C01 Take a Chance on Me

by Susan May Warren

  Jensen glanced at his unfinished sandwich, then at the time. Tried not to think of how many nights he woke, shaking, sweating, a scream on his lips. How he sat on the deck, waiting for the sunrise.

  “Now, some people get angry that they even need to ask for forgiveness. Especially for being human, for making mistakes. They go around doing community service, trying to make it right.”

  “I was sentenced to community service,” Jensen said, but Gibs rolled over him.

  “But here’s an even better truth: God knows you can’t make it right. None of it. But He can. The day I took a good look at my sins—my real sins—was the day I discovered 1 John 1:9. ‘But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness.’”

  “I’m not wicked.”

  “Jensen, you’ve spent three years lying low, trying to make everything right. But you can’t redeem yourself. You can’t make yourself and your life whole again. God can.”

  Maybe the old man was right—it was a bad idea to get beat at checkers over lunch. Better to face Claire. At least she didn’t make him want to hit something, hard.

  No, wait . . . yes, she did.

  Jensen looked away.

  “Has it occurred to you that God might be trying to get your attention? He longs for your heart more than your good acts.”

  “He can’t have my heart. Not after what He did to my life.”

  “It seems to me that you are doing to God exactly what the town is doing to you. Unfair blaming.”

  Jensen picked up his sandwich, considered it, then wrapped it up in the paper.

  “The longer you keep walking in anger toward God and your lot in life, the longer you will stay broken.”

  “I’m not broken, old man. It’s just that . . . I’m tired of feeling like I’ll never escape that one mistake.”

  Gibson leaned back against his pillows. Met Jensen’s eyes.

  “Okay, fine. I know I’m not perfect either. But I’m trying—”

  “No one is doubting that.”

  “Then why the sermon?”

  “Why the checkers?” Gibs said softly.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I want . . .” Oh, none of it made sense. “Forget it.”

  “For a guy who doesn’t think he needs forgiveness, you’re certainly trying hard to earn it. Maybe you start with an apology.”

  Jensen got up. Grabbed his sandwich. Ground his jaw so tight he thought his molars might dissolve.

  “You can’t walk around with a smile plastered on your face when there’s so much debris inside. It’s going to come out, and someone is going to get hurt.” Gibs’s eyes darkened, something of the old Marine in them. “Someone like my granddaughter.”

  The threat felt like a punch to the throat, quick and sharp. “I would never hurt Claire. You don’t know anything, old man.”

  Jensen turned, about to stalk out, but stopped and rounded on Gibs. “The minute Felicity died in my arms, her blood on my hands—the minute this town stopped listening and started pointing fingers—they silenced any apology they might get. Of course I was sorry! In so many ways, you can’t begin to count. But when they blamed me, I had to start defending myself. I couldn’t turn around and be sorry or they would have crucified me.” His voice trembled, but he didn’t care. Nor did he care that his entire body felt like he might indeed crumble, his eyes burning with what felt disgustingly like tears. “This town stole my right to grieve.”

  He swallowed. Drew in a long breath. “You try killing the woman you loved and see how you sleep at night. See how you look at yourself in the mirror. All you want to do is run, pretend you aren’t the person you see. But I can’t, can I? Trust me, it’s much easier to be angry.” Jensen stormed from the room, down the hall, and into his truck.

  Sat there in the heat of the day, sweat rolling down his back.

  If they wanted to blame him for a crime, wanted a reason to put him in jail, maybe he’d give them one.

  IF JENSEN DIDN’T WANT HER to eavesdrop, then he should stop visiting her grandfather. Or shouting. Claire could have heard him in the next county, maybe even in Wisconsin.

  You try killing the woman you loved and see how you sleep at night.

  Jensen’s words had riveted her to a spot in the hallway by the nurses’ desk, where she’d been trying to nail down a conversation with her grandfather’s doctor.

  Loved. Of course he’d loved Felicity. She knew that. But to hear him admit it . . .

