Take a Chance on Me (7 page)

“Say hi to the Muffin Man for me.”

“Right.”

Tiger was strapped into his booster seat when Darek climbed into the Jeep. He’d just have to show up smelling like a walleye.

Darek caught a glimpse of the three boys wrestling on the grass near their cabin as he pulled out of the driveway.

Yeah, he remembered when he thought of this place as paradise, when he thought growing up here was the best life a boy could have.

He glanced at Tiger in the rearview mirror, the dirt on his shirt, grimy hands, the hint of a sunburn on his nose, his windblown hair. “How big was that fish?”

“This big!” Tiger held out his arms as wide as they could go.

Darek laughed. Yes, maybe it still could be paradise. Something simple—family. A piece of the northern shore woods to share with the world. The life Felicity had wanted for them. If only he hadn’t been too immature to see it.

They pulled up to the library, and Tiger was unlocking his seat belt before Darek applied the brake. “Hold on there—”

But Tiger was out the door and scampering up the sidewalk to the building. Darek followed him and found the ring of kids seated inside the children’s reading area, decorated like a zoo, complete with faux bars, cutout giraffes, hippos, elephants. Tiger sat in a molded ostrich chair.

Darek pulled up a child-size chair and settled himself on it, listening to the “Muffin Man”—their creative town librarian—read to the children in her giant cupcake hat, her fuzzy padded costume. She had single-handedly sparked a reading inferno with
her Wednesday night story time. And it just might be the only time Tiger sat quietly.

Darek smiled at the other parents as they glanced at him. He tried not to think about the way his son looked like he’d gone a few bruiser rounds with a local bully.
He fell,
Darek wanted to shout, but that would only draw more attention.

At least Nan Holloway didn’t sit in the audience, although he wouldn’t put lurking in the shadows past her. He glanced around, just to check.

Wait.

His gaze stopped on the petite redhead flipping through a book in the fiction section. He’d been too defensive to really notice how cute she was on their so-called date. Now, dressed in a pair of capris and a pink sleeveless shirt, her hair pulled back, she seemed almost soft, even sweet.

Not at all his vision of a lawyer.

Or of the woman he’d treated so badly. He hadn’t allowed himself a moment to get to know her. Just resented her and her intrusion into his life.

It wasn’t her fault that he had so much baggage, it could crush any chances of a fresh start.

And it wasn’t her fault he’d already blown his opportunity for happily ever after. For a family like the one he’d met today. Maybe if he wasn’t so angry and hadn’t behaved so badly . . . not just to Ivy, but Felicity, too.

No, he didn’t deserve a second chance, but—

Maybe she sensed his gaze on her, watching her flip pages, because she looked up. Right at him.

Her eyes connected, her mouth opening just a little.

He should look away. But he was caught there, his crime becoming more glaring as she blinked, recognized him.

And then, suddenly, she smiled. It was sweet and slow and caught him so off guard he didn’t know what to do. Just stared back like an idiot, a deer in the headlights.

“Daddy, read this to me.”

Tiger slapped a book onto Darek’s lap—a copy of
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie
, one of his favorites. The Muffin Man had finished and now was pointing out her selection of books to the audience.

“Okay, pal,” Darek said. No doubt they’d leave the library with a stack of new books, enough for hours of nighttime reading. He hooked an arm around his son, pulled him onto his knee. Opened the book.

Glanced up to where Ivy had stood.

She was gone. And with her, any chance for the smile he should have given her.

Jensen logged five hours and thirty-seven minutes of community service before the sun hit the apex of the blue sky.

He’d started his Thursday morning routine at the harbor beach before 6 a.m., stopping by the Java Cup and bringing Phyllis McCann at the parks and rec department a vanilla latte while he logged in, then arming himself with gloves, a bag, and a stake, managing to fill the bag with the detritus of the week’s activities. Banana peels, hot dog boats, candy wrappers, gyro papers, SoBe bottles, apple cores, and even a few Java Cup containers. By the time the sun turned the rocks to gems, the beach shone spotless.

