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—”