C01 Take a Chance on Me

by Susan May Warren

  PRAISE FOR SUSAN MAY WARREN’S DEEP HAVEN NOVELS

  My Foolish Heart

  “A lighthearted, punchy story about two wounded souls who find love and a new lease on life . . . [that] nicely balances the funny and realistic.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Warren’s charming inspirational romance has it all: the boy next door and the princess isolated in her tower, past histories and new beginnings, poignancy nicely blended with hopefulness, and troubled, everyday people doing their best to live according to their faith. Highly recommended.”

  BOOKLIST

  “Delightful . . . a story reminiscent of both Steel Magnolias and the Mitford novels, but with a personality and charm all its own.”

  CROSSWALK.COM

  “A truly delightful tale straight from the heart.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  The Shadow of Your Smile

  “Warren handles well the many facets of lives intertwined by love, hope, and tragedy. This is a book of second chances for the Hueston family, for those who care about them, and for readers looking for clarity in their own lives.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Quiet, yet powerful . . . Warren’s latest inspirational novel is a story of hidden pain. . . . At the end, hope is in full bloom.”

  BOOKLIST

  “A warm and charming tale that features well-developed characters and a solid story line.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “Warren handles [the story line] with such grace that the reader is drawn into the tale. . . . This is a beautifully written book.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “An eminently readable story, perfect for book clubs . . . or to read on your own.”

  CROSSWALK.COM

  You Don’t Know Me

  “A wonderful story, filled with family and faith. Although Annalise has a situation that readers won’t directly identify with, the dilemmas she faces regarding her family will touch hearts and lives in an authentic way.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “You Don’t Know Me is a perfect blend of inspirational and romantic thriller. . . . The pages are filled with inspirational thoughts about God’s promises that will bless your heart.”

  FRESHFICTION.COM

  “Emotions run deep, and you may wish to read with a box of tissues nearby, particularly toward the final chapters.”

  INSPIREAFIRE.COM

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Susan May Warren’s website at www.susanmaywarren.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Take a Chance on Me

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan May Warren. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of father and son copyright © by Photodisc/Getty. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Erik M. Peterson

  Edited by Sarah Mason

  Published in association with the literary agency of The Steve Laube Agency, 5025 N. Central Ave., Phoenix, AZ 85012.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Jonah 2:8 is taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

  Take a Chance on Me is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-7841-1 (softcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-8601-0 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8396-5 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8602-7 (Apple)

  Build: 2013-03-13 14:28:13

  For Your glory, Lord

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Map of the Area of Deep Haven and Evergreen Lake

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  An exciting preview of Susan May Warren’s next book, Walk on By

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHORS TAKE A CHANCE every time they write a story. Will they create characters people care about? Will they write story lines that resonate? Will they raise questions and answer them with the right truths? One of my biggest conundrums is getting the facts right. I’m so thankful for the people who take a chance with me and help me solve these dilemmas.

  My deepest gratitude goes to:

  Molly Hickam, the assistant county attorney in Cook County who walked through all my questions and helped me sort out the law. Any mistakes are all mine.

  Rachel Hauck, who worked through every scene with me, faithful on the other end of the phone. I couldn’t write a book without her.

  David Warren, who brainstormed with me about the custody angle and helped me figure out the tension between Ivy and Darek (and thanks, too, for the name Darek!). You are quickly becoming my secret weapon!

  Karen Watson, who always knows just how to round out a story and make it stronger. I appreciate our partnership.

  Sarah Mason, for her amazing editing skills. Thanks for catching all the small errors and making me sound good!

  Steve Laube, my agent, for his ability to listen and see the big picture. Thanks for always being on my team. You rock!

  To my family, who make this life, this adventure, rich and blessed. In my head, we are the Christiansens.

  My dearest Darek,

  Even as I write this letter, I know I’ll tuck it away; the words on it are more of a prayer, meant for the Lord more than you. Or maybe, in the scribbling upon this journal page, the words might somehow find your heart, a cry that extends across the bond of mother and child.

  The firstborn child is always the one who solves the mystery of parenthood. Before I had you, I watched other mothers and wondered at the bond between a child and a parent, the strength of it, the power to mold a woman, making her put all hopes and wishes into this tiny bundle of life that she had the responsibility to raise.

  It’s an awe-filled, wonderful, terrifying act to have a child, for you suddenly wear your heart on the outside of your body. You risk a little more each day as he wanders from your arms into the world. You, Darek, were no protector of my heart. You were born with a willfulness, a courage, and a bent toward adventure that would bring me to the edge of my faith and keep me on my knees. The day I first saw you swinging from that too-enticing oak tree into the lake should have told me that I would be tested.

  Your brothers shortened your name to Dare, and you took it to heart. I was never so terrified as the day you came home from Montana, fresh from your first year as a hotshot, feeling your own strength. I knew your future would take you far from Evergreen Lake. I feared it would take you far, also, from your legacy of faith.

