.”

Scotty chuckles next to me, his eyes taking in the festive scene. I’ve learned that chuckling is what Scotty does as a default. Some people stuff their hands in their pockets, some run their fingers through their hair, others cross their arms. Scotty chuckles.

“Looks fun,” he says, clearly more at ease in this bedlam than I am.

Andy and Lily are already a few steps ahead, buzzing with the kind of pure joy only a festival can bring to kids—even kids who are on the cusp of that dreaded teenage territory. They dart from a stall selling handmade witch hats to another boasting the best apple cider donuts in the state.

“Slow down, you two!” I call out, half-trying to be the responsible adult. Andy shoots me a glance that says clearly, Chill, Mom.

I catch up just as Scotty seizes my arm and saves me from a potentially embarrassing face-to-face meeting with a hay bale. “Thanks,” I say, straightening up and brushing straw from my jacket. “I’m usually more graceful, you know—like a gazelle.”

“A gazelle who’s had a couple of hard ciders,” Scotty teases.

“Very funny. For that, I’m going to make you smell the best pumpkin pies in the Pacific Northwest.” I point to a stall adorned with more baked goods than a bakery’s window display.

As we approach, the rich, sweet smell of baked goods wraps around us. I take a deep breath, letting the familiar scents transport me back to my childhood here. Maple Fest was the one event each year where being poor didn’t sting so much. There was always enough food, enough laughter. Enough distraction from the everyday struggle.

Andy tugs on my sleeve. “Mom, can we get a pie? Please?” His eyes are wide with that manipulative sparkle only kids master.

“We’ll see,” I say, which everyone knows means yes. “First, let’s see what else they’ve managed to deep fry this year.”

So many times recently, I’ve thought that Andy is close to becoming a man, really growing up. Then Maple Fest comes around and the little boy in him comes to play. I love it.

Scotty is right there with the kids, discussing the merits of funnel cakes over apple fritters. A wholesome glow settles over me as I watch them together, the kind that feels oddly like contentment. Or maybe it’s the cider donuts kicking in.

We find ourselves elbow-deep in pumpkin guts at the carving contest, a part of Maple Fest that somehow feels both thrilling and slightly horrifying. Scotty, who’s picked out the largest pumpkin he could find, grins at me over the orange mess.

“What did that poor pumpkin do to you?” he asks as I butcher what was meant to be a delicately carved cat. Now, it’s more of a lopsided ghost—if you squint.

“Ha-ha,” I retort, flicking a chunk of pumpkin at him, which lands with a plop in his hair.

He brushes his hands off on his jeans, leaving streaks of orange that add to his disheveled, rugged appearance, and I catch my breath.

The man is irresistible. It was easy for me to pretend otherwise because he hides it in humility. He’s a down-to-earth, guy-next-door sort of man …

And every ounce of me is melting for him.

“Look, Mom!” Nearby, Andy and Lily are having a much better go at it, their pumpkins resembling actual Halloween decorations.

“I don’t recall ever teaching Lily how to wield a knife like that.” Scotty tilts his head. “Her rendition of The Scream is frightfully accurate.”

“Seriously, though, you’re not half-bad at this yourself.” His surprisingly intricate design of drifting autumn leaves is taking shape under his knife. “Ever consider a career change? Pumpkin artist has a nice ring to it.”

“Only if it comes with a health plan. These pumpkins are dangerous,” he says, glancing at the small cut on his hand with exaggerated seriousness.

I catch Andy and Lily exchanging looks and whispering, their heads close together as they plot.

“Hey, what are you two—” Before I can ask, they’re running over to us.

“Come on, Mom, pose for a picture. It’ll be funny! You too, Scotty, get in there. Show off your masterpiece.”

Reluctantly, I join Scotty, our shoulders brushing as we hold up our creations. Scotty’s pumpkin is impressively artistic, while mine … well, it has character. Just before the phone clicks the shot, his hand lightly touches my back, sending an unexpected jolt through me.

The kids giggle, and I can’t shake the feeling they’re up to something more than capturing a festive memory. But as I look up at Scotty, his smile genuine and eyes bright, I find it hard to care about much else.

Scotty glances at his watch, a slight frown creasing his brow, and then he jumps into action. “My turn at the booth,” he says, nodding toward the Ice Breakers’ setup festooned with banners and bustling with festival-goers eager for a brush with local hockey semi-celebrities. “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” he adds, shooting a quick smile in my direction before heading off.