At eight, he headed over to the thrift store, bringing Sharron a
freshly fried skizzle from World’s Best Donuts, and spent two more hours sorting the five garbage bags of clothing they’d received, checking them for damage, hanging or folding the acceptable pieces on the correct racks and shelves, sending more out to be laundered, pricing them, and listing the best items for advertising purposes on the community intranet. He snagged a pair of rubber boots for himself, something to help him should a sump pump at Pine Acres ever go out again. Sharron signed his card, and he headed over to the Deep Haven animal shelter.

Old Rusty’s eyes lit up, his tail cleaning the cement floor as Jensen greeted him. He opened the cage and let the collie lick his chin, rubbing the animal vigorously behind the ears. “I can’t believe no one has adopted you yet,” he said. “I’d take you home, buddy, but I’m outta here in six weeks, and then what will we do?”

“Take him with you.” Annalise Decker stood at the door, a fellow volunteer—although her hours were truly voluntary. She held Arthur, a Persian cat who appeared freshly brushed. “He needs a good home, and you know he loves you.”

“I can’t. I don’t know where I’m headed after I leave Deep Haven.”

“Really?” She placed the cat in his cage while Jensen clipped a lead on Rusty. He’d take the dog out for a short run, then clean his cage and return him. He planned to do the same with the pretty half Labrador, half Doberman they’d found running in the woods, collarless. So far, no one had claimed her, and he had half a mind to take her home too. He was a sucker for those sweet brown eyes.

“Yeah. I just need to leave, and once I get free of the county, I’ll figure out where to go. Maybe California.” He grinned at Annalise as he walked toward the door. “Hawaii. I’ll be a beach bum.”

“You’ll miss this!” Annalise said as the door bumped closed behind him.

Not likely. Apparently she’d forgotten that his time didn’t belong to him, that he wasn’t walking old Rusty for his health.

But he did like having the collie at his side, especially the way strangers smiled at him, sometimes gave Rusty a pat.

Everyone liked a man with a dog.

He did a mental count of his total hours after today. If he could keep getting days like this over the next six weeks, he’d make his cutoff.

No jail time.

Although, spending three years in a town that hated you felt a little like jail. He didn’t blame them—not really. And after three years, they seemed to have built a sort of tolerance for him. Still, he should have seen the future, rejected the plea agreement, and simply endured the four years in prison.

But he was innocent. And innocent men shouldn’t go to jail. At least that’s what he told himself—told God when Jensen thought He might be willing to listen. But God had clearly already made up His mind about Jensen, just like the rest of Deep Haven.

The smells of fresh battered trout cakes from the fish house tempted him to stop in, and he’d heard that Licks and Stuff was running a special this week—a maple-nut custard cone. But he didn’t have time for lunch. Not if he wanted to finish his hours and get home to remove that log, mow, and paint the Millers’ place. He should have gotten to it earlier in the week, but by the time he’d finished mowing the high school athletic fields and cleaning the six-mile stretch of highway north of town, he’d arrived home after dark. At least it added to his hours.

He returned Rusty, cleaned his cage, and brushed him down.
Then he doted on the Lab-Doberman mix—he’d call her Nellie—and cleaned her cage. She leaned into his hand so hard as he rubbed behind her ear that it nearly made him weep.

How he hated neglect, hated people not realizing what they had until they lost it.

Jensen hosed down the runs behind the shelter, then wound up the rope and had Annalise sign his volunteer card.

Hat in hand, he stopped by the local Meals On Wheels office.

“I’m sorry, Jensen, but we had enough help today. Stop by tomorrow—or maybe next week we’ll have an opening.” Donna smiled at him when he left, and for a second, he believed her.

He sat in his truck and counted his hours again. Tomorrow he would swing by the social services office and see if they had any shut-ins who needed their lawn mowed or house cleaned. Maybe just needed a friend.

