She crouched down. “Hey there, Tiger. Whatcha got?”
She knew his name. Which meant she’d stuck around the ER long enough that night to hear Darek nearly unravel at Tiger’s bedside.
Nice.
“I want Cap’n Crunch,” his troublemaker said.
“I see that.” She glanced at Darek, then back to Tiger. “Hey, Tiger, I saw you at the library. What were you reading?”
Something lit in those big brown eyes. “The mouse book!”
“Oh, I know that book. ‘If you give a mouse a cookie . . .’”
“He’ll want a glass of milk!”
“And if you give him a glass of milk . . .” Ivy caught Darek’s eye. Nodded to the Cap’n Crunch box.
Tiger bought right into it. “He wants a straw!”
Darek took his chance. He eased the box from Tiger’s hand as Ivy asked, “And if you give him a straw . . .”
“He’ll want a napkin!”
“That’s right! And then he’ll check to see if he has a milk mustache.” She began to wiggle her nose. “Do I have a milk mustache?”
Tiger shook his head, laughing.
“But he has lollipop lips,” Darek said as he scooped Tiger up and plunked him into the shopping cart. “I wouldn’t get too close.”
“Yum. Can I have a lollipop?” Ivy said, still ignoring Darek.
Tiger stuck out his sticky fist, and for a moment Darek feared Ivy might actually do it—lick the sticky, gooey lollipop.
“Oh no, that’s all yours, bud. Besides, if you give me a lollipop, I might ask for . . .”
“A glass of milk!”
She laughed, and Darek did too. And then finally—finally—she looked at him.
Oh, she had beautiful eyes. Green, with golden flecks around the edges. And the prettiest shade of auburn hair, silky and thick. Why hadn’t he seen that before?
“You’re brilliant,” Darek whispered.
She smiled, and for a second, words left him. How he wished he could return to that night two weeks ago and redo it. Be the kind of date she deserved.
“No. I just lived with professional mothers who knew how to distract a kid in the grocery aisle.”
He frowned. “Professional mothers?”
“I was a foster kid, remember?”
Oh, that’s right. He tried a smile.
“That’s okay. It was a trying night. How’s Tiger?” She pointed to his forehead. “Seems to be healing okay.”
“Seven stitches. I’m sure they’re not the last.” He winced. “It’s been a long shopping experience.”
“I get that. One of my foster mothers made us push the cart—that way we couldn’t run away. You could try using one of those carts with the little cars built in them.”
“This is Deep Haven. They don’t have those.”
“Right. Then how about letting him do the shopping? Have him help you find things. Kids love that.”
“Really? Can I hire you?”
She laughed again. “Thanks, but I already have a job. One I have to get back to.”
But—
She turned to Tiger. “Don’t give out any cookies.”
He grinned.
“Nice to see you, Darek.”
And then she was walking away.
“Uh, Ivy?”
He sounded desperate, but he couldn’t help his tone. Not when he felt it all the way to his bones.
She turned. Smiled with those pretty lips.
“Hey, I didn’t do a very good job the other night.”
She frowned.
“I mean, you didn’t exactly get your money’s worth.”
Oh. Whoops. She glanced over her shoulder. Began to shake her head.
“No, I mean . . . I can do better.”
No, no . . .
“Really, Darek, let’s just forget—”
“How about a real date?”
Their words crossed in the air and hung there. She stared at him, swallowed.
He wheeled the cart toward her, cutting his voice low. “This isn’t coming out right. But . . . well, I’d like a chance to redeem myself.”
“There’s nothing to redeem.” She looked genuinely uncomfortable, and now he felt sorry for both of them.
“There is and you know it. So how about this: my family is having a little Fourth of July party, with root beer floats and, who knows, maybe even a few fireworks. Will you join us? I promise, I’m much nicer the second time around.”
