C01 Take a Chance on Me

by Susan May Warren

  No, he didn’t deserve a second chance, but—

  Maybe she sensed his gaze on her, watching her flip pages, because she looked up. Right at him.

  Her eyes connected, her mouth opening just a little.

  He should look away. But he was caught there, his crime becoming more glaring as she blinked, recognized him.

  And then, suddenly, she smiled. It was sweet and slow and caught him so off guard he didn’t know what to do. Just stared back like an idiot, a deer in the headlights.

  “Daddy, read this to me.”

  Tiger slapped a book onto Darek’s lap—a copy of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, one of his favorites. The Muffin Man had finished and now was pointing out her selection of books to the audience.

  “Okay, pal,” Darek said. No doubt they’d leave the library with a stack of new books, enough for hours of nighttime reading. He hooked an arm around his son, pulled him onto his knee. Opened the book.

  Glanced up to where Ivy had stood.

  She was gone. And with her, any chance for the smile he should have given her.

  Jensen logged five hours and thirty-seven minutes of community service before the sun hit the apex of the blue sky.

  He’d started his Thursday morning routine at the harbor beach before 6 a.m., stopping by the Java Cup and bringing Phyllis McCann at the parks and rec department a vanilla latte while he logged in, then arming himself with gloves, a bag, and a stake, managing to fill the bag with the detritus of the week’s activities. Banana peels, hot dog boats, candy wrappers, gyro papers, SoBe bottles, apple cores, and even a few Java Cup containers. By the time the sun turned the rocks to gems, the beach shone spotless.

  At eight, he headed over to the thrift store, bringing Sharron a freshly fried skizzle from World’s Best Donuts, and spent two more hours sorting the five garbage bags of clothing they’d received, checking them for damage, hanging or folding the acceptable pieces on the correct racks and shelves, sending more out to be laundered, pricing them, and listing the best items for advertising purposes on the community intranet. He snagged a pair of rubber boots for himself, something to help him should a sump pump at Pine Acres ever go out again. Sharron signed his card, and he headed over to the Deep Haven animal shelter.

  Old Rusty’s eyes lit up, his tail cleaning the cement floor as Jensen greeted him. He opened the cage and let the collie lick his chin, rubbing the animal vigorously behind the ears. “I can’t believe no one has adopted you yet,” he said. “I’d take you home, buddy, but I’m outta here in six weeks, and then what will we do?”

  “Take him with you.” Annalise Decker stood at the door, a fellow volunteer—although her hours were truly voluntary. She held Arthur, a Persian cat who appeared freshly brushed. “He needs a good home, and you know he loves you.”

  “I can’t. I don’t know where I’m headed after I leave Deep Haven.”

  “Really?” She placed the cat in his cage while Jensen clipped a lead on Rusty. He’d take the dog out for a short run, then clean his cage and return him. He planned to do the same with the pretty half Labrador, half Doberman they’d found running in the woods, collarless. So far, no one had claimed her, and he had half a mind to take her home too. He was a sucker for those sweet brown eyes.

  “Yeah. I just need to leave, and once I get free of the county, I’ll figure out where to go. Maybe California.” He grinned at Annalise as he walked toward the door. “Hawaii. I’ll be a beach bum.”

  “You’ll miss this!” Annalise said as the door bumped closed behind him.

  Not likely. Apparently she’d forgotten that his time didn’t belong to him, that he wasn’t walking old Rusty for his health.

  But he did like having the collie at his side, especially the way strangers smiled at him, sometimes gave Rusty a pat.

  Everyone liked a man with a dog.

  He did a mental count of his total hours after today. If he could keep getting days like this over the next six weeks, he’d make his cutoff.

  No jail time.

  Although, spending three years in a town that hated you felt a little like jail. He didn’t blame them—not really. And after three years, they seemed to have built a sort of tolerance for him. Still, he should have seen the future, rejected the plea agreement, and simply endured the four years in prison.

  But he was innocent. And innocent men shouldn’t go to jail. At least that’s what he told himself—told God when Jensen thought He might be willing to listen. But God had clearly already made up His mind about Jensen, just like the rest of Deep Haven.

