C01 Take a Chance on Me

by Susan May Warren

The voice turned her, and she found Angelica Michaels behind her. The ten-year-old wore shorts and a yellow T-shirt, her blonde hair in two braids, concern in her almond-shaped eyes.

  “Hello, Angie. I’m not hurting them. I’m pruning them so they’ll grow better. See, I’m cutting these tiny, thin stalks because they only make the plant weaker. And to give it big, strong flowers, I’m pinching off these little flowers. That way all the nutrients go to make this one bud strong.”

  Angelica’s mother, Mona, came out of the wellness center. “Hello, Claire.”

  “Mrs. Michaels.”

  “I thought I’d see you at the Garden. The staff is worried they’ll have to evacuate, and they’re digging up a number of strawberries in order to save their different varieties. I would have thought they’d ask for your gardening expertise. Joe’s been there for three days, cutting back the forest, and I think he’s set up a sprinkler system to save the house.”

  “I had no idea the fire was that close.”

  Mona nodded. “I’m driving up to get Joe’s brother and bring him to town. If they have to evacuate, it will stress Gabriel even more to be in a new location.”

  “We’re going to get Uncle Gabe,” Angie said.

  Mona kissed her on the forehead. “That’s right, honey.” She turned to Claire. “Think you’ll start up the reading group again in the fall? Angie loves listening to you read at the Footstep.”

  Claire smiled. “As a matter of fact, I think I will.”

  Because, yes, she’d be here. For the first time in three years, the answer, the decision, felt right. Even perfect.

  She snipped one of the flowers just starting to bud and handed it to Angie. “Put this in water, and it’ll open in a day or two.”

  Angie’s eyes glowed.

  “Thank you, Claire. You always make everything so beautiful.” Mona took her daughter’s hand and they headed down the street.

  The Garden. Hadn’t Grandpop said something about Jensen working there with Joe on Friday? Maybe he’d stayed over to help them fireproof the place.

  See, she too easily read into things. Like Jensen’s so-called affair with Felicity. She should have known he wasn’t the kind of person to do that. Betray his best friend.

  No. Jensen was a good man, a kind man. She’d always known that.

  Claire finished fertilizing, pruning, and mulching, then set the timer on the sprinklers to come on in the cool of the day. By the time she cleaned up, the sun hung low over the horizon. To the north, smoke from the fire plumed in the sky. It did seem to be closer, but perhaps the wind only pushed the smoke toward the lake.

  She changed into jeans and a T-shirt and headed to the care center. She hoped to catch Dr. Samson on his late-afternoon rounds, corner him about releasing her grandfather into her care. With the ramps done and the house cleaned, it was time for him to come home.

  The geranium pots by the care center’s front door needed watering, the soil caked and hard. Good thing geraniums were hardy.

  Inside, Mrs. Westerlind was sitting by the window, staring out to better times. Claire crouched by her wheelchair, touched her paper-thin skin. “Good afternoon, Minnie. The flowers down at Presley Park are beautiful. I saw Timothy in the newspaper on Friday—he won the Fourth of July fishing contest. Such a handsome great-grandson you have.”

  Minnie blinked, slowly turned her head. Claire smiled at her. “God loves you, Minnie,” she said.

  Then she got up and waved to Ellery, sitting in a chair by the table. He was working on a Scrabble board, one gnarled hand arranging the pieces.

  She headed down the hall to her grandfather’s room. Maybe she’d find a way to volunteer here after Grandpop moved home.

  Stopping by the nurses’ station, she asked, “Is Dr. Samson in yet?”

  The nurse made a face. “Sorry, Claire. He’s gone for the day. But he already spoke to your parents, I think.”

  “They called?”

  “Honey, they’re here, with your grandfather.”

  Claire stilled. Here? Now?

  Deep breath.

  That didn’t have to change anything. Once they saw the house, saw that she could care for her grandfather . . . Claire found a smile. “Thanks.”

  She took a quick, full breath and headed down the hall. Mom, Dad. I’m so glad you made it. It’s so great to see you! She cycled the words through her head until she meant them and then opened her grandfather’s door.