She wore what he would peg as a litigator face because she seemed to be sizing him up. He was suddenly aware of his ripped, somewhat-dirty jeans—he’d been replacing a few rotted logs from the walking path when his mother asked him to head to town for the grocery run—and his Jude County Hotshots T-shirt with a hole in the arm. Had he even combed his hair or brushed his teeth this morning?
Ivy might have sensed his urge to flee because she gave a quick smile but said, “I don’t know. I don’t want to get into the middle of anything.”
He frowned. “Middle?”
She lowered her voice. “Listen, I understand divorce happens; it’s just a little sticky. So . . .”
“Divorce. Oh.” He made a face. Shoot, he hadn’t exactly explained that. But who would? My wife was killed—yeah, that came out great on a first date.
Or whatever it was they’d had.
“I’m a widower, Ivy.”
She blinked at that. “Oh. Uh, I’m so sorry.” For a second, a shade of pity crossed her face. See, this was why he hadn’t—
“I guess I could spend the Fourth of July with you.” Then her voice brightened and she faced Tiger. “But only if Tiger is going to be there.”
“Yes. For sure,” Darek said, a strange warmth coursing through him.
“Good,” she said.
“I’ll call you and give you directions.” He turned his cart away before she changed her mind.
“But you don’t know my number.”
He gave a quick laugh. “You’re in Deep Haven. I’ll find you.”
As he left her there, he glanced down at his son, who grinned, that sticky red sucker now collecting fuzz on his cheeks. “Good job, Tiger.”
Days like today, Jensen thought he might actually survive living in Deep Haven, might even redeem himself, just a little. Erase the legacy of his mistakes and replace it with the man he wanted to be.
“You did a good thing,” Pastor Dan Matthews had said that night over two weeks ago when he arrived with the ambulance to bring in Gibs. Meant a lot, especially since Dan had been one of the first on the scene the night Felicity lay dying in Jensen’s arms.
He wanted to lean into Dan’s words and believe that someday . . . Well, maybe Deep Haven would never forgive him. But maybe they’d start feeling bad about the way they’d treated him.
The memory of Dan’s words conspired to give him the courage to stand outside Gibs’s hospital room, ready to ask for the impossible.
At the very least, even if his courage failed him, he should check in on the man. Jensen had heard Gibs had returned to Deep Haven today after a two-week stint in Duluth, getting surgery, pins, and a host of other orthopedic care.
Now, with the man back in town . . . Well, he’d been working on his speech all day, along with his offer, and it couldn’t hurt to ask, right?
Jensen glanced around for Claire, prepared to retreat if he saw her—she didn’t need him here reminding her of her loss. Two weeks ago, he’d made sure to leave the hospital when he saw Claire arrive, still dressed in her Pierre’s uniform, her dark hair caught in a net, looking as if her world might be on fire.
But now, the chair next to the bed looked empty, so Jensen tiptoed in.
He’d always liked the sunny rooms at the hospital—the few times he’d had stitches or that one time when his mother’s fear of appendicitis kept him overnight. A vase of peonies sat on Gibs’s bedside table, probably from one of Claire’s many gardens.
Gibs lay in bed, his arms thin and frail on the sheet that cover
ed his barrel body. A large foam pillow shaped like a triangle lay strapped between both legs to immobilize them. He wore an oxygen cannula under his nose, an IV dripping into an insertion on his arm.
Jensen stood there for a moment. He thought he’d seen the old man watching television. But now it seemed—
“I know you’re standing there. Just sit down.”
Jensen nearly jumped from his skin. “I didn’t want to wake you, sir.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” Gibs opened one eye. “Not with you standing there practically hyperventilating.”
Oh.
Jensen sat down.
“So. I guess you’re the one who brought me in?”
Jensen nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you sooner, sir—”
“Jensen, for pete’s sake, I’ve known you since you were trying to light firecrackers off my dock. You can dispense with the sir.”
“Sorry, sir . . . Mr. . . .”
Gibs shook his head. Jensen didn’t expect the humor, the warmth in his eyes. “Son. Thank you.”