He liked sitting with them, listening to their stories. It made him forget his own.

Back at Pine Acres, he grabbed a ham sandwich, then loaded the mower into the back of the truck and tackled the various lawns that needed attention. He sprayed the decimated currant bush, trimmed it, then found the chain saw in the maintenance shed and went to work on the downed tree.

There had been a time when he detested this kind of work, back when he thought his years in law school might mean something, that he should be respected and admired for his academic prowess. When mowing lawns seemed miles beneath him. But now he found the work refreshing, the sweat honest, and it seemed the one thing he could do to earn his room and board, maybe ease the frown from his father’s face.

If that were even possible. He couldn’t quite get on his father’s
good side after the accident. Too many dreams had died that night on the highway.

His father had mentioned, however, that if Jensen could someday talk his neighbor Gibs into selling his shoreline property to Pine Acres, then his little “misstep” might be redeemed.

Misstep. Right. Thornton Atwood often acted as if his son were on some sort of extended, mandatory vacation in northern Minnesota.

That sweet strip of sandy beach
would
be perfect as a private community beach, however. Only problem was, Jensen hadn’t talked to Gibs since the terrible accident three years ago. Too afraid, probably. And Claire certainly wouldn’t let him get close—she had the temper of a pit bull when it came to her grandfather. He’d never had the courage to cross her.

He cut the tree into foot-long pieces and stacked them beside the house for use when the family wanted campfires. He fed the branches through the shredder, then deposited the sawdust and chips in flower beds near the community entrance.

By the time he considered grabbing the paint bucket, the sun was already cutting long shadows across the paved road of the property. He headed back to the house, unloaded the truck, and hopped in the shower.

Dressed in his sweatpants and a clean cotton T-shirt, Jensen wandered onto the deck overlooking the lake. He listened for the loons calling into the night and dug out his harmonica, answering the call with a mournful tune.

Maybe, okay, he’d miss this. Just this. The quiet of the twilight hour when his muscles ached and fatigue pressed from his mind his mistakes and wishes. When he felt as if he had worked out the
stress of the day and earned the right to sink into one of the plush wicker chairs on the deck and watch the sun ignite the lake.

Yes, he’d miss this when he left. This and the tangy memories of summers and life in Deep Haven before it all went sour.

His gaze traveled over to the Gibson place, and he wondered if the canoe still waited on shore.

He put down his harmonica, stood up for a closer look.

A figure lay there. Or perhaps a tarp, but it looked—

No. His breath caught. Gibs lay just beyond the shoreline in the grass, next to his dented four-wheeler, as if he’d hit a tree and taken a tumble.

And hadn’t gotten up.

Jensen ran through the house in his bare feet, down the stairs, and into the garage. He slapped his hand on the garage door opener, flicking on the light, then jumped on his own four-wheeler. He’d left the key in the ignition; the engine turned over and he gunned it out of the garage, narrowly missing his father’s old boat, now parked on blocks in the fourth stall.

He knew the trail by heart, despite the years. He took it too fast, ducking under branches that had overgrown and narrowly missing the long, shaggy arm of a giant white pine. He came out just west of Gibs’s property, near the meadow, and took the road to the driveway. A light blazed on the side entrance, a feeble beacon lit to call Claire home, perhaps. Jensen raced up the driveway and into the front yard, then down to the lake.

Gibs lay in the shadows, shrouded under a hand of darkness. The light from the four-wheeler illuminated his leg at a shattered angle. He wore a work jacket, a pair of gloves, and jeans, but his Huskies hat had tumbled off, leaving a bloody pool where he’d hit his head.

Not far away, his four-wheeler rested on its side, the tree it hit fractured and ready to teeter over. A small trailer filled with cut logs suggested he’d just received a firewood delivery.

Certainly the old man wasn’t chopping his own wood anymore?