Page 18 of The Parent Playbook
“The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”
The ground shifts beneath my feet. This isn’t a minor hiccup; it’s a disaster.
Scotty’s face is full of anticipation, but he quickly tunes in, glancing at my talking pocket.
“The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”
He steps closer to me. “Angel? Are you okay?”
I manage to muster a shaky smile.
“Well, looks like I’ve been scammed.”
CHAPTER 8
SCOTTY
Her phone is still talking from her pocket when she absent-mindedly takes it back out. She flips it around and finally disconnects the call.
Who does that?
Who scams a children’s charity that is working to make children’s lives better? While one of my hands is curling into a fist, the other takes the phone from Angel’s hand.
She’s shaking.
My fist uncurls. The poor thing, for all her boldness and confidence … she’s struggling.
“This can’t be happening.” She puts her head in her hands and shakes it gently back and forth, and I’m torn between wanting to take her in my arms and wanting to hunt down this scum-of-the-earth contractor and teach them a lesson. The afternoon at Happy Horizons Ranch is winding down, the shadows lengthening as a few groups of kids bustle onto buses, but this drama has only just begun.
She sighs. “I have to make a call.”
I hand her the phone but feel like I have to watch over her. She’s fragile, and with the pressure she’s under, I want to be here. I have the sense she needs it.
Angel paces back and forth near the barn, her frustration obvious as she ends another call. I catch bits and pieces—enough to piece together that the financial mess isbad.
“Perfect timing with the hockey players and billionaire benefactor,” she mutters, her fingers drumming against her thigh. She looks at me, so much innocence in her eyes that my heart breaks. “Why would they do this?”
I lean against the wooden fence, as she shakes out her arms and rubs her face. “They probably thought with the big names involved, you’d be flush with cash.”
She scoffs, a sharp, bitter sound. “Flush with problems, more like. Before it was just the Charities Program, but now I don’t know how I can be ready in time for the visit from Zach Hart and the journalists.”
“How can I help?” It’s a relief to think I can do something more than only be a listening ear. “What needs doing around here to keep things rolling?”
She stops her pacing and pulls out a neatly printed list from her folder, holding it like a shield. “I had this ready for the contractors. I can tackle it myself tonight,” she adds quickly, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her stress.
I take the list from her, scanning the detailed items—everything from fence repairs to plumbing fixes. “Let me help with this, Angel. I can’t swing a hammer like these contractors, but I can make sure you have what you need to get started.”
She hesitates, and I can see her pride battling with practicality. “I appreciate it, Scotty, but I can handle?—”
“Come on,” I interrupt gently. “Let me run to the hardware store. It’ll save you some time, and I’m pretty good at shopping. I happen to know the difference between a flathead and a Phillips-head screwdriver. Can you believe it?”
Her lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “All right, Scotty. Thanks.”
We walk together toward the main house, the gravelcrunching under our boots. “So, what’s first on this hit parade of ranch disasters?”
She points at the top of the list. “Fences are up first. Goats think they’re escape artists.”
“Got it. And after that?” I ask, pen ready to jot down notes.
