Take a Chance on Me (8 page)

He crouched beside Gibs, pressed his fingers to his jugular. Please, please—yes, he found a pulse. But the old man wasn’t moving.

“Hang in there, Gibs,” he said and got up, running toward the house. He found one of Mrs. Gibson’s famous knit afghans and scooped up the phone on his way back out. Jensen’s thumb dialed 911 and he rested the phone against his shoulder as he reached Gibs and began to tuck the blanket over him.

“Deep Haven Emergency Services. How can I help you?”

He recognized Marnie Blouder’s voice. “It’s Gibs. He’s hurt. I think he hit his head, broke his leg. We need an ambulance up at Evergreen Lake ASAP.”

“Jensen, is this you?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes, Marnie. I saw him from my place. Please hurry.”

“EMS is on its way. Don’t leave him, Jensen.”

“I won’t, ma’am.”

IT SEEMED TO CLAIRE
that she lived her life always looking in the rearview mirror, wishing she could change what she saw.

Like, for example, the fact that she was spending the two hours she had between her Pierre’s shifts trying to coax the town’s American Beauty roses back to life.

She could hardly blame herself. Most gardeners faced the late-frost conundrum. Every year, as the days grew longer, the warm sun lured gardeners to uncover their peonies, their hydrangeas, and most importantly, their prizewinning roses. Then, like a thief, a late-season frost would creep in off the lake and kill the buds.

Claire had lost too many beautiful rosebuds before their time by leaning into the season too soon.

So despite the mild winter and lack of snow, she had kept the
covers on, not wanting to risk the frost. And her American Beauty roses sweltered under their Styrofoam coverings, broiling instead of freezing to death.

Why, why didn’t she just listen to her instincts instead of her fears?

She knelt in the dirt of the city rose garden and lifted one of the containers. Tiny green buds shot out from the cropped limbs, evidence that even in darkness, the roses survived. She pulled the cover off, and the rosebush sprang free as if exhaling.

“Sorry, little rose,” she said and sat back on her haunches, brushing dirt from her gloved hands.

“Talking to your plants again, Claire?” Edith Draper strode up the sidewalk on her way to the library, just beyond the garden. She wore an embroidered
Grandmas Are for Hugs
sweatshirt and held an armload of books.

“I’m hoping my decision to keep the covers on and protect them from the frost didn’t kill them.”

Edith raised a shoulder. “You can’t live your life by the what-ifs, sweetie. They look fine to me.”

“If I kill these roses, the Deep Haven Horticultural Society will murder me.”

Edith had reached the library door. “They put you in charge because you have the best green thumb in town. Not to mention the most energy. Trust yourself.” She winked and disappeared inside.

Herself
would be the last person Claire trusted. She hadn’t made a right decision since . . . well, since she’d convinced her parents to allow her to move stateside and attend Deep Haven High School. But after that . . . yeah, she’d pretty much let down herself and everyone else around her with a string of flimsy life choices.

Claire took off another cover. Again, the rosebush underneath had already started to bloom. Phew. Alive.

She created a stack of Styrofoam containers, then added fertilizer around the roots. Already they looked happier.

She glanced at the sky, the way fingers of twilight stretched out over the heavens. She would have been here earlier, but for the fact that she’d taken an extra shift today.
Please, Lord, help them grow.

Claire carried the containers into the small storage shed behind the library, left her gloves there, then hopped on her bike and rode it down the street to her apartment. One of the perks of living in a small town—she didn’t need a car. Not that she didn’t like her Yaris, but sometimes she just loved riding her bike to work and home again, under the starlight.

Her next shift started in ten minutes—not enough time for a shower. She pulled on the black-jeans-and-black-shirt uniform, pinned on her badge, worked her visor over her ponytail, then threw her apron in her over-the-shoulder backpack before scrambling down the stairs and out the back door of the bookstore.

She cast a look up at her new neighbor’s place—dark. Apparently the new assistant county attorney worked late hours also.

She hopped on her bike and pedaled to Pierre’s, clocking in a minute late. Shoot.

The place looked deserted. No late-night rush tonight, the twenty booths and tables in the main room hosting only a handful of diners. She loved Pierre’s, with fishing lures and mounted trout, snowshoes and old Coca-Cola signs, pictures of local hockey teams pinned to the wall. A few framed newspapers heralded Deep Haven events, like the state champion football team and the time their local author, Joe Michaels, won the National Book Award.

Making her way into the kitchen, she breathed in fresh baked
calzones, tangy homemade sauce, the scent of fresh vegetables. Tucker Newman stood at the assembly board, working on a Hawaiian pizza. It always cheered her to see him in a hairnet and apron, creating pizza as if it were a work of art. Something had happened to the snowboarder since he started dating Colleen Decker last year. Sometimes she spotted him eating pizza with her family and laughing.

He hadn’t exactly laughed in the first few months he’d begun working here. She had thought he wouldn’t last.

But that wasn’t her call.

Claire read the schedule. They’d put her on the cash register tonight, but with Curt McCormick already manning the counter, restocking cups and napkins and looking as if he might perish from boredom, it seemed that perhaps she could do more damage prepping for tomorrow. She pulled a container of fresh mushrooms from the stainless fridge and headed over to the prep center.

Grace Christiansen stood cutting onions, her blonde hair captured by a hairnet. “I thought you’d gone home for the day,” she said, looking miserable.

“Double shift today. I don’t mind. I thought you were off tonight.” She picked up a mushroom and began to wipe it clean with a paper towel.

“I was, but I got off early the other night and I’m making up hours. Tiger landed in the ER and Mom was pretty frantic trying to find Darek.”

Claire stilled, a cold fist in her chest. “What happened?”