  “It’s my property. I will do what I want with it.”

  She stopped just over the threshold, letting the door whoosh shut behind her. What—?

  “Claire bear!” Her mother, dressed in jeans, a white blouse, and a pair of dock shoes, got up from her chair and headed for Claire, arms open. Wanda Gibson didn’t believe in hair dye, so there were strands of gray tucked in with her dark hair, cut into a manageable shag. The years had gained on her, but not by much, and she still had the strong grip of a trauma surgeon used to making hard decisions. She pulled her daughter into a hug. “I’ve missed you, sweetheart.”

  Claire took the chance to sink into her mother, to cherish her embrace, however fleeting this moment might be. Because she had no doubt her grandfather had just laid down the law—and he was right. It was his property, and they couldn’t fly in here and yank it from him.

  Her father had also risen and come over to greet her. He’d put on a couple pounds overseas, but it didn’t show much on his tall frame. His hair was thickly salted, his eyes still warm—he resembled a wizened old professor rather than a missionary general practice doctor. He kissed the top of her head.

  “We just got into town or we would have called,” her mother said. “You look good. Have you been gardening again?” She picked up her daughter’s hand, examining her fingers.

  “Working the roses at Presley Park.”

  “Claire does many of the gardens around town, Wanda,” her grandfather said. He looked at her with a smile, her partner in revolution.

  “Well, that’s a fine hobby,” Wanda said. “I can’t keep a cactus alive.”

  “That’s okay, darling. Just stick to people.” Rick Gibson pressed a kiss to his wife’s cheek.

  Claire knew he didn’t mean it as a slight. Really.

  “How are you today, Grandpop? I’m sorry I missed the doctor. Did you talk to him about going home? Did he give you the all clear?”

  She’d raised something from the dead there because the room went silent. Grandpop reached for her hand.

  She stared at it, his grip in hers, the way he tightened it. And . . . Oh no. She started shaking her head.

  “Claire, we all know that house is getting to be too much for me. The wood heater, the plowing just to get out in the winter. Truth is, my bones are tired.”

  Her throat tightened. “But I could take care of all that—”

  “No, darlin’. You need to stop worrying about me and start figuring out what you want to do with your life.”

  But . . . Grandpop was her life. And Deep Haven and Jensen—

  “Besides, Jensen has offered me a tidy price. Enough to purchase a place at the senior center condos—and enough to pay for you to start college.”

  Jensen offered . . . “When?”

  “I talked to him on Friday.”

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe for the coils around her chest. Friday. After he’d kissed her. After he’d acted like maybe he’d stay. Here in Deep Haven. With her.

  Her mother’s hand curled over her shoulder. “It’s for the best, honey. And it’s so generous of your grandfather to give you this start, isn’t it?”

  Claire tried to smile—she did. But her eyes were clouding.

  “We need to get settled at the missionary house the pastor rented us for the rest of the summer, and then tomorrow we’ll start sorting through your grandfather’s things.” Her mother reached over and touched his leg. “Don’t you worry, Dad; we’ll get you moved in before we leave.”

  She turned back to Claire. “And you—I th
ink we need to start getting some applications filled out. What about St. Scholastica? Or even the University of Minnesota, Duluth?”

  Her grandfather met her eyes, a hint of compassion in his. “Claire—”

  “I can’t believe Jensen did this. I never should have trusted him.” She turned, pushed past her father.

  “Claire?”

  She had no words for him, for any of them. Not with her heart lodged soundly in her throat, threatening to choke her.

  Claire stalked out the door, down the hall, ignored the residents in the lobby, and hit the doors, straight out into the heat of the late afternoon.

  Jensen did this.

  If he’d never intended for her grandfather to move home, why did he keep working?

  She stood in the parking lot, in the glaring sun, realization pouring through her. Of course. To get to Grandpop. The more he wooed Claire, the easier she’d get out of his way. Long enough to convince her grandfather to sell.