  Hours later, Claire still couldn’t shake away the anger clawing at her—mostly at herself for doubting Felicity. No, her friend hadn’t actually said the words, but she knew the truth in the way Felicity suggested it—she and Jensen had an affair. He’d loved her.

  Loved.

  When she nearly sliced off a finger, she set the knife down on the cutting board, shaking.

  Next to her, Grace stretched out crust, a ticket lined up in front of her. She glanced at Claire. “I’d offer to trade places with you, but this order calls for a thick crust, not something beaten to a pulp.”

  Claire managed a smile. “Sorry.”

  Tucker ran the register out front, although at the moment, he was cleaning the microwave. The dining area was empty, their lone order a takeout.

  Claire probably didn’t need to be chopping onions, but she’d store them for tomorrow. Besides, it gave her someplace to put the ache.

  What a fool she’d been letting Jensen back into her life to roam around and kick more holes in her heart.

  Maybe she should leave town. When her parents arrived and sold her grandfather’s home out from under her, she’d have nowhere to belong anyway.

  She blinked back the burn in her eyes.

  “What’s eating you?” Grace ladled out white sauce, running it around the dough. She must be making one of her signature spinach pizzas.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Really. Because how could Claire admit to anyone how betrayed she felt? How in her head over the past few days Jensen had . . . well, maybe simply become less of a villain, more of the friend she remembered.

  And then, with one sentence, he’d reminded her exactly why she hadn’t talked to him for three years.

  “You nearly added a finger to the toppings.” Grace glanced over as Claire clasped her fist tight. “Yes, I saw that.” She dusted the top of the pizza with shredded provolone. “We missed you in Bible study last night.”

  “I was with my grandfather.”

  “We prayed for him. How’s he doing?”

  “I don’t understand. He’s bedridden, in pain, and he’s acting like he’s having the time of his life.”

  “Your grandfather always made me smile. Always had a kind word for me at church. But you missed a great study. It was on Psalm 145, verses 17 through 19. ‘The Lord is righteous in everything he does; he is filled with kindness. The Lord is close to all who call on him, yes, to all who call on him in truth. He grants the desires of those who fear him; he hears their cries for help and rescues them.’”

  Trust Grace to have memorized it.

  She dotted spinach on the pizza. “We talked about what it means for God to be righteous in everything He does and to be filled with kindness.”

  Right. Kindness. Claire didn’t want to argue, but frankly, God felt anything but kind these days.

  She scooped the onions into a stainless steel container, wrapped it with plastic, and put it in the oversize fridge. Stood there, the cool air washing over her.

  She hated how the rest of Jensen’s words sat in her head, threatening to dissolve her anger.

  See how you look at yourself in the mirror. All you want to do is run, pretend you aren’t the person you see.

  Claire understood not wanting to be the person she saw. Looking in the mirror every day, wearing that stupid black visor, the black polyester shirt emblazoned with Pierre’s Pizza. Yes, she knew what it felt like to go to bed with disappointment weighting down your chest. She even u
nderstood the desire to run.

  But she’d done the opposite. Stayed in Deep Haven, paralyzed. Always paralyzed.

  Still, how did a person forgive himself for destroying so many lives? Even if it had been an accident? She’d watched him stalk out to the parking lot, sit in his truck, and for a moment . . .

  Yes, for a long moment, she wanted to forgive him. And that, perhaps, made her most angry. Jensen didn’t deserve it. Hadn’t even asked for it.

  She needed to remember that while he might not have been guilty of reckless driving, he’d broken up Felicity’s marriage, driven her out of her home that dark night.

  Jensen was right. It was much, much easier to be angry. Especially at herself for nearly falling for that signature Jensen charm.

  Grace put the finished pizza in the oven, the rollers sending it through the heat. “No more orders?” she asked Tucker.

  He shook his head. “The place is dead.”

  Claire sprayed her stainless steel workstation with cleanser, ran a cloth over it. “Grace, do you want to go home?”

  Silence.

  Grace was giving her a long, strange look. “I, uh . . . Stuart promoted me to summer manager. I need to stay until close. But you can leave if you want.”