The kids scamper off to annihilate each other in some kind of inflatable obstacle course.

“Angel!”

I’d know that voice anywhere. My cousin from Oklahoma—basically the only person from that side of the family who made an effort to stay in touch—and one of my favorite people on this planet.

“Harlow?” I say it, not quite believing it, and looking for the origin of her voice. Before I see her, I feel her, arms wrapped all around me and I’m squeezing back. “Girl! What the what? Am I living in a dream?”

“I am one-hundred percent real, though these last days have felt pretty surreal.”

“Don’t tell me it’s Maple Fest of all things that’s brought you to town.”

She guffaws. “I had a great excuse to finally come out this way.” She tells me a crazy story about having won a getaway, which she’s doing with a friend—but she’s strangely ambiguous about who this friend is …

“I’ll do my best to make it out to the ranch. I’ve heard all about what you’re doing there, and I can’t tell you how proud I am to call you cuz.” She wells up and smacks me on the shoulder. “Just don’t tell anyone you got me emotional.”

Seeing Harlow, while coming here with Scotty, has added a new dimension to this year’s Maple Fest. An experience that’s so familiar also feels different. I wander, grab some coffee, but I’m not quite ready to dive back into the chaotic fun without Scotty. So instead I’m pretending to be fascinated by a rack of overpriced team jerseys while actually keeping an eye on him.

He’s a natural. His easy smiles, how he seems genuinely interested in whatever mundane story a fan decides to regale him with—it’s oddly captivating. But he does look slightly out of his element, like a man who’s stepped back into a world that’s familiar yet doesn’t quite fit him anymore.

As I lean against a post, sipping from a cup of aggressively strong festival coffee, I overhear a group in line at the booth.

“Who’s that guy?”

“I have no idea,” whispers a woman, craning her neck to get a better look at Scotty as he laughs at something a kid in a too-big hockey jersey has said.

“That’s Scotty MacFarland. Heard he used to be famous, but lost all his skills,” her friend responds authoritatively, clearly enjoying being the one with the gossip.

I snort into my coffee. Lost all his skills? Please. They don’t even know.

Before I can conjure a suitably cutting retort to mumble under my breath, a third person in line, a guy wearing an old Denver Peaks cap, turns around and fixes the gossipers with a knowing look. “You got it all wrong. If Scotty MacFarland is with the Ice Breakers, then he hasn’t lost a thing. Guy’s a legend. Stepped away for personal reasons and the Denver Peaks went down the drain without him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he makes a big comeback.”

Thank you, random citizen, I think, feeling a weird mix of pride and defensiveness on behalf of Scotty. The gossipers murmur among themselves, their tones shifting from cynical to speculative.

I watch Scotty as he signs a shirt for a shy little girl, giving her a wink that makes her giggle and hide her face in her mom’s side. It’s moments like these, seeing the kindness that sort of radiates off him, that make me think about the depth of the sacrifices he’s made. Here he is, making everyone’s day a little brighter, even though most of them probably don’t remember his days of hockey glory.

As Scotty wraps up another autograph with a flourish, his laugh rises above the festival noise. There it is again—that traitorous flutter in my stomach, a sensation I’ve meticulously avoided for years.

Watching him, I’m struck by a thought so clear it nearly takes my breath away. It’s not that his broad shoulders make me swoon or that he’s single-handedly saved my ranch’s crumbling infrastructure—though, let’s be honest, those haven’t hurt his case. It’s him. Scotty. The guy who can coax a grin from a grumpy toddler and who actually listens when I speak.

I like him. A lot.

And not in a “thanks for not letting my barn fall down” kind of way.

The realization zings through me like the brisk autumn air, that this isn’t just a silly crush and I’m not merely doting on his finely carved muscles through his shirt as he catches me time and again.

Why him? Why now? My heart, which Harlow has always said I guard like Fort Knox, thuds rebelliously against my chest.

It’s at this moment that Scotty catches my gaze across the crowd. “Hey, Angel, why don’t we put your taste buds to the test with some cider?” he shouts over the din, waving me over. “Bet I can pick out your favorite flavor in one go.”

He winks and now I know for sure.

I’ve fallen for a dreaded hockey dude.