“Sounds about right. I’ll review the case, and if it warrants it, I’ll write up a report and issue an emergency removal request immediately.”
“Good.”
She expected Diane to get up, but the woman just sat there. As if waiting.
Hmm. Ivy took the folder, opened it.
No . . . Her breath stopped. She reached for her reading glasses, pulled them on. Tried not to let her hand shake.
“There are three complaints in total, all filed over the past two months. She also took pictures for each complaint. They’re in the file.”
Indeed, pictures of Tiger betrayed a rather brutal story. With the injuries on his face, he looked positively abused.
“And there are two accounts of an altercation Darek had last night.” Diane pressed her hands together, reaching out to Ivy with her eyes. “Listen, we all know that it’s a little tough on Darek with all that’s been going on. But Nan has raised real concerns, and we at CPS take every report seriously.”
Ivy wanted to throw the entire file against the wall. These were not the situations that needed intervention. No, kids sleeping in cars and in flophouses and begging on the street for food—now there might be a case deserving an emergency status.
Still, her head told her that, had she not known Darek and the circumstances, she might be equally concerned.
And that was the problem. She did know Darek.
Worse, as she looked up, she had the sense that Diane knew that.
Ivy took a breath and came out with the truth. “I can’t fairly evaluate this report. I . . . I have personal knowledge about this situation, and I can tell you that—”
“You have personal knowledge, which means you’ll have to recuse yourself from this evaluation.”
“Agreed, but again, I know Darek—”
“It doesn’t matter. The facts are the facts.”
“But that’s what I’m saying: the facts are wrong.”
“You’re not impartial.” Diane sighed, something of compassion crossing her face. “Listen, I know Darek too. And I don’t necessarily believe these allegations. But they are strong enough that we have to take a closer look. Here’s the problem: if you dismiss them and Nan pushes, she can say you had prejudice against the report, refused to protect the child, and suddenly Darek’s being looked at by the state, not just the county. Then Theo gets taken from his home and Nan’s home, gets put in foster care in Duluth, and it becomes a nightmare for everyone.”
“But I can’t issue an emergency removal order if I know there isn’t a reason.”
“Then pass the case to someone else. How about Jodi? She’ll review it and write a recommendation for you.”
Which Ivy would have to obey or, again, look as if she had prejudice against the report.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m not uncaring here. I’ve known Darek for years, and despite a few wild escapades in high school, he seems like a good father. But people change when they’re under the stress Darek’s been under, and we have to act in the child’s best interest.”
“It is not in Tiger’s best interest to be taken from his father.”
“You want to believe that. But it’s not your decision. If we don’t follow the letter of the law on this, Nan will press it. Who knows but Darek could lose custody of his child.”
“Why is Nan doing this?”
Diane got up. “I probably shouldn’t say this because Nan and I are friends, but the fact is, Nan is angry. She still blames Darek for stealing her daughter’s heart away from the man Nan wanted her to marry.”
Ivy stared at her. “Who?”
“Jensen Atwood, of course. They were dating when Darek came home and got Felicity pregnant. Nan’s never forgiven him for that.”
“It seems to me that Felicity made her choice.” Oh, shoot, did she really say that? So much for impartial.
“Depends on who you talk to. But the minute Felicity died on that terrible night, this town took sides. And Nan is on the side against Darek. If you want to help him, you have to stand back and trust the system.”
Trust the system. Sure. She became a lawyer because she didn’t trust the system. Because she knew that it failed people. Her.
And now Darek and Tiger.
“Give the report to Jodi,” Diane said. “And whatever you do, you can’t tell him.”
Diane closed the door behind her as Ivy sank her face into her hands.
For a long moment, she wished she’d never set foot in Deep Haven.
GIBS WOULDN’T LEAVE HIM ALONE. Jensen felt as if the old man sat in his head, digging at him, his words like a lawn mower, churning away.
For a guy who doesn’t think he needs forgiveness, you’re certainly trying hard to earn it.
He’d finished widening the doors of Gibs’s house before the sun peeked over the far horizon and now was drinking a cup of coffee while standing on the Gibson beach. Overhead, a smoky orange haze evidenced the fires to the north, the smell of burning wood pungent in the air.
He drove the four-wheeler back to his house, then went through the gated community and tested the sprinklers, just in case. His father had installed a state-of-the-art fire-protection system throughout the acreage years ago, after the Moose Lake fire. The system pumped water from the lake and could be rerouted to douse both the houses and the forest.
Jensen heard the phone ringing as he showered and came out to find a missed call from his father. The old man had likely gotten word of his upcoming failure and incarceration. Jensen knew his dad still had connections in this town. Probably Mitch himself, calling up to inform on him.
Before heading to Gibs’s place yesterday, Jensen had cleaned cages at the animal shelter, sorted clothing at the thrift store, and tried to figure out what he could do to add hours to his time. Anything to stay out of prison, stay in Deep Haven.
And to think, a few days ago, he’d been ready to run. But that was before he’d kissed Claire. Before he remembered just why he’d wanted to stay in Deep Haven. What brought him back every year after he’d left.
Claire. Not Felicity. He knew that now.