His chest loosened. “You’re welcome.”
“So why the heavy breathing?”
“I . . . Well, see, sir, I wanted to talk to you about your property.”
Gibs raised an eyebrow. “Hitting a man when he’s down?” But he smiled.
“No, sir—”
“Jensen.”
“Gibs. It’s just . . . well, I didn’t know what your plans were, and you have a pretty big parcel on that side of the lake. My father—”
“I know what your father wants.” Gibs’s smile dimmed.
“It is the only sandy beach on the entire lake. And really, we only need deeded access so our residents could enjoy the lake.”
“Your residential community owns half the lake as it is.”
“But you own the best part. And I promise you, we’d pay what it’s worth.” He handed Gibs an envelope with terms he’d sketched out last night, dusting off his lawyerspeak.
Gibs opened it, read it through. “That’s fair.”
“You’d still have plenty of private shoreline.”
The man nodded. “I would like to give Claire some money for college. I guess I could sell off—”
“You’re selling nothing, Grandpop.”
Jensen winced even as he turned.
Yep, Claire stood in the door, wearing a green dress, a red knit beret, a pair of high gladiator sandals. She glowered at him, setting a cup of coffee on the bedside table. “I step out for ten minutes to run to the Java Cup and come back to find you swindling my grandfather’s land from him.”
“I wasn’t—”
“No, you can’t buy our land, thank you. Grandpop is going to be fine, aren’t you?” She looked at Gibs pointedly.
As if he had a choice.
“Honey, listen to me. Jensen here has given me a good offer. And it could help you foot that college bill.” He reached out to catch her hand. She moved toward him like a robot, jerkily.
Jensen had to look away from her stricken expression.
“You can’t stay in Deep Haven forever,” Gibs went on. “We both know that. You have to leave sometime, and maybe this is your chance. The doc says I have three to six months of recovery left, and frankly, I’m not sure I can finagle getting around the house on my own. With this offer, I can recuperate at the care center—”
“No.” She ripped her hand out of his. Even Jensen looked up at her tone. “No, you’re coming home. You can recuperate there. I’m staying. I’m taking care of you.”
“Claire—”
But she ignored her grandfather and rounded on Jensen. “You. Take your offer and get out.” She grabbed the envelope from Gibs’s hand and thrust it at Jensen. “Now.”
Jensen stared at the envelope but refused to take it. “Claire, think this through—”
“Now!”
He tightened his jaw. “You know, you could try seeing past what you think of me to what is good for your grandfather. And for you.”
“I know what’s good for both of us. To stay far away from you.”
Ouch.
He glanced at Gibs. “Thanks for considering it, anyway.”
Gibs’s mouth tightened to a grim line. “If you ever feel like playing a game of checkers—”
“Grandpop!” Claire’s mouth opened for only a second before she charged around the bed, grabbing Jensen by the arm. “Get. Out.”
Jensen caught Gibs’s wink just as she pushed him out the door.
He stood in the hall listening to the click of the door behind him. The nurse from the station looked up at him, and he felt heat flood his face. He turned and quickly walked down the hallway.
At least the old man was okay. And it hadn’t exactly hurt to ask, had it?
Get. Out.
Right. Her words stung. Despite his sins, he would have thought their past still mattered. He could still remember the days when he could make her laugh or when she’d sit with him on the beach roasting marshmallows after Felicity and Darek had left.
He wondered if she remembered those days too.
Probably not.
Jensen got into the work truck and headed to the courthouse, a familiar sourness in his chest. Even after three years, walking into the courthouse and up to his probation officer’s office seemed like a walk along the green mile.
He took the stairs two at a time and then turned toward the end of the hall, where he knocked on Mitch O’Conner’s door.
Mitch sat at his desk, his blond head bronzed from a recent fishing trip. “Hey, Jensen. I thought I might be seeing you today. Any big plans for the Fourth of July weekend?”
