C01 Take a Chance on Me

by Susan May Warren

  “Darek.”

  Ivy shook her head. “Well, he’s pretty angry at me right now. I’m not sure—”

  “Are you the assistant county attorney or not?” Nan smiled, something kind in her eyes. “For cryin’ in the sink, go win your case.”

  When he woke up, Jensen smelled bacon, and from the kitchen he could hear the sounds of pots banging. It suggested the sense of family—or at least guests in his home.

  He’d fallen asleep on the sofa, dressed in a pair of loose but clean jeans and a gray T-shirt. His mouth tasted of last night’s pizza as he rose and headed for the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and tried to look presentable, unable to remember the last time he had guests. It had been so long that he’d forgotten, really, what it felt like to have people connected to his life.

  Ruby, the Garden house manager, was in the kitchen, an apron tied around her waist, flipping pancakes. “Hello, young man. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  He poured himself a cup of coffee, shaking his head. “I’m usually up early.”

  “Grab yourself some pancakes because when the residents wake up, there’ll be nothing left.”

  He helped himself to a plateful, poured on syrup, and took it out to the deck to eat. In the early morning, the smoke lay heavy over the lake and the air smelled charred. In the distance, he thought he could see the peaks of flames, but it might only be the sunlight fighting through the fog.

  He finished his coffee, trying to make out Gibs’s house.

  Claire hadn’t been at Pierre’s Pizza last night when he’d made his run into town to pick up mattresses from the thrift store and the pizzas Joe ordered. He’d hoped to see her pretty face working the counter or in the kitchen. But apparently she’d gotten off earlier that afternoon.

  He wanted to see her. Tell her that he couldn’t stop thinking about her, that he wanted to figure out a way to stay, and if she’d wait for him to finish his jail time, he’d be back. They could build a life here.

  He brought his plate inside and put it in the dishwasher. “I’m headed to town. Do you need anything?”

  “You’re so sweet, Jensen. No thank you,” Ruby said.

  He couldn’t remember the last time someone called him sweet.

  In town, he stopped by the donut place first, then knocked on Claire’s door. It might be too early, but after five days, it seemed terribly overdue.

  No answer. So he knocked again. Tried the door handle. It opened. “Claire?” He didn’t want to frighten her, so he made some noise. “Are you here?”

  He walked through her apartment, found her room empty, her bed made.

  Maybe she was at the care center.

  He headed there next. Left a donut for the nurse at the front desk, then tiptoed up to Gibs’s room.

  Gibs lay in his bed, the television on, watching a morning news show. “Jensen!”

  Jensen walked in and handed him a skizzle.

  “And here I thought I was going to be all skin and bones in this place. You going to keep this up when I move into the senior center?”

  “What are you talking about, old man? You’re moving home. Claire’s got it all fixed up.” He went to the window, opened the blinds. Even here in Deep Haven, the light seemed wan, blocked by the smoke to the north.

  “Didn’t Claire tell you? I’ve decided to accept your offer to buy the place.”

  Jensen froze. “What?”

  “I told you last week. The answer is yes. I’ll move into the senior center, and Claire can have enough money to go to college—”

  “She doesn’t want to go to college!” Jensen’s voice emerged harsher than he intended. He took a breath. Schooled his tone. “Mr. Gibson, Claire is perfectly happy staying here in Deep Haven.”

  “Says who?”

  The question came from a man who could only be Richard Gibson—a younger version of Gibs, with darker hair, less paunch, more fight in his eyes. Richard Gibson. Jensen had been absent, fighting fires with Darek, the last time Claire’s parents had visited, but he remembered her father from photos.

  Wanda Gibson followed her husband in, holding a quilted casserole carrier.

  Jensen found his words. “Uh, says Claire. She doesn’t want to move. She likes it here—”

  “Have we met?” This from Wanda, who put down the carrier and extended her hand.

  “Jensen Atwood. I live next door to Gibs.” Okay, that sounded lame. But I’m your daughter’s boyfriend wasn’t right either. “Claire and I are friends.” Yes. Better.