Last night he’d dropped his measly time card off for Mitch, who added the hours to his chart and told him, “You have seventy-four left.”
Seventy-four in two weeks. He could accomplish it, if he had enough places, maybe.
Now he got into his work truck—having parked the Mustang back in the garage—and headed to town.
He stopped in at the donut shop, found Lucy Brewster behind the counter and her husband, Seb, the current mayor, in the back, powdering donuts.
“I’ll take a glazed raised and a skizzle,” he said. “And how about a couple sugar cake donuts?”
He didn’t exactly know what Gibs liked these days, but he’d once been a pushover for skizzles.
“How are you, Jensen?” Lucy asked. She was always so kind to him, even after the accident. “Can you see the fire from your place?”
“A little over the horizon, but I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Seb was looking at him, nodding. “I hear they’re bringing in more type-two fire teams. I wish they’d call for volunteers—”
“No, it’s technical work; trust me,” Jensen said. “People think being a wildland firefighter is just digging, but being on a crew is much more. You have to understand fire, how to take care of yourself—”
“Were you on a crew?”
“Not long enough,” Jensen said. “Thanks for the donuts.”
The seagulls called after him as he climbed into his truck. The haze had filtered into town, turned the air murky as he drove to the Deep Haven Care Center. Claire had mentioned that Gibs moved to a private room earlier this week.
He owed the guy a rematch in checkers.
And okay, he wanted to ask a few questions. Like how did someone shake free of the past? Really shake free?
Jensen pulled up to the care center, parked the truck, grabbed the donuts, and went in through the dou
ble sliding doors. He glanced in a couple rooms as he walked down the hall, his heart bleeding a little at the sight of so many elderly waiting out the last years of their lives.
He was tired of waiting for tomorrow. Waiting for his sentence to be over.
He wanted to learn how to live.
He found the right room, could see Gibs in bed, talking to a man out of view. Jensen paused. Listened. Froze.
“I’d like to sell the land to you, John. I really would. But I already promised it to Jensen. He’s offering a nice price, something that would help Claire go to college. Finally.”
John . . . Christiansen? Oh no.
And that’s when Gibs looked up. Glanced at the bag and smiled. “Donut delivery, just in time.”
Funny how Gibs always made Jensen feel like he’d done something right. Except . . . well, except last time, when he’d driven him from the room.
But now Gibs perked up, gesturing him inside. Jensen didn’t want to look at John Christiansen, sitting there in a chair, his legs crossed. But John didn’t seem to have a problem getting up, reaching to shake his hand. “Jensen. How are you?”
Huh. “Fine.”
“Keeping busy?”
“Yeah. Here and there.”
“Your dad’s place sure looks nice. You’re doing a great job there.”
“Thanks.”
No malice. No hatred. John even smiled at him, nothing of accusation on his face.
“See you round, Gibs. I’ll be by to check on you when you get back home.” John shook his hand.
Jensen watched him go.
“Those donuts for me, son?”
He held out the bag, and Gibs smiled as he pulled out the skizzle. “You remembered.”
“John Christiansen wants to buy your land?”
“Apparently my son told him he could. But I’m still entertaining your offer.” He winked. “Much better.”
“But, Gibs, I . . . Claire is really looking forward to you moving home, and . . .” He didn’t want to give away her project, but clearly she hadn’t told him. “She’s made a few preparations.”
“Yeah, I know. Like planning to quit her job at Pierre’s.”
She was?
“And putting her apartment up for lease.”
How did he not know this? Was he still so mired in his own world that he hadn’t listened to hers?
“But I have news for her. I wasn’t able to give my son much, but if you’re serious about your offer, then I am serious about taking it. It would give Claire a future, and I put in a request to move to the senior center in town. All my friends live there, and I wouldn’t mind being a little closer to the VFW.”
Jensen went blank. Claire would murder him if—
“I don’t think I can buy your land, sir.”
Gibs frowned, drew in a long breath, set down the skizzle, which had dripped sugar on his pajamas. “Then I guess I’ll have to take the offer—”
“No. Don’t do that.” Oh, shoot. “Listen, Claire doesn’t want to leave Deep Haven.”
“You know, God says there is a time for mourning and a time for rejoicing. Claire’s been in mourning too long over this thing in Bosnia. She needs to move on.”
Move on. But—
“God expects us to keep moving forward, even when terrible things happen. I was just sitting here, reading Joshua 1. God tells Joshua, who is still mourning Moses, to go into the land, to possess it. He says that He already had the victory planned out. Every place Joshua’s foot touched, He’d already given him. God has a plan for Claire, and she has to keep moving toward it.”
“But what if that plan is here?”
Did he sound desperate?
“With you?”
Apparently he did. “I . . . No . . .”
“She came in yesterday, looking spunky and pretty, and I had to wonder if you had something to do with that, young man.”
Funny, when Gibs said it like that, Jensen felt about sixteen. “No . . . Maybe. Yes, I’ve been seeing Claire. But I’m not going to stand in her way, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Oh no, of course not. You’re already doing that for yourself.”