Jensen handed him his weekly time card. “I’ll probably see if I can’t coax a walleye or two onto my lure in Evergreen Lake.” Or not. He hadn’t gone fishing since . . . well, before the accident, for sure. But he didn’t want Mitch to know that he’d be sitting alone or even tucked into some corner at the VFW or Evergreen Lake Tavern, watching the Blue Monkeys hammer out Cash or Coltrane.
Mitch took out his calculator, began to punch in numbers. “I hear we’re supposed to get some rain.”
Jensen sank into a chair, watching him tally the hours. “We need it. I drove by the forest service headquarters and they listed today’s fire hazard as high. The air even smells dry.”
“One lightning strike and the entire forest goes up.” Mitch looked up. “Okay, Jensen, we have to talk. According to my calculations, if you don’t increase your hours, you won’t make it.”
He met Jensen’s eyes, and every muscle in his body froze. “What does that mean?”
Mitch’s mouth tightened. “The terms of your probation say that if you don’t fulfill your community service hours, you serve the entire mandatory four years of your sentence. That means prison.”
Prison.
Jensen looked out the window, an anvil on his chest. He’d added up the hours, known it was tight, but . . . now he couldn’t breathe.
“I know you’re working hard these days, Jensen, but you can admit you wasted that first year—”
“I am not guilty!” The words simply burst out of him. “I didn’t even see her—believe me, I think about that moment every single day. I think through every second, working through my motions. I wasn’t speeding; I had just touched the radio—”
“They found your cell phone open.”
“I hadn’t touched it since I pulled out of my drive, and . . . Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” He stood. Walked to the window. “It doesn’t matter what the truth is. Deep Haven just wanted to crucify me.”
“You pleaded guilty.”
Jensen rounded on him. “Because if I didn’t, I would have gone to prison for four years for a crime I didn’t commit! Instead I got three years trapped in this town, facing people every day who hate me.”
Mitch didn’t refute his words.
Jensen looked out the window. “I would give anything to go back to that night . . .” To not see Felicity suddenly veer out into t
he road, to not hear her screams as he plowed her over. To not feel his car lurch against her weight. To not hear his own screaming as he found her, broken in the ditch, dying.
Sometimes he felt like he still might be screaming.
“I didn’t see her. I didn’t . . .” He closed his eyes, and to his horror, he thought he might actually tear up.
“Listen, Jensen, keep at it. Who knows? Maybe a miracle will happen and you’ll suddenly get a windfall of hours.”
Mitch didn’t smile. Jensen couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
“I don’t think there are any miracles left for me,” he said. “Have a happy Independence Day, Mitch.”
The man said nothing as Jensen closed the door behind him.
Ivy closed her office door, the last one to leave. Again. But she’d set that precedent for two weeks now, and . . . well, she had fully expected to come in during tomorrow’s national day off. Now . . .
Now she had a date. With an entire family.
She pushed out through the double doors onto the sidewalk, where the moon, already hung in the sky, draped a golden path home. The air smelled of barbecues caught in the fresh wind off the lake. She had chosen to walk to work today, delighted that the courthouse sat only three blocks from her apartment.
The charms of a small town.
Like the sound of live music drifting from a nearby outside eatery. And unknown neighbors who waved to her from their porch. And . . . meeting someone’s entire family.
Ivy pressed a hand to her stomach, empty since she’d forced down the deli ham sandwich at lunch. But the waves inside had nothing to do with hunger.
She was suddenly sitting again in a waiting room, about to meet a potential adoptive family. All her dreams curled up into one hot ball inside.
She was ten years old, thinking maybe. Maybe they’d like her instantly. Maybe the father would swing her up into his arms, the mother would smile at her, beaming, call her a princess, make her their own.
Yes, and maybe they’d take her home, where she’d never have to leave, where she could have her own bed, maybe carve her name into a backyard tree.
She ran her hand across her cheek, dispelled the moisture there. Foolish maybes. She would harbor no such what-ifs for Darek.
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