  Long enough to betray her.

  Another deception. Another hit-and-run by Jensen Atwood. Why had she believed his words? He’d probably even lied about his affair with Felicity.

  Oh, she was such a fool.

  Claire climbed into her Yaris. Sat in the sweltering heat for a long moment, then started the car. The air-conditioning blasted tepid air, and sweat ran down her back as she headed toward her grandfather’s cabin.

  She barely braked at a stop sign, then headed up the hill, her eyes watery. Oh, God must be laughing now. She’d been blindsided again. Knocked in the head, taken to the floor, kicked.

  God wasn’t kind, and that realization sank deep into her bones until she wanted to wail. But this time, she didn’t have her grandparents to soften the blow, to embrace her, to keep her safe.

  She took Evergreen Road, turning on the north branch. Her grandfather’s place was dark, of course. She climbed out, still shaking. Walked to the dock.

  Jensen’s house remained dark, not a hint of life. Just like his heart.

  “I really hate you.” She wasn’t sure to whom she might be talking—maybe Jensen, maybe life, but the words echoed back to her.

  Ignoring Jensen’s new ramp, she took the side entrance, feeling her way into the house in the darkness. She knew where every chair, every lamp, every knickknack sat and now sank into Grandpop’s chair, feeling the grooves in it.

  How many times had she emerged from her room late at night to see him here, rocking. Praying. She’d climb into his lap, even at fifteen, and he’d tuck her close and pray for her, quote Bible verses over her.

  “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’”

  Claire shook the memory away. Then she reached for one of her grandmother’s knit afghans, bunching it under her head, inhaling the sweet aroma of her childhood.

  She didn’t care what plans God had for her. She wasn’t leaving.

  After days of digging into the earth, sawing down trees, and creating a fire perimeter around the Garden, Jensen wanted nothing more than to crawl home, take a shower, and sleep.

  He’d call Claire first. The memory of her holding on to him, her pretty eyes in his, her smile—yeah, that had kept him going as Joe the Overseer directed him and a small crew of church volunteers during the past few days. They’d cleared twenty feet of forest around the edge of the property, and Joe had laid down hoses across the grounds, setting up sprinklers to face the lodge.

  The smoke hovered like a specter, weaving through the trees, descending lower upon the property with each hour. Jensen wore a bandanna over his nose, a pair of goggles that one of the volunteers had gone to town to purchase, and now held a chain saw, wearing earplugs to soften the noise as he mowed down a tall white pine that could turn into a deadly torch should the fire light it. It could topple onto the house, the green perimeter they’d created, and burn the lodge to a crisp.

  He’d slept little, the fear in the residents’ eyes pressing him to keep working, and now exhaustion turned his body to ribbons of agony. But at night, he could make out the glow of fire against the sky. Growing.

  He knew about the Garden, of course, the group home in the woods for adults with mental challenges. The residents earned some of their own income with an acre of strawberries they picked and sold all summer.

  What he hadn’t known, however, was that Gabe, Joe Michaels’s brother, lived here. In his late thirties, Gabe had lived in the area for over a decade. Joe had introduced Jensen to his brother as “a friend from Deep Haven.”

  A friend.

  He’d liked the sound of that, probably too much. But the combination of Joe’s words and the memory of Claire in his arms conspired to make Jensen believe it.

  The saw bit through the tree trunk, nearly to the other side. He backed it out, then shut it off, leaning hard against the cut tree.

  At first, it didn’t want to budge. But he picked up a sledge and gave it a good whack. The tree shivered. Another blow and he heard a sharp crack. Then the tree began to list. He pushed against the trunk, just to give it encouragement, and the pine began to fall, faster as it headed toward the ground. Branches caught in the arms of the forest, ripping other trees as the momentum lashed them until the pine landed with a terrible shudder.

  Jensen pulled off his hard hat and dragged an arm across his forehead. Sweat slicked off onto his shirt—long-sleeved and covered in dirt and woodchips. He picked up the saw and tromped back to the perimeter of the property where he’d left his shovel. He’d dug a five-foot swath, as Joe instructed, but it seemed an inadequate defense to stop the onslaught of fire that cracked and shot off flares in the distance.

