Take a Chance on Me(102)

The earth was soft beneath his knees, the smell of it raw and honest. He pressed his hands into it, bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And suddenly the heat, always simmering so deep inside that he’d barely noticed it anymore, rushed out of him, pouring out in the wake of his words. It shook him with its power, the freshness that swept in behind it, like a dousing of more than water. Of life, maybe. He made a sound like a whimper. Like a child, afraid.

Or maybe relieved.

Yes, oh yes. Relieved.

He lifted his gaze, found the eye. “I never mean to hurt Felicity, Lord. But she was right. I was selfish—am selfish. I’ve hated Jensen, and I . . . I hated Felicity. Or at least I didn’t love her as I should have. I didn’t cherish her. . . . I betrayed her, Lord.”

He sat back on the earth, tugged the handkerchief from his face. Drew off his goggles. The smoke bit his eyes, making them water. “Please forgive me,” he whispered.

The wind shifted in the trees. He drew his hand through the dirt, picked it up, let it fall through his fingers. “I want to be a better man, Lord. I want to forgive. Please, show me how.”

Show me how.

Darek wasn’t sure how long he sat there, just listening to the wind gathering in the trees, trying to hear something—anything.

He laid a hand against his chest. The hole, the dark raging inside—it had vanished. Instead, there was just a scar of some old ache. An imprint of sorrow. But for the first time, it seemed, he could think. He saw Felicity holding Tiger on the sofa. Saw Jensen standing beside him at his wedding. Saw Claire smiling at him from beside Felicity, her gaze landing on Jensen.

Yes, maybe those two were meant to be together.

And he saw Ivy. Sweet Ivy. Holding Tiger on her lap. Rescuing Darek from himself at the art show and standing up for him in front of Kyle.

Ivy, holding on to him, molding herself to him. Belonging to him.

She hadn’t turned on him. That thought took root.

Whatever happened, she’d been trying to protect him.

Trust Me.

He heard the words, but they weren’t Ivy’s.

The smoke had scoured the eye from above, but it was still there. Even if he couldn’t see it. It would always be there. Even if he lost Tiger, the resort . . . Ivy.

The thought of her swept in and filled the raw, still-healing places. Warm. Perfect.

Thank You. Thank You for Evergreen. For my family. My son. My faith . . .

Thank You for Ivy.

Tomorrow he’d find her. Listen to her. Tomorrow they’d figure out how to get Tiger back. And then, maybe . . . maybe he’d figure out how to tell Ivy that he loved her.

Yes, loved.

Darek smiled at that, something goofy he was glad no one could see. He got up and was circling back around the dozer when he saw a light jag across the road, quick, as if someone was running.

“Hello?”

“Darek!”

“Over here!”

Casper came into view. “You got a call from Jed. He says the wind’s turned. The fire is headed away from Junco Creek.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Dude—it’s headed right for Evergreen Lake, and it’s coming fast.”





YOU WANT TO LOOSEN the roots, not break them.

Perhaps it was her grandmother’s scent in the afghan or the leather softness of the recliner, the embedded history in the paneled walls of the cabin or the taste of her past—stories and laughter and the sense of home—that dredged up the memory. But Claire settled right into the dream, almost feeling the touch of black soil between her fingers, her grandmother beside her, handing her impatiens to repot.

They stood at a picnic table around the back of the house, the lake bright and inviting as it lapped the shore, round planters filled with potting soil ready for the flowers her grandmother had purchased from the nursery in town.

“They’re all nice and snug in their baby planters, so we have to replant them without shocking them.” Grandma ran her fingers into the roots, lightly loosening them. Then, with her other hand, she held open the hole she’d created in the soil and gently set the flowers in.

Beside her, Claire did the same, digging her fingers into the roots, scraping them loose, then settling the spray of buds into the planter. She worked the soil around in it.

“Not too tight, but enough to make it feel snug. You want the roots to spread out into the new soil, take hold.” Her grandmother rested her hands over Claire’s, her touch strong, exactly the right pressure.

“Now we water.” She handed Claire the watering can and Claire sprinkled the pots.

“Oh, more than that, honey. They need a good, long drink. They’re thirsty after their trip from the nursery. A good gardener always keeps her plants well watered.”