“He fell off Casper’s old bunk and cut his forehead. Needed seven stitches.” Grace shook her head even as she dumped the onions in a stainless steel container. “I think an angel must have
caught him because he could have lost an eye. He nicked a pair of Owen’s skates he’d been playing with before bed.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. He bounces back. I’m more worried about Darek. He practically came unraveled. Blamed himself for not being there—”

“Where was he?”

“Out on a date.” She picked up another onion and grimaced.

“Wanna trade?” Claire asked.

Grace shook her head and started to peel the onion. “He was at that bachelor auction—some woman bought him.”

Claire had created a nice pile of cleaned mushrooms. “Her name is Ivy. She’s real pretty—red hair, shorter, but cute. She told me she’s the new assistant county attorney.”

“You met her?”

“She lives in the garage apartment behind the bookstore. Our paths crossed yesterday.”

Grace nodded, kept chopping.

“What is it?” Claire set the mushrooms on the cutting board and began to slice them.

Grace blinked as if forcing back tears. “I just . . . It’s so sad Tiger doesn’t have a mom. Wouldn’t it be great if Darek could find someone?”

“Tiger had a mom.”

Grace glanced at her. Oh, Claire hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharp. “I mean, yes, every kid needs a mom. But he has so much family—you and Amelia, your parents, Casper and Owen, Eden.”

“He needs a
mom
, Claire.” Grace set down the knife, scooping the next batch of onions into the container. “And Darek needs a wife.”

Darek didn’t deserve another wife. Claire ground her jaw to keep the words from leaking out. “The last thing that Tiger needs is to have another woman take Felicity’s place, only for it not to work out.”

Grace frowned at her. “What does that mean?”

Claire dumped mushrooms into her own container. “It means that maybe you don’t know your brother as well as you think you do.”

“He’s changed a lot since Felicity died.”

Claire put down the knife. “I’m just saying he had his chance, and it’s gone. And now he has to make the best with what he has left.”

Grace went slack-jawed.

“Please, Gracie. Don’t think I’m not compassionate to Tiger. But you have to live with your choices.”

“Losing Felicity wasn’t his choice, Claire. Accidents just happen. It doesn’t mean he shouldn’t keep moving on with his life.”

Claire stared at her, the words stinging.

“Claire, do you have a moment?”

She turned, wanting to launch herself into Stuart’s arms. Probably not an appropriate action for an employee-manager relationship, however, so she wiped her hands, left Grace and her too-forgiving attitude at the prep center, and followed Stuart into his office.

She began an apology before he even sat down at his desk. “I know I lost track of time. I was working in the garden—”

“Really, Claire?” Stuart wore the Pierre’s uniform—white apron, black shirt, a contrast to his white hair. The man had been making pizzas for nearly forty years but still managed to keep himself fit. A picture of his family, taken before his wife died, sat
on the credenza behind him. “You think I pulled you in here to beat you up for being one minute late?”

Oh.

“What I want to do is give you a raise.”

A raise? Her mouth opened to thank him, but he held up a hand.

“But I can’t.”

She frowned.

“You’re already at the very top of the pay scale for a part-time employee, first of all. And second, the truth is, I can’t afford you anymore.” He actually looked pained.

“Am I being fired because you can’t give me a raise? I didn’t ask for a raise.”

“No, you didn’t, but you certainly deserve one. You run the kitchen, the counter, even inventory my supplies better than I do. This place would be a mess without you.”

“Then why—?”

“I’m offering you the job of full-time manager. With summer upon us, I have to hire a manager, but I can’t have a part-time employee with your salary taking up the budget. Please, will you consider taking the position?”

A full-time Pierre’s Pizza manager. She didn’t know why she had the insane urge to weep. She pushed a smile through the web in her chest. “I don’t . . . I . . .”

Stuart leaned forward, his voice gentling. “I love you like a daughter. Over the past seven years, I’ve seen you grow and become this amazing woman. But what do you want from your life? If it’s to have a career in the food service industry, I can make that happen. Going full-time would give you benefits and a 401(k). A real career. But if that’s not what you want . . .” He sighed. “You’re
twenty-five, Claire. And maybe it’s none of my business, but I know your parents, and I know they worry that if you don’t make a move out of Deep Haven soon, you never will.”

Leave Deep Haven? Her throat tightened as if a hand curled around it.

“I understood it took a few years to get that college nest egg saved, but certainly you have something now. And there are always loans, and—”

“I’ll think about it,” Claire said. Oh, she didn’t want to cry in front of Stuart. Not with his kind eyes looking at her like a father’s would.

With expectation. Hope.

She got up. “When do I have to let you know?”

“The sooner the better. But certainly before the Fourth of July holiday. I need to hire someone and get them trained before then.”

Perfect. Two weeks to figure out if she wanted to serve pizza the rest of her life.

If you don’t make a move out of Deep Haven soon, you never will.

Like she hadn’t thought of that every day of her life for the past seven years.

She nodded, put her hand on the door handle just as her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She grimaced, glancing over her shoulder. “Sorry. I forgot to turn it off.”

“No problem, Claire,” Stuart said.

She pulled the phone out of her pocket as she opened the door. Read the caller ID.

Deep Haven Hospital. Her breath hitched even as she put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Claire Gibson?”

“Yes.” She glanced back at Stuart, who was frowning.

“I’m calling from the Deep Haven ER. Your grandfather has been in an accident. It’s not life-threatening, but you should come.”

Like a song, the man had embedded in Ivy’s brain, and no amount of rereading the last paragraph would dislodge the look Darek Christiansen had given her when she caught him staring at her yesterday in the library.

Staring
at her. Like . . . Well, she didn’t exactly know how to interpret his expression. It had been as if he were looking at her for the first time. And then the sheer panic on his face when she smiled at him.