  Claire opened her mouth, the words absent. Oh. Silly tears edged her eyes. “Right. Congratulations.” She hadn’t exactly gotten back to Stuart—apparently he tired of waiting for her answer. She should have told him, but the fact that he filled the position without hearing from her . . . “Okay then.” She unknotted her apron. “Sure. I have things to do.”

  Things. Like . . . ? She hung up the apron, punched out, and headed out the back door into the night. Her bicycle was propped against the side of the building.

  She stood there in the dirt beside her bike, blinking back more tears. It wasn’t like this job meant anything.

  Claire pedaled off toward her apartment, but the windows looked dark, forlorn, no lights even from Ivy’s place in back.

  The night arched above her, a few clouds blotting out the moon. She could smell the tinge of campfire in the air, hear the complaining of seagulls.

  She turned and began to pedal toward the cemetery.

  Claire parked her bike at the entrance by the wrought-iron gate. Moonlight dappled the Deep Haven cemetery in variegated shadow, but she knew the route by heart—four rows up the path, cut to the right, seventeen spaces over.

  Felicity rested near a towering tree of heaven, the yellow blossoms dropping like tears on the pathway. The summer after Felicity’s death, Claire had planted a garden. It seemed such a small gesture, but it kept Felicity alive somehow, especially after Mrs. Holloway thanked her.

  She’d started with hostas around the base of the simple marble stone, then dug out around it and every Memorial Day added annuals—blue ageratum and white sweet alyssum, purple lobelia and hardy pink geraniums. This year, she’d added red salvia around the edges.

  Next year, she’d plant a rose of Sharon. She’d taken a clipping from the garden in town and had it rooting in a container at home.

  Claire stopped in front of the grave to wipe grime from the stone. Maybe she shouldn’t have come out here at night—she could hardly tell the weeds from the flowers—but the wind reaped the fragrances, and just sitting here, working the soil by the feel of her hands, seemed to untangle her anger and let her experience her grief.

  She felt around the soil, found a thistle, worked her fingers to the roots.

  You try killing the woman you loved and see how you sleep at night.

  She heard Jensen’s words again, this time with pain at the edges.

  No. Jensen didn’t belong here, at the foot of Felicity’s grave, and Claire refused to feel sorry for him. He’d known that Felicity was married, known exactly what he was doing.

  And Claire had watched it happen, right there at Pierre’s Pizza.

  Felicity hitching Tiger to her other hip, then offering Jensen a one-armed hug, her eyes in his when she let go. She’d given him that cheerleader smile. “I didn’t know you were back, Jens.”

  Claire wasn’t sure how Felicity did it. She possessed a sort of bewitching power over men, but Jensen, who knew better, walked right into it. Tall and tanned, his blond hair cut short, fresh out of his second year of law school . . . the sight of him in the Pierre’s lobby had turned Claire dumb. She longed to hide, mortified when he turned to her and spied her wearing her uniform.

  Yeah, she was still here. Still hawking pizzas. Still wearing the silly visor, still—

  “Sure, I’ll help you,” he’d said to Felicity. He’d tickled Tiger in the stomach then, the two-year-old dissolving in laughter.

  Claire hadn’t wanted to know what happened after that.

  You are so selfish!

  She remembered that thought curling inside her as she watched Jensen help Felicity tuck Tiger into his car seat, watched her throw her arms around Jensen’s neck, press her body to his. Hating her best friend for—

  No. No. It wasn’t Felicity’s fault. She’d been lonely, and who could blame her, with Darek off for weeks at a time—the entire summer, really—fighting fires?

  When Felicity explained it, it made perfect sense.

  “He’s been helping me with a few things. And, well, Jensen just knows me. Understands. He’s always been that way, hasn’t he?” She’d dipped her feet into the cool, sun-tipped lake, Tiger asleep in the portable crib under the shadow of a trio of paper birches in her yard. “He’s always been so . . .”

  “Nice?” Claire had filled in the word, searching for innocence.