  The smells of fresh battered trout cakes from the fish house tempted him to stop in, and he’d heard that Licks and Stuff was running a special this week—a maple-nut custard cone. But he didn’t have time for lunch. Not if he wanted to finish his hours and get home to remove that log, mow, and paint the Millers’ place. He should have gotten to it earlier in the week, but by the time he’d finished mowing the high school athletic fields and cleaning the six-mile stretch of highway north of town, he’d arrived home after dark. At least it added to his hours.

  He returned Rusty, cleaned his cage, and brushed him down. Then he doted on the Lab-Doberman mix—he’d call her Nellie—and cleaned her cage. She leaned into his hand so hard as he rubbed behind her ear that it nearly made him weep.

  How he hated neglect, hated people not realizing what they had until they lost it.

  Jensen hosed down the runs behind the shelter, then wound up the rope and had Annalise sign his volunteer card.

  Hat in hand, he stopped by the local Meals On Wheels office.

  “I’m sorry, Jensen, but we had enough help today. Stop by tomorrow—or maybe next week we’ll have an opening.” Donna smiled at him when he left, and for a second, he believed her.

  He sat in his truck and counted his hours again. Tomorrow he would swing by the social services office and see if they had any shut-ins who needed their lawn mowed or house cleaned. Maybe just needed a friend.

  He liked sitting with them, listening to their stories. It made him forget his own.

  Back at Pine Acres, he grabbed a ham sandwich, then loaded the mower into the back of the truck and tackled the various lawns that needed attention. He sprayed the decimated currant bush, trimmed it, then found the chain saw in the maintenance shed and went to work on the downed tree.

  There had been a time when he detested this kind of work, back when he thought his years in law school might mean something, that he should be respected and admired for his academic prowess. When mowing lawns seemed miles beneath him. But now he found the work refreshing, the sweat honest, and it seemed the one thing he could do to earn his room and board, maybe ease the frown from his father’s face.

  If that were even possible. He couldn’t quite get on his father’s good side after the accident. Too many dreams had died that night on the highway.

  His father had mentioned, however, that if Jensen could someday talk his neighbor Gibs into selling his shoreline property to Pine Acres, then his little “misstep” might be redeemed.

  Misstep. Right. Thornton Atwood often acted as if his son were on some sort of extended, mandatory vacation in northern Minnesota.

  That sweet strip of sandy beach would be perfect as a private community beach, however. Only problem was, Jensen hadn’t talked to Gibs since the terrible accident three years ago. Too afraid, probably. And Claire certainly wouldn’t let him get close—she had the temper of a pit bull when it came to her grandfather. He’d never had the courage to cross her.

  He cut the tree into foot-long pieces and stacked them beside the house for use when the family wanted campfires. He fed the branches through the shredder, then deposited the sawdust and chips in flower beds near the community entrance.

  By the time he considered grabbing the paint bucket, the sun was already cutting long shadows across the paved road of the property. He headed back to the house, unloaded the truck, and hopped in the shower.

  Dressed in his sweatpants and a
clean cotton T-shirt, Jensen wandered onto the deck overlooking the lake. He listened for the loons calling into the night and dug out his harmonica, answering the call with a mournful tune.

  Maybe, okay, he’d miss this. Just this. The quiet of the twilight hour when his muscles ached and fatigue pressed from his mind his mistakes and wishes. When he felt as if he had worked out the stress of the day and earned the right to sink into one of the plush wicker chairs on the deck and watch the sun ignite the lake.

  Yes, he’d miss this when he left. This and the tangy memories of summers and life in Deep Haven before it all went sour.

  His gaze traveled over to the Gibson place, and he wondered if the canoe still waited on shore.

  He put down his harmonica, stood up for a closer look.

  A figure lay there. Or perhaps a tarp, but it looked—

  No. His breath caught. Gibs lay just beyond the shoreline in the grass, next to his dented four-wheeler, as if he’d hit a tree and taken a tumble.

  And hadn’t gotten up.