Huh? “Every time I visit, you start harping on me—”
“It’s because I love you, Jensen. You’re like a son to me. And I’ve sat there, watching you waste away, your mistakes eating at you for three years. It’s time you stopped mourning too.”
Like a son. The words nearly burned, deep inside him. He looked away. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”
“Yeah you do. You’ve got to ask for forgiveness and repent.”
“For something I didn’t do?”
“No, for all the things you have done. You might not have killed Felicity intentionally, son, but you are still guilty of taking a life. And if it’s not that, how about the hate in your heart for—?”
“I don’t hate Deep Haven.”
“I was going to say yourself.”
Oh.
“You’re so angry at what happened, at not being able to blame anyone, that you have nowhere to put it. So you’ve bottled it up and tried to tell yourself that you’re innocent, but the truth is, none of us are. We’re all wretched sinners, no matter what we’re accused of. And whatever we’ve done, Satan wants to keep us there, trap us in the past. God wants to set you free to the future. But you gotta confess that you need Him, regardless of the crimes you’re guilty—or innocent—of.”
Jensen closed his eyes. Drew in a breath. He did want a future, but . . . “I don’t know. I’ve managed to mess up my life pretty badly.”
“So plan A is a bust. God can make plan B better than plan A ever would have been.”
Plan B. Or even plan C. As in Claire.
The old man reached out, took Jensen’s hand. “That starts with letting God heal you. Learning to forgive yourself, to believe in God’s love for you.”
Oh, he didn’t know if he could go that far. “I know I’m not a good man, Gibs. I’m pretty sure God doesn’t love a guy like me.”
“God doesn’t love you because you may or may not be a good man, Jensen. He loves you because He chooses to. Because He wants to. But you’re right: you’ll never be a great man without God forgiving you and setting you free. And you’re not a failure, you’re not trapped in your sins, until you stop reaching out for Him.”
Reaching. Yeah, he could do that.
At least, he wanted to.
“Gibs!”
No wonder Gibs wanted to stay in town. He had more visitors here than Jensen had ever seen at the cabin. Joe Michaels walked into the room dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt with Deep Haven Fire and Rescue printed on the front.
“Jonah, my friend, how are you? Want a donut? Jensen brought me breakfast.” Gibs held up the bag.
Joe peeked inside. Took out one of the cake donuts. “Dan’s down the hall—we’re doing visitation. Hey, Jensen.”
“Hey.” Jensen only knew Joe by his fame—an author whose wife owned the bookstore where Claire lived. But then again, Jensen might be called famous too. Or infamous.
To his surprise, Joe turned to him. “I was going to call you. My friend Mitch told me that you might be willing to do some volunteer work. I need help fireproofing the Garden. It’s a group home where my brother lives, just out of town. In case the fire turns east.”
“Glad to help. What do you want me to do?”
“Can you dig a hole?”
“It seems to be one of my specialties.”
If the court spent one day with Darek and his son, Ivy was sure they’d know what a terrible mistake it would be to tear them apart.
Tiger squealed, caught between Darek’s legs as his father tickled him, the glow of the campfire in his delighted expression. Darek grinned, blew a raspberry into his son’s neck as Tiger turned, pressed his hands to his dad’s shoulders.
“Daddy!”
Daddy. Perhaps this was what Ivy loved—no, enjoyed—the most about Darek. The way he loved his son.
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Ivy would erase that terrible file from her brain. And the fact that she’d waited until after five o’clock, after Jodi left for the day, to put it on her desk.
Tiger wasn’t in danger and Jodi would figure that out, right?
“Have a s’more, Ivy.” Ingrid sat down beside her, handing her a long fork and the bag of marshmallows. Across the fire pit, in the glow of the light, Amelia and Grace were laughing over pictures Amelia had taken of Tiger, viewing them on her digital camera.
“I’m so full, Mrs. Christiansen. I can’t eat another bite.”
“Please call me Ingrid, and I promise these just sort of sneak into the nooks and crannies, fill you right up with warmth and sweetness.”
No. This family filled her with warmth and sweetness. They’d greeted her today like a sister, roping her into making punch, stirring another of Grace’s potato salad concoctions, and setting the table on the deck for dinner. Tiger had come running up to her, holding a pansy picked from his grandmother’s garden, and Ivy couldn’t help but draw the child into her arms. And when he kissed her on the cheek, she had no words.
When Darek called and invited her over to the resort, she’d had no idea it meant she might be adopted.
Adopted.
Her throat tightened and she swallowed hard. “Do you do this every week? Have a campfire?”
“Or something.” Ingrid poked a marshmallow onto the end of her fork. She wore leather mules, jeans rolled up at the ankles, a flannel vest over a Deep Haven Huskies hockey T-shirt. “I like to have the kids come home at least once a week to check in, see how they’re doing. Of course, with Casper staying at the lodge for another week—”
“Maybe two, Ma,” Casper said from across the fire, where he sat on a bench, appearing mesmerized by the flames. “I have to fix the bike—I’m waiting on a part.”
“You didn’t break my motorcycle, did you?” Darek said, now wiping Tiger’s face with a napkin. He only succeeded in smearing marshmallow goo into the dirt on his face.
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