17. Angel
CHAPTER 17
ANGEL
S ince yesterday, Scotty’s words echo in my head—as if it’s Andy’s fault that Lily joined in on his quest.
How can he think my Andy is the problem when Lily’s clearly got a mind of her own?
Goes to show, even the good ones like Scotty come with their own set of annoyances. That’s exactly why I’m leery of this whole romance business.
Honestly, the whole concept of dating is absurd to me. It’s like voluntarily signing up for a job you’re not qualified for, and it pays in emotional turmoil. Who needs that? I’m finally getting Happy Horizons on the map, and instead of basking in a job well done, I’m navigating minefields of misdirected parental blame and budding feelings I didn’t order.
Just when I think I’ve found someone who might actually be capable of understanding the chaotic symphony that is my life, they go and pin a kid’s mistake on how I raised him. That’s basically what he was saying, right? He has to give guidance. He has to teach her a lesson. What does he think I’m doing?
So much for no strings attached. If Scotty can make a snap judgment like that, what other surprises are waiting down the line?
No, this is exactly why I’d rather stick to kids running wild in giant puddles of muck all over the ranch. At least they don’t throw curveballs over lunch.
Or should I say, slapshots …
Ugh! I’m making dad jokes to myself now? About hockey ?
What has this man done to me?
Andy’s head pops out from his room, his expression sheepish but determined. I set my coffee down, prepping for a mother-son showdown.
“Mom, about yesterday …” he starts, trailing off as he catches the look on my face.
“Yes, you’re in trouble,” I declare, but my heart isn’t in it. I’m more curious than angry now. “What exactly was Lily’s part in this? Tell me the truth, Andy.”
He sighs, stepping fully into the hallway, the weight of the world seeming to rest on his twelve-year-old shoulders. “I know I’m in trouble, but you should know … it was mostly my idea. Lily went along with it.”
I raise an eyebrow, my arms folding. “Why did you drag her into your antics, Mr. Revolutionary?”
Andy looks down, then back up at me with those earnest eyes that remind me so much of my own mother. “She’s been really down. She doesn’t have her mom around, and I thought if she felt like she was part of something important here, it’d help. Like a family, you know?”
And that’s why it’s so hard for me to be mad at him.
“Andy, that’s really thoughtful, but you can’t just start a protest in school. There are rules.”
“I know, but I wanted her to feel welcome, not like she’s a dead weight who tags along.” His voice is assured, and I’m getting a peek at the man he’s going to become.
I exhale, the fight draining out of me. “You have a big heart, kiddo. But let’s try to find less disruptive ways to show it. We can talk before the next grand gesture, okay?” He nods, relief washing over his face. “Can we help Lily find a club at school? Something less mutiny-like?”
“You mean like scrapbooking club?” He makes a face and a quiet gagging sound.
“Hey, some people really love those decorative scissors. Listen, thanks for looking out for her. But try to keep the riots to a minimum.”
He grins, a spark of childhood mischief still in his eyes. “No promises, Mom.”
As he retreats to his room, I lean against the wall. Navigating parenting and potential romance is proving trickier than I thought.
Back in my makeshift office—the corner of the barn converted into a cluttered sanctuary of paperwork—I’m buried under a mountain of receipts and budget forecasts that I have to prepare for the Charities Program. The numbers blur together, but I’m not complaining about having an escape from the complexities of preteen emotions and hockey coach dramas. Cold, hard numbers.
If only I could make them add up.
The phone rings, slicing through the tedium of my financial fugue. It’s Troy, his voice bubbling over with excitement before I get the handset to my ear.
“Angel! You’re not going to believe this,” he practically shouts, making me pull the phone away from my ear a bit.
“What? What’s going on?” I hope I don’t regret asking.
“We got a call from the foundation. Your interview, it did more than make a good impression. It knocked it out of the park!” I can hear he’s breathless with enthusiasm, even through the static of our spotty rural connection. “A hefty donation has come in. I don’t have all the details yet, some lady humanitarian from what I gather, but I do have a figure.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, bracing myself. “You’re making me nervous, Troy. How much are we talking?”
He pauses for dramatic effect, a habit I’ve told him to kick countless times. “Enough to get you some serious help with all that paperwork. Angel, you can finally hire someone to tackle the accounting.”