  “Jensen, I am sure you mean well, but Claire has been stuck here for too many years already. She needs to move on with her life. Go to college, find a career.”

  “Get married?”

  “Yes, of course. Start a family. Figure out where her place of service for the Lord is.”

  “What if it is here, in Deep Haven?”

  Richard laughed.

  Jensen didn’t. “If you ask your daughter, she would say that she wants to stay. But more than that, Claire belongs here. She . . . she takes care of the rose garden—”

  “I am sure they can find another gardener.”

  “And she plays in a band—”

  “The Blue Monkeys. We know.” Wanda looked at her husband, gave him a tight smile.

  “And she—”

  “Works at Pierre’s Pizza. We’re her parents. We know all about what Claire has been doing. And we know what is best for her.”

  Jensen couldn’t help the flood of words, the rush of anger, despite his efforts to tamp it into civility. “With all due respect, no, you don’t. If you knew what was best for her, you would have come home ten years ago when she needed to be safe. When she needed to leave Bosnia. You wouldn’t have sent her here alone—”

  “She had her grandparents—”

  “She needed you.”

  “Listen here—”

  “No, you listen. Claire is amazing. She’s beautiful and kind and everyone here loves her. She does more than make pizza. She reads to the kids at the Footstep of Heaven bookstore, and she volunteers to serve meals at the senior center once a month, knows all the residents’ names. And she goes up to Gibs’s house every single day to make sure he hasn’t burned his dinner.”

  Richard Gibson glanced at his father.

  “She has spent the past week renovating the house so he can move home—”

  “No one asked her to do that.”

  “No one has asked her anything. That’s the problem. You just assumed, and because she so desperately wants to impress you, because she doesn’t want to be a disappointment, she doesn’t argue. But she does not want to leave Deep Haven.”

  Richard blew out a breath. “How long have you been in love with my daughter, Jensen?”

  The question pushed him back, sucked out his wind just a little. I’m not . . . But . . . well . . .

  Yes. He was in love with Claire. Had been for years, probably since that night on the beach when she’d told him her story. When he’d wanted to be as brave as she’d been.

  “A while,” he said quietly.

  “You think she wants to stay here with you?” Richard said.

  Jensen tightened his lips. Then nodded. “I hope so.”

  “Son, I hate to tell you this,” Wanda said, “but if I remember correctly, she mentioned you when she left here yesterday.”

  She did?

  “She said something along the lines of ‘I can’t believe Jensen did this. I never should have trusted him.’”

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Gibs.

  The old man gave him a sad nod. “She’s pretty angry. But she’ll come around—”

  “I’m not buying your land, Gibs. I told you that once, and here’s something you should know about me: I don’t lie.”

  Jensen walked out of the room, tossing the bag with the remaining donut in the trash can as he left. He’d lost his appetite anyway, with Claire’s words churning in his stomach. I never should have trusted him.

&n
bsp; Jensen broke into a jog as he headed toward his truck. If he hadn’t already searched her apartment, he would have gone back, but instead he drove to the rose garden, then the cemetery. No lime-green Yaris, no red bike.

  She wouldn’t have gone to Gibs’s place, would she? He hadn’t seen a light on, not last night, not this morning. Still, he headed back up the hill.

  He couldn’t bear to let her reactions sluice into his head, to think about how angry—how betrayed—she would’ve felt at hearing her grandfather’s news. I’m selling the place to Jensen.

  No wonder she didn’t believe she could trust him.

  I’m sorry, Claire. The thought came so easily, so perfectly. I’m sorry. Not the kind of sorrow that admitted guilt, but the kind that admitted pain.

  I’m so sorry.

  Easy enough words, and they should have been spoken to Darek, to the town of Deep Haven. I’m so sorry for the pain I caused.

  He keyed in his number at the gate and parked behind the Garden van. Hitting the garage opener, Jensen headed to the four-wheeler and hopped on, glad he always left the keys in the ignition. He zoomed out of the garage intending to check on the sprinkler system.

