Page 1 of The Parent Pick-Up
Chapter One
Ivy
If the GPSis to be believed, we’re exactly two minutes away from our new life, our new house, and hopefully a functioning shower.
“Are we there yet?” Olivia cranes her neck past the pile of boxes in the backseat, her unicorn sunglasses perched on top of her head like a crown.
“Almost.” I roll up the window and glance at the estimated time of arrival on the GPS. “Two more minutes.”
Olivia bounces in her seat. “Yay! Do you think I’ll be able to see the ocean from my room?”
“We’ll see,” I say, not wanting to make more promises to my daughter I can’t keep. I’ve already made too many.
The road narrows the higher we climb, and the houses grow sparser. Tucked behind evergreen trees and flowering shrubbery on large, expansive lots, the houses are just as charming in person as they were online.
I can’t quite believe I’m the owner of one of these cute little bungalows on the coast. I can’t wait to have a cup of coffee on my wide front porch.
My heart races double-time as our house comes into view. From this distance, it looks charming.
Weathered cedar-shake siding, oversized windows, and a bright blue front door—it looks welcoming in a well-loved kind of way.
I’d bought the place on a whim. Sight unseen on an online auction. The inspection had shown it was solid, if in need of a little tender loving care. And the price had been too good to pass up.
I’d pictured weekends spent fixing up the place like a mother/daughter HGTV special. My handyman skills plus Olivia’s creativity? The place would be magazine cover worthy in no time.
Then, I pull a little closer, and the illusion shatters.
The house needs a lot more than TLC. It might need a bulldozer.
Peeling paint. A porch that slouches like it’s had a long day. Weed-choked gutters and a cracked front window.
It’s a long way from prime time.
“It’s not so bad,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice while inside I’m dying.
“It looks like a gingerbread house,” Olivia says from the back seat. “I love it!”
I wouldn’t go that far, but I don’t want to dampen my daughter’s spirits. “Let’s leave the luggage for now and check it out.”
The humid air slaps us in the face the second we step out. I instinctively hit the lock button on the car even though we’re alone on a cliff, and the nearest neighbor is probably a pelican.
Years in the city have created habits that are hard to break, but I seriously doubt a pelican is going to steal my SUV.
Olivia bounds up the sidewalk, her dress billowing around her spindly legs like butterfly wings. I follow quickly behind, scanning the dilapidated porch for exposed nails or uneven wood.
The porch seems surprisingly solid despite the peeling paint and sagging floorboards. Bougainvillea vines spread along the railing, filling the air with their sweet fragrance.
Olivia peers in the windows, her thin shoulders shaking with excitement. “Look, Mom! A piano!”
My heart jumps to my throat. “Really?”
“Yeah,” she says. “And it looks lonely, like it wants you to play it.”
It’s been years, but suddenly, I can feel the smooth keys under my fingers. Hear the echo of a chord hanging in the air. The thought of playing again lights me up inside.
I dig into my bag for the keys, juggling the bundle of labeled keys I latched onto my car fob. The whole jangling mess slips from my fingers and drops to the weathered floorboards.
We both watch as the keys hit the porch floor, bounce once, then drop through a splintered gap between the boards.