  Jensen was downing the tepid, nearly hot water in his canteen when Joe came up. He looked as exhausted and grimy as Jensen, dirt caught in his three days of beard growth, his jeans dirty and ripped. Jensen recognized Pastor Dan, aka the fire chief, trudging up behind Joe, carrying a map.

  “’Sup?”

  “We got a call from the NFS. They’re worried the fire is headed this way. They’re recommending we evacuate.”

  “We’ve got the sprinkler system ready to go,” Joe said. “And Ruby, the house manager, has the residents packing some belongings.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Dan said. “We have calls going around the church prayer line. We’ll find homes for them.”

  Joe coughed. “I don’t know, Dan. We had a fire here about ten years ago. We had to ship the residents to group homes around the state until we rebuilt. It was hard on all of them. My brother nearly came unglued.” He shook his head. “Mona is coming to get him, but the fact is, all of them need stability. Something familiar. It would be best if they stayed together.”

  “There are twenty residents, Joe. The hotels are full, and they can’t live in the church—”

  “How about my house?” Jensen said. The idea formed as quickly as it tumbled out. “I’ve got a big place—five bedrooms—and we could haul in more mattresses. I know the thrift shop has a few in the back room—and blankets and pillows too. There’s plenty of room and they could all be together.”

  A slow smile creased Joe’s face. “That’s a great idea. Thanks.”

  “I’ll set the sprinklers to go while you load up the residents.”

  Joe nodded, and he and Dan headed toward the house.

  Jensen picked up his tools, jogged to his truck, piled them in. He hollered at a couple of the other volunteers to add to the pile, just in case they needed to do any more work around his place.

  But his house came equipped with state-of-the-art sprinklers, a trimmed boundary that he meticulously maintained in accordance with the NFS, and besides, it was south of Evergreen Lake.

  Yes, the residents would be safe there.

  Seemed like a better use for the house—a sanctuary rather than a hiding place.

  Jensen ran to the Garden house, found a spigot, and turned it on full. Water
began to spray the house and the grass to the perimeter of the property. He ran through the spray, relishing the cool water, and turned on the next line of sprinklers at the spigot behind the house.

  In the strawberry gardens, the automatic sprinkler system rose from the ground. Joe had repositioned the heads so that they now sprayed to the farthest edges, creating a rim of water.

  By the time Jensen reached the final spigot, the residents had packed themselves into the volunteers’ trucks, vans, and SUVs.

  Jensen climbed into his truck, Joe sliding in beside him. He backed out, headed south. Smoke drifted across the road like fingers against the beam of his headlights.

  “Thanks for doing this, Jensen,” Joe said.

  “I’m glad to help.” More than glad, really.

  “Well, I know this town hasn’t exactly been kind to you over the past three years.”

  Jensen glanced at him, an eerie tightness in his chest. During the days at the Garden, he’d been able to forget, at least briefly, his pariah status in Deep Haven, working in camaraderie with volunteers from the community church. But now . . .

  “The truth is, I didn’t know what to think. I was on the EMS team that responded that night, and I saw you weeping over Felicity. Felt like an accident to me.”

  Jensen stared straight ahead, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

  “I have to give you props for staying here.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.” He didn’t mean for that to emerge with such a sharp edge.

  “No, but I’ve watched you. People like you. You’re kind, and you do the work.”

  “People don’t like me, Joe. They tolerate me, at best.”

  Joe made a funny noise, one that sounded like disagreement.

  Jensen glanced at him.

  “Gibs doesn’t tolerate you. He thinks the world of you.”

  “That’s because I saved his life.”

  “I think you should stop right there and take a look at your words. You saved his life.”

  “Okay, not his life, but—”

  “I’m not arguing with you. I’m trying to help you see the truth. You’re not the pariah you see yourself as.”

  “You don’t understand, Joe. The town wants me to apologize. And I can’t.”