  The sound of a motor, something big and rumbling in the air, turned him toward Gibs’s place.

  The path was bumpy, just like when he’d taken it the night Gibs fell. He ducked under tree limbs, over ruts, vowing to clear it better. Because he hoped to be making plenty of trips next door when he and Claire ironed this out.

  Oh, God, please let us iron this out.

  Jensen came out into a clearing west of the house and nearly skidded the four-wheeler as he careened into a bulldozed swath of earth. He stopped, sat with the machine idling, tracing the path all the way to—

  Darek sat on his dozer, clearing a path into the forest, on the fire road to Thompson Lake. A tree cracked, fell hard, and he ground it up, pushing a debris pile into the forest.

  Jensen debated, then turned the four-wheeler toward Darek.

  He pulled up just as Darek backed out of the forest. When he waved his arms, Darek cut the motor, took out his earplugs. His face was nearly blackened with dirt, his eyes red. He tugged the handkerchief from over his nose.

  “Wow, am I glad to see you,” Darek said over the puttering sigh of the dozer.

  Jensen stared at him. “What?”

  “We gotta clear a fire line and set a back burn or we won’t be able to stop this fire.”

  Jensen looked at the dozer, at Darek, who was looking back at him as if they’d had a conversation yesterday, something akin to Hey, wanna go fishing after dinner?

  And then Darek offered a smile.

  The effect of it pulled the breath from Jensen, knocked him over inside. He swallowed, scrambling for his emotional footing. Then he managed to nod. “What do you need?”

  “Saws. Shovels. People.” He paused, looked toward the horizon. Even from here, Jensen could make out the flames. Darek turned back to him. “I need you, Jens. Get me some manpower and then come out here and help me kill this fire.”

  “You got it,” Jensen said.

  IVY HADN’T REALIZED how much larger, how much closer the fire had grown until she topped the hill above town. From Deep Haven, the flames seemed little more than a glow on the distant horizon. However, now only a few miles from Evergreen Lake, she could make out raging tongues that torched trees like the flames of some mythical dragon scorching the land. The entire sky had turned orange for as far as she could see, and smoke billowed out and pitched the heavens with ash. Occasional plumes of fire suggested the blaze might only be gaining speed.

  Ivy felt her pulse in her throat as she pushed the gas toward Evergreen Resort. Certainly Darek and his family knew that they might be in danger?

  Maybe the specter of the fire would temper her early morning appearance and catch Darek off guard. He’d let her explain, hear her out. Realize that in the face of no good choice, she’d done the best thing she could for him.

  Okay, for herself, too. Until last night, she’d wanted to save her job and her future with Darek.

  Now—well, she turned onto their road, not caring if she had a job to go back to.

  She pulled in fast and nearly ran over Ingrid, carrying a laundry basket full of photo albums to the open rear hatch of her Caravan.

  Ivy got out, rushed over. “What’s going on?”

  Looking a decade older than yesterday, Ingrid set down the basket and crushed Ivy to her chest. “I’m so glad to see you.” She held on a little longer and then let her go. “We have to evacuate.”

  Amelia came out carrying a suitcase. She’d clearly been crying, her face streaked, and looked like she’d only just rolled out of bed, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair messy. She glanced at Ivy with a frown as she threw her bag in the back.

  “Hi, Amelia. I . . . I came to apologize for what happened—”

  “Ivy!” Grace ran toward them, rolling her bag, and threw her arm around Ivy’s neck. “What are you doing here?” She let go and added her bag in the back end.

  “I came to talk to Darek. But—can I help?”

  “We have more pictures in boxes in the family room,” Ingrid said. “And a few more suitcases.”

  Ivy headed to the house. She spied John coming around the side, dragging a long hose. Casper was setting up sprinkler heads, pounding them in with a rubber mallet.

  “They’re going to set up a water perimeter, see if that will help,” Grace said.

  Amelia stormed past her.

  “Ignore her,” Grace said. “I think she’s more angry at herself for calling 911 than at you.”