  Watching your son leave your arms has no comparison to watching him leave God’s. You never seemed to question the beliefs your father and I taught you. Perhaps that is what unsettled me the most, because without questioning, I wondered how there could be true understanding. I held my breath against the da
y when it would happen—life would shatter you and leave your faith bereft.

  And then it did.

  It brought you home, in presence if not soul. If it hadn’t been for your son, I might have done the unthinkable—stood in our gravel driveway and barred you from returning, from hiding.

  Because, my courageous, bold oldest son, that is what you are doing. Hiding. Bitter and dark, you have let guilt and regret destroy your foundation, imprison you, and steal your joy. You may believe you are building a future for your son, but without faith, you have nothing to build it on. Evergreen Resort is not just a place. It’s a legacy. A foundation. A belief.

  It’s the best of what I have to give you. That, and my unending prayers that somehow God will destroy those walls you’ve constructed around your heart.

  Darek, you have become a mystery to me again. I don’t know how to help free you. Or to restore all you’ve lost. But I believe that if you give God a chance, He will heal your heart. He will give you a future. He will truly lead you home.

  Lovingly,

  Your mother

  IVY MADISON would do just about anything to stay in the secluded, beautiful, innocent town of Deep Haven.

  Even if she had to buy a man.

  A bachelor, to be exact, although maybe not the one currently standing on the stage of the Deep Haven Emergency Services annual charity auction. He looked like a redneck from the woolly woods of northern Minnesota, with curly dark-blond hair, a skim of whiskers on his face, and a black T-shirt that read, Hug a logger—you’ll never go back to trees. Sure, he filled out his shirt and looked the part in a pair of ripped jeans and boots, but he wore just a little too much “Come and get me, girls,” in his smile.

  The auctioneer on stage knew how to work his audience. He regularly called out names from the crowd to entice them to bid. And apparently the town of Deep Haven loved their firefighters, EMTs, and cops because the tiny VFW was packed, the waitresses running out orders of bacon cheeseburgers and hot wings to the bidding crowd.

  After the show was over, a local band would take the stage. The auction was part of the summer solstice festival—the first of many summer celebrations Deep Haven hosted. Frankly it felt like the village dreamed up events to lure tourists, but Ivy counted it as her welcoming party.

  Oh, how she loved this town. And she’d only lived here for roughly a day. Imagine how she’d love it by the end of the summer, after she’d spent three months learning the names of locals, investing herself in this lakeside hamlet.

  Her days of hitching her measly worldly possessions—four hand-me-down suitcases; a loose cardboard box of pictures; a garbage bag containing The Elements of Legal Style, How to Argue and Win Every Time, and To Kill a Mockingbird; and most of all, her green vintage beach bike—onto the back of her red Nissan Pathfinder were over.

  Time to put down roots. Make friends.

  Okay, buying a friend didn’t exactly qualify, but the fact that her money would go to help the local emergency services seemed like a good cause. And if Ivy had learned anything growing up in foster care, it was that a person had to work the system to get what she wanted.

  She should be unpacking; she started work in the morning. But how long would it take, really, to settle into the tiny, furnished efficiency apartment over the garage behind the Footstep of Heaven Bookstore? And with her new job as assistant county attorney, she expected to have plenty of free time. So when the twilight hues of evening had lured her into the romance of a walk along the shoreline of the Deep Haven harbor, she couldn’t stop herself.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a lazy walk, stopping at storefronts, reading the real estate ads pasted to the window of a local office.

  Cute, two-bedroom log cabin on Poplar Lake. She could imagine the evergreen smell nudging her awake every morning, the twitter of cardinals and sparrows as she took her cup of coffee on the front porch.

  Except she loved the bustle of the Deep Haven hamlet. Nestled on the north shore of Minnesota, two hours from the nearest hint of civilization, the fishing village–turned–tourist hideaway had enough charm to sweet-talk Ivy out of her Minneapolis duplex and make her dream big.

  Dream of home, really. A place. Friends. Maybe even a dog. And here, in a town where everyone belonged, she would too.

  She had wandered past the fudge and gift shop, past the walk-up window of World’s Best Donuts, where the smell of cake donuts nearly made her follow her sweet tooth inside. At the corner, the music drew her near to the VFW. Ford F-150s, Jeeps, and a handful of SUVs jammed the postage-stamp-size dirt parking lot.

  She’d stopped at the entrance, read the poster for today’s activities, then peered in through the windows. Beyond a wood-paneled bar and a host of long rectangular tables, a man stood on the stage, holding up a fishing pole.

  And that’s when Deep Haven reached out and hooked her.

  “Are you going in?”

  She’d turned toward the voice and seen a tall, solidly built middle-aged man with dark hair, wearing a jean jacket. A blonde woman knit her hand into his.