  “Charming.” Felicity winked. “And handsome. Don’t you think?” She made that humming sound, the one she used to make when she talked about Darek.

  And that’s when Claire knew.

  Claire yanked a thistle from the graveyard garden, threw it. “Yeah, handsome,” she said into the night. Too handsome. Just as handsome as Darek, only different. More refined. Less hard-edged and dangerous.

  Sweeter.

  Charming. Another word, probably, for slick. Or slimy.

  Playboy. Yes, that was the word.

  She felt along the soil, rooting for another thistle. No wonder Felicity had fallen for him, cheated on Darek. Jensen had always wanted her and finally grabbed his chance.

  A thistle pricked her fingers, and Claire jerked her hand back. Brought it to her mouth, tasting blood.

  She should come back with gloves. But the weed would only weave its roots around her bedding plants and choke them out.

  So she went after the thistle again. Finding it, she dug in, ignoring the pain.

  It just wasn’t fair.

  “I don’t get it, Felicity. Why? You had everything. Everyone loved you and yet you just had to have Jensen, too, didn’t you?” Claire tried to work out the weed, but it snapped in her hand, leaving the root embedded.

  Perfect.

  Stupid town. Stupid garden. Claire felt around, grabbed the stalk.

  Came up gripping a lobelia. She threw it away, angry, and reached in again. “You couldn’t just admit that you’d made a mistake marrying Darek.”

  She pulled out another stalk, found an ageratum flower in her fist.

  Fine. Claire got up on her knees, leaning in with both hands. That thistle was still there; she just had to find—

  A bunch of alyssum came out in her grip. She sat back, looked at it, and heat rose up inside her. Feeling wetness trickle off her nose, her chin, she dumped the flowers and leaned in again, rooting for the thistle. “I hate you for leaving me here.” She grabbed more of the flowers, not caring, yanking hard, tossing them aside. “For taking so many lives with you.” She pricked her finger again, and the pain sent her into a frenzy. “I hate you!” More flowers, her hands filthy with dirt. “I hate you!”

  “Claire, stop!”

  Arms went around her, grasped her wrists, held them tight. “Stop!” Jensen said into her ear. Soft and strong and smooth and—

  “Don’t touc
h me!” She twisted to push against his chest. “Stay away!”

  Jensen held up his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  That shook her. Brought her back to herself.

  He was on his knees, worry in his eyes. He’d showered or something since she saw him last, his hair tousled and clean, the smell of soap and cologne radiating off him. For a second, she just wanted to sink into him.

  But she backed away. Tried to slow her breathing.

  “Why are you destroying Felicity’s garden?” He reached down and eased her fists open. She made out two handfuls of alyssum.

  “Oh.” Claire sat back, letting the flowers fall. “I don’t know. I . . .” Her voice trembled then, and a whimper escaped. She was so pitiful, it only made it worse. “Go away, Jensen. Please—just leave me.”

  “No,” he said softly. “No.” Then he put his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace. She didn’t have the ability—or perhaps the desire—to resist.

  He put his chin on her head, tucked her in close. “Shh.”

  Jensen. She closed her eyes and breathed in the strength, the essence of him. He might not have Darek’s rugged appeal, but Jensen always possessed a gentleness, a way of listening—

  Claire pressed her hand to her mouth. She should lean away before she lost herself completely.

  “You don’t hate Felicity,” he said softly, his heart hammering under her ear. “If you should hate anyone, it’s me.”

  Well, that was true. But she didn’t feel it. Not anymore. “I don’t hate you, Jensen.” She took a long breath, listened to it shudder out. “And you’re right. I don’t hate Felicity either. It’s just . . . nothing feels right since she died.”

  She pushed away from him. His gaze held her, his lips tight.

  “I can’t seem to . . . I can’t seem to forgive.”

  He nodded.

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s not Felicity I can’t forgive. Or even . . . even you.”

  He swallowed at that, something desperate in his face. But it seemed she couldn’t stop herself. That right now, with the flowers she’d planted lying in ruin around her, she couldn’t keep it in.