  “Calling 911 was the right thing to do,” Ivy said as she followed Grace in. Four large boxes held the family photos, pilfered from the walls. She grabbed a box.

  “Can you imagine if Tiger were here right now?” Grace said over her shoulder on the way back outside. “I have to wonder at how God works things out.” She shoved the box into the Caravan.

  Ivy added hers. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Grace smiled. “See? It’s all a matter of perspective.”

  Someday Ivy hoped to be like Grace. Seeing life through God’s eyes. “I hope Darek agrees with you.”

  “He’s not here. He’s over at Gibs’s place trying to cut in a fire line.”

  They headed back to the house, standing aside for Ingrid, who was toting a box of books.

  “Why? Some little strip of dirt isn’t going to stop that fire.”

  Grace handed her a stack of homemade quilts sitting on the granite countertop. “He’ll cut a boundary line in the dirt and then set the area behind it on fire so that it burns up all the fuel. That way, when the main blaze hits the parched area, it has nothing to consume and it starves.”

  “But isn’t that dangerous? What if the fire turns on him, jumps over the boundary line?” She pushed the quilts in on top of the boxes in the car.

  “That’s what the hotshots do—they dig and dig, then burn and stop any little fire from crossing the line. It’s called a back burn.”

  Or craziness. “They could get killed.”

  Grace gave her a grim nod. “Darek knows what he’s doing. And he’s worked with the volunteer fire department, so they know too. But yeah, we need to pray for them.”

  She loved how Grace’s go-to was prayer. Ivy would have to start thinking that way too.

  “I think that’s about it,” Ingrid said. She stood in the middle of her family room, the walls bare, looking out to the lake. It glimmered bronze. She shook her head. “Please, God, save our home.”

  Grace put a hand on her mother’s shoulder.

  Water hit the sliding-glass doors as John and Casper began spraying the house.

  “Amelia—c’mon!”

  “Mom! I’m not done packing!” Amelia’s voice came from upstairs, nearly frantic.

  “I’ll get her,” Grace said.

  Ingrid walked to the bathroom, opened the door, and hooked Butterscotch by the collar. �
��Sorry, honey, but I couldn’t have you running away.”

  Ivy walked to the sliding doors, peering out toward Jensen’s place. He’d have a breathtaking view of the fire, safe on the other side of the lake.

  “Ivy, are you coming?”

  She nodded, followed the three women outside. “Did anyone get things from Darek’s house?”

  Amelia looked at Grace. “No.”

  “Believe me, Tiger’s going to need a few things. I know how it feels to have nothing. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Ivy took off down the path toward Darek’s A-frame cabin, sweat dribbling down her face. Through the trees, she could make out a distant orange glow.

  Flinging open the door, she ran inside to Tiger’s room. Looked around. Saw a stuffed tiger, worn and wadded next to his pillow. She grabbed that and a picture of Felicity by his bedside and ran back out.

  A glint of color to her left, from the cabin on the shore, caught her eye.

  Claire’s Yaris?

  Ivy glanced down the trail. Ingrid’s van had already pulled out.

  Someone had to warn Claire. She ran down to the shoreline and spotted a trail. “Claire!”

  But no one emerged from the house. She looked back but couldn’t see John or Casper. Behind her, the entire forest seemed to glow.

  Shoot. Ivy took off along the trail, around the end of the lake toward the cabin.

  “Claire!”

  She heard her name as if through a fog, something sweaty and dark, and she tore through layers of sleep to open her eyes.

  Claire blinked against the brightness inside her room. The ceiling fan whirred—she didn’t remember turning that on, but it lifted the tiny hairs on her arms and cooled the sweat on her brow.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she slept so well, so hard. So at peace.

  “Claire!”

  The frantic voice seemed familiar but she couldn’t place it. “In here,” she mumbled.

  She got up, pushed aside the quilt, and nearly screamed when Ivy appeared at her bedroom door, sweating, breathing hard.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Claire, the fire—everyone is evacuating.”

  Huh?

  Ivy grabbed her by the wrist. “We gotta go.”