  “I . . .”

  “C’mon in,” the woman said. “We promise not to bite. Well, except for Eli here. I make no promises with him.” She had smiled, winked, and Ivy could feel her heart gulp it whole. Oh, why had she never learned to tamp down her expectations? Life had taught her better.

  Eli shook his head, gave the woman a fake growl. Turned to Ivy. “Listen, it’s for a good cause. Our fire department could use a new engine, and the EMS squad needs more training for their staff, what few there are. You don’t have to buy anything, but you might help drive up the bids.” He winked. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that, though.”

  She laughed. “I’m Ivy Madison,” she said, too much enthusiasm in her voice. “Assistant county attorney.”

  “Of course you are. I should have guessed. Eli and Noelle Hueston.” Noelle stuck out her hand. “Eli’s the former sheriff. Hence the fact that we’ve come with our checkbook. C’mon, I’ll tell you who to bid on.”

  Who to bid on?

  Ivy had followed them inside, taking a look around the crowded room. Pictures of soldiers hung in metal frames, along with listings of member names illuminated by neon bar signs. The smells of deep-fried buffalo wings, beer, and war camaraderie were embedded in the dark-paneled walls.

  A line formed around the pool table near the back of the room—what looked like former glory-day athletes lined up with their beers or colas parked on the round tables. Two men threw darts into an electronic board.

  Then her gaze hiccuped on a man sitting alone near the jukebox, sending a jolt of familiarity through her.

  Jensen Atwood.

  For a moment, she considered talking to him—not that he’d know her, but maybe she’d introduce herself, tell him, I’m the one who put together your amazing plea agreement. Yes, that had been a hot little bit of legalese. The kind that had eventually landed her right here, in her dream job, dream town.

  But Noelle glanced back and nodded for Ivy to follow, so she trailed behind them to an open table.

  “Every year, on the last night of the solstice festival, we have a charity auction. It’s gotten to be quite an event,” Noelle said, gesturing to a waitress. She came over and Eli ordered a basket of wings, a couple chocolate malts. Ivy asked for a Coke.

  “What do they auction?”

  “Oh, fishing gear. Boats. Snowblowers. Sometimes vacation time-shares in Cancún. Whatever people want to put up for charity. But this year, they have something special on the agenda.” Noelle leaned close, her eyes twinkling. Ivy already liked her. And the way Eli had her hand wrapped in his. What might it be like to be in love like that? That kind of love . . . well, Ivy had only so many wishes, and she’d flung them all at living here, in Deep Haven.

  “What?” Ivy asked.

  “They’re auctioning off the local bachelors.”

  And as if on cue, that’s when the lumberjack bachelor had taken the stage.


  Ivy sipped her Coke, watching the frenzy.

  “So are you going to bid?” Noelle asked.

  Ivy raised a shoulder.

  The lumberjack went for two hundred dollars—too rich for Ivy’s blood—to a woman wearing a moose-antler headband. He flexed for her as he walked off stage, and the crowd erupted.

  A clean-cut, handsome young man took the stage next, to the whoops of the younger crowd down front. “That’s my son,” Noelle said, clearly enjoying the spectacle. He seemed about nineteen or twenty, tall and wearing a University of Minnesota, Duluth, T-shirt. He was built like an athlete and had a swagger to match.

  “He plays basketball for the UMD Bulldogs,” Noelle said. She placed the first bid and got a glare from the young man on stage.

  A war started between factions in the front row. “Should I bid?” Ivy asked. Not that she would know what to do with a bachelor ten years younger than her. Maybe she could get him to mow her lawn.

  “No. Save your money for Owen Christiansen.”

  Probably another lumberjack from the woods, with a flannel shirt and the manners of a grizzly. Ivy affected a sort of smile.

  “Maybe you’ve heard of him? He plays hockey for the Minnesota Wild.”

  “No, sorry.”

  “He’s something of a local celebrity. Played for our hometown team and then got picked up by the Wild right after high school.”

  “I’m not much of a hockey fan.”

  “Honey, you can’t live in Deep Haven and not be a hockey fan.” Noelle grinned, turning away as the wings arrived.

  Ivy ignored the way the words found tender space and stabbed her in the chest. But see, she wanted to live in Deep Haven . . .

  Noelle offered her a wing, but Ivy turned it down. “Owen’s parents, John and Ingrid Christiansen, run a resort about five miles out of town. It’s one of the legacy resorts—his great-grandfather settled here in the early nineteen hundreds and set up a logging camp. It eventually turned into one of the hot recreation spots on the north shore, although in today’s economy, they’re probably struggling along with the rest of the Deep Haven resorts. I’m sure Owen’s appearance on the program is a bid for some free publicity. Owen is the youngest son of the clan, one of six children. I’m sure you’ll meet them—all but two still live in Deep Haven.”