  Jensen ran through the house in his bare feet, down the stairs, and into the garage. He slapped his hand on the garage door opener, flicking on the light, then jumped on his own four-wheeler. He’d left the key in the ignition; the engine turned over and he gunned it out of the garage, narrowly missing his father’s old boat, now parked on blocks in the fourth stall.

  He knew the trail by heart, despite the years. He took it too fast, ducking under branches that had overgrown and narrowly missing the long, shaggy arm of a giant white pine. He came out just west of Gibs’s property, near the meadow, and took the road to the driveway. A light blazed on the side entrance, a feeble beacon lit to call Claire home, perhaps. Jensen raced up the driveway and into the front yard, then down to the lake.

  Gibs lay in the shadows, shrouded under a hand of darkness. The light from the four-wheeler illuminated his leg at a shattered angle. He wore a work jacket, a pair of gloves, and jeans, but his Huskies hat had tumbled off, leaving a bloody pool where he’d hit his head.

  Not far away, his four-wheeler rested on its side, the tree it hit fractured and ready to teeter over. A small trailer filled with cut logs suggested he’d just received a firewood delivery.

  Certainly the old man wasn’t chopping his own wood anymore?

  He crouched beside Gibs, pressed his fingers to his jugular. Please, please—yes, he found a pulse. But the old man wasn’t moving.

  “Hang in there, Gibs,” he said and got up, running toward the house. He found one of Mrs. Gibson’s famous knit afghans and scooped up the phone on his way back out. Jensen’s thumb dialed 911 and he rested the phone against his shoulder as he reached Gibs and began to tuck the blanket over him.

  “Deep Haven Emergency Services. How can I help you?”

  He recognized Marnie Blouder’s voice. “It’s Gibs. He’s hurt. I think he hit his head, broke his leg. We need an ambulance up at Evergreen Lake ASAP.”

  “Jensen, is this you?”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes, Marnie. I saw him from my place. Please hurry.”

  “EMS is on its way. Don’t leave him, Jensen.”

  “I won’t, ma’am.”

  IT SEEMED TO CLAIRE that she lived her life always looking in the rearview mirror, wishing she could change what she saw.

  Like, for example, the fact that she was spending the two hours she had between her Pierre’s shifts trying to coax the town’s American Beauty roses back to life.

  She could hardly blame herself. Most gardeners faced the late-frost conundrum. Every year, as the days grew longer, the warm sun lured gardeners to uncover their peonies, their hydrangeas, and most importantly, their prizewinning roses. Then, like a thief, a late-season frost would creep in off the lake and kill the buds.

  Claire had lost too many beautiful rosebuds before their time by leaning into the season too soon.

  So despite the mild winter and lack of snow, she had kept the covers on, not wanting to risk the frost. And her American Beauty roses sweltered under their Styrofoam coverings, broiling instead of freezing to death.

  Why, why didn’t she just listen to her instincts instead of her fears?

  She knelt in the dirt of the city rose garden and lifted one of the containers. Tiny green buds shot out from the cropped limbs, evidence that even in darkness, the roses survived. She pulled the cover off, and the rosebush sprang free as if exhaling.

  “Sorry, little rose,” she said and sat back on her haunches, brushing dirt from her gloved hands.

  “Talking to your plants again, Claire?” Edith Draper strode up the sidewalk on her way to the library, just beyond the garden. She wore an embroidered Grandmas Are for Hugs sweatshirt and held an armload of books.

  “I’m hoping my decision to keep the covers on and protect them from the frost didn’t kill them.”

  Edith raised a shoulder. “You can’t live your life by the what-ifs, sweetie. They look fine to me.”

  “If I kill these roses, the Deep Haven Horticultural Society will murder me.”

  Edith had reached the library door. “They put you in charge because you have the best green thumb in town. Not to mention the most energy. Trust yourself.” She winked and disappeared inside.

  Herself would be the last person Claire trusted. She hadn’t made a right decision since . . . well, since she’d convinced her parents to allow her to move stateside and attend Deep Haven High School. But after that . . . yeah, she’d pretty much let down herself and everyone else around her with a string of flimsy life choices.