I slump back in my chair, the weight of a thousand spreadsheets lifting off my shoulders. “That’s … that’s incredible,” my voice cracks. The idea of handing off even a fraction of this paperwork is more rejuvenating than any spa day could ever be.
“Right? You did it, Angel. You and those kids. And Zach told me a certain Scotty was there on the sidelines …”
I don’t remember how the conversation ended, because I’m already ahead of myself, dreaming of things getting easier. With a bit of professional help, I might find time to tackle something other than budgets and barn repairs. I could start planning for that expansion at last …
No, I shake off the thought before it can fully form.
First things first, find an accountant who doesn’t mind the occasional goat wandering into their office.
Andy pokes his head around the corner of the barn, his eyes cautious. “Mom, can I help with anything?” His voice is hopeful, if a bit tentative after our earlier disagreement.
I pause, pencil in hand, considering his offer. Any anger I felt is gone now, and I love how he wants to make amends. “Yeah, you can help me with the petting zoo. We’ve got a mountain of cleanup to tackle.”
As we shovel and sweep, Andy’s quiet for a long while. The only sounds are the soft grunts of the animals and the scrape of our tools against the ground. Then, out of the blue, he says, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“For the protest?”
“For making you argue with Scotty.”
I stop, leaning on my rake and wipe a stray hair from my forehead with the back of my glove.
“We weren’t really arguing, Andy. We were seeing things differently, that’s all.”
“You should make up with him. ”
“You think so, huh? You think he’s a cool guy?”
“Scotty is more than just cool,” he says as he continues shoveling. “He’s pretty much the human equivalent of a Swiss Army knife.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“And he’s funny.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny weird?” I ask.
“Both. In a good way.”
Scotty. Master of dad jokes with an unruly mop, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with matching socks.
But let’s not ignore the man’s physique.
Rugged. Muscled. Sure of himself.
My head feels light remembering that almost-kiss, how close we’d come. The heat of his breath, the anticipation tingling through my veins. It’s been ages since I felt that kind of pull, that stomach-dropping, time-stopping urge to lean in and live it.
And as I stand there, rake in hand, surrounded by the earthy smell of the petting zoo, I realize that despite the mess, the arguments, and the chaos of life, Scotty might be what I need.
And he’s definitely what I want .
I look over at Andy, who’s watching me with a curious tilt of his head. “Everything okay, Mom?”
“Yeah, bud, everything’s fine,” I assure him, but I can’t forget that Scotty and I did not end our last conversation in a good place. “Let’s get this cleaned up, huh?”
Hours later, after the ranch has settled into a quiet hum and I’ve posted a position for an accountant, I decide to check on Andy before calling it a night myself. I’m still down the hall when I hear an odd clicking sound emanating from his bed tent—a makeshift fortress of blankets and pillows he’s constructed in the corner of his room.
I poke my head through the tent’s flimsy entrance. “Hey, bud, what’s with the clicking? You signaling aliens or something?”
Andy looks up from a small device in his hands, his face illuminated by a tiny flashlight. “Just practicing Morse code,” he says nonchalantly, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for a twelve-year-old to do at bedtime.
“Morse code, huh?” I raise an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. “And here I was thinking you were starting a late-night cricket symphony. Gonna tap out your entire life story one dot and dash at a time?”
He sets the device aside with a laugh that’s a little too forced. “Why not? Could be a bestseller. You think Morse code messages can get a copyright?”
“Only if you can prove a cricket didn’t ghostwrite it for you. But seriously, it’s late. Time to get some sleep, code master.”
He nods, crawling deeper into his fortress of solitude. “Okay, Mom. Night.”
“Goodnight, Andy.” I hang around at the entrance, watching him settle down. There’s a part of me that’s still on alert, wondering if there’s more to the Morse code than a new hobby. But then, knowing Andy, it’s just another phase in his never-ending quest to understand everything. My curious, brilliant little dude.
“I love you, Andy.”
“Love you, Mom.”
With a sigh, I pull back, letting the fabric flap fall into place. The floorboards creak under my footsteps as I head to my room, and our earlier conversation about Scotty mingles with thoughts of Andy’s Morse code adventures. It’s a strange mix, but then again, life at Happy Horizons is anything but ordinary.