Page 32 of The Parent Playbook
“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 ofThe Screamis 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, whilemine … 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 Iam 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’sthatguy?”
“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 murmuramong 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.