  Claire took off another cover. Again, the rosebush underneath had already started to bloom. Phew. Alive.

  She created a stack of Styrofoam containers, then added fertilizer around the roots. Already they looked happier.

  She glanced at the sky, the way fingers of twilight stretched out over the heavens. She would have been here earlier, but for the fact that she’d taken an extra shift today. Please, Lord, help them grow.

  Claire carried the containers into the small storage shed behind the library, left her gloves there, then hopped on her bike and rode it down the street to her apartment. One of the perks of living in a small town—she didn’t need a car. Not that she didn’t like her Yaris, but sometimes she just loved riding her bike to work and home again, under the starlight.

  Her next shift started in ten minutes—not enough time for a shower. She pulled on the black-jeans-and-black-shirt uniform, pinned on her badge, worked her visor over her ponytail, then threw her apron in her over-the-shoulder backpack before scrambling down the stairs and out the back door of the bookstore.

  She cast a look up at her new neighbor’s place—dark. Apparently the new assistant county attorney worked late hours also.

  She hopped on her bike and pedaled to Pierre’s, clocking in a minute late. Shoot.

  The place looked deserted. No late-night rush tonight, the twenty booths and tables in the main room hosting only a handful of diners. She loved Pierre’s, with fishing lures and mounted trout, snowshoes and old Coca-Cola signs, pictures of local hockey teams pinned to the wall. A few framed newspapers heralded Deep Haven events, like the state champion football team and the time their local author, Joe Michaels, won the National Book Award.

  Making her way into the kitchen, she breathed in fresh baked calzones, tangy homemade sauce, the scent of fresh vegetables. Tucker Newman stood at the assembly board, working on a Hawaiian pizza. It always cheered her to see him in a hairnet and apron, creating pizza as if it were a work of art. Something had happened to the snowboarder since he started dating Colleen Decker last year. Sometimes she spotted him eating pizza with her family and laughing.

  He hadn’t exactly laughed in the first few months he’d begun working here. She had thought he wouldn’t last.

  But that wasn’t her call.

  Claire read the schedule. They’d put her on the cash register tonight, but with Curt McCormick already manning the counter, restocking cups and napkins and looking as if he mi
ght perish from boredom, it seemed that perhaps she could do more damage prepping for tomorrow. She pulled a container of fresh mushrooms from the stainless fridge and headed over to the prep center.

  Grace Christiansen stood cutting onions, her blonde hair captured by a hairnet. “I thought you’d gone home for the day,” she said, looking miserable.

  “Double shift today. I don’t mind. I thought you were off tonight.” She picked up a mushroom and began to wipe it clean with a paper towel.

  “I was, but I got off early the other night and I’m making up hours. Tiger landed in the ER and Mom was pretty frantic trying to find Darek.”

  Claire stilled, a cold fist in her chest. “What happened?”

  “He fell off Casper’s old bunk and cut his forehead. Needed seven stitches.” Grace shook her head even as she dumped the onions in a stainless steel container. “I think an angel must have caught him because he could have lost an eye. He nicked a pair of Owen’s skates he’d been playing with before bed.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. He bounces back. I’m more worried about Darek. He practically came unraveled. Blamed himself for not being there—”

  “Where was he?”

  “Out on a date.” She picked up another onion and grimaced.

  “Wanna trade?” Claire asked.

  Grace shook her head and started to peel the onion. “He was at that bachelor auction—some woman bought him.”

  Claire had created a nice pile of cleaned mushrooms. “Her name is Ivy. She’s real pretty—red hair, shorter, but cute. She told me she’s the new assistant county attorney.”

  “You met her?”

  “She lives in the garage apartment behind the bookstore. Our paths crossed yesterday.”

  Grace nodded, kept chopping.

  “What is it?” Claire set the mushrooms on the cutting board and began to slice them.

  Grace blinked as if forcing back tears. “I just . . . It’s so sad Tiger doesn’t have a mom. Wouldn’t it be great if Darek could find someone?”

  “Tiger had a mom.”