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?
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.