Page 4 of The Parent Pick-Up
The sound of the heavy rain beating on the roof of the car ends as I pull into the garage. The squeak of the windshield wipers is the only sound in the silence.
A melancholy feeling settles over me as I watch the wipers swish over the windshield. I never envisioned myself going at it alone, but here I am, stumbling my way through single parenthood in the perfect small town.
“Can I have thirty minutes of screen time after piano?” Hannah asks.
“Twenty-five,” I say automatically.
“But I didn’t even use yesterday’s minutes.”
“Minutes don’t rollover,” I say, shutting off the car. “Take it or leave it.”
“What’s a rollover?” she asks, unbuckling her seatbelt.
“It’s…” I start to explain, then stop as the pointlessness of it hits me. “Nevermind. You can have thirty. But go ahead and get a few minutes of practice in before Mrs. Johnson gets here.”
Hannah hops out of the car. “Yay! Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.”
“Uh-huh. Sure I am,” I say as she hops out and slams the door before I can change my mind. “When you get what you want, I’m the best.”
Since it’s raining so heavily, I back the car out of the garage so Hannah’s piano teacher can park there and stay out of the rain.
Rather than go inside and listen to Hannah practice, I sit in the car listening to the rain. I savor each quiet moment, knowing they will be the only ones I get tonight.
When Mrs. Johnson pulls into the garage a few minutes later, my time is up. I grab my umbrella and dash through the rain into the garage.
Mrs. Johnson climbs out of her car, eyes wide with curiosity. “What in heaven’s name is happening at the old Reynolds’ place?”
I close my umbrella and place it in the stand by the door. “I’m not sure.”
Her thin eyebrows shoot up on her forehead like exaggerated commas. “I wonder if some bandits are using it as a hideout.”
I smother a laugh. “More than likely a false alarm.”
“Didn’t look like a false alarm to me,” she says, glancing at the door to the house. “Aren’t you worried about Hannah?”
“Hannah?” I open the door. “She’s fine.”
The sound of clanging piano notes drifts down the hall, and Mrs. Johnson winces. “You should probably go check on the commotion next door. Just to make sure.”
I don’t think it’s any of my business to check on the situation, but Mrs. Johnson might have a point. Hannah’s safety is my priority.
“I’ll go take a look,” I say. “You two stay inside with the doors locked until I come back.”
Mrs. Johnson looks more curious than worried as she goes into the house and locks the door. I grab my umbrella and rush back into the pouring rain.
This weather is nothing new for a beach town. We never know when a torrential rain is going to last for hours or turn to drizzle in a flash.
I cross the yard into the old Reynolds’ place, where a late model luxury SUV is parked in front of the house next to the police cruiser.
I should stay out of this. It’s none of my business.
Then I spot two figures huddled on the front porch, and my curiosity gets the best of me.
A woman and a child, and they’re not from around here. The girl is wearing a tutu that looks better suited for a birthday party than a thunderstorm.
The woman is in oversized coveralls, blonde hair plastered to her face.
She’s got one hand protectively in front of the girl like a human shield, the other clenched into a fist. Chin up, eyes narrowed, she’s aiming full hurricane energy at the officer.
