Take a Chance on Me(62)

Jensen had driven home, changed out of his work clothes, packed a bag, and bidden this town good-bye. He’d had plans to at least get to Duluth. Maybe hop an airplane.

Try to live with himself in Jamaica. Or the Bahamas. Or . . .

“Where were you going?”

He sighed and told the truth. “I don’t know. I just . . .”

“You just decided after all this time, with only a couple weeks left on your probation, to ditch town? To throw your future away? To give up and finally land in jail?”

“I don’t want to go to jail, Claire!” He took a breath, hitched his tone lower. “I want this to be over. I’m tired of being a disappointment. Of walking around like I’ve got a wanted poster hanging from my neck. I’m never going to redeem myself, as your grandfather so nicely pointed out.”

“What?”

“He reminded me that no matter what I do, I’m a mess—”

“My grandfather loves you. He’s probably the only one in this town who fought for you.” She made a face when she said it. “Sorry. But we had a huge fight over the editorial letter he sent in to the Deep Haven Herald.”

“What letter?”

“You never read it? It took up nearly an entire page. He talked about the boy you’d been, the man you’d become, reminded people that they couldn’t convict on circumstantial evidence—”

“It’s true!”

“Yeah, well, he got two death threats, and someone dragged one of our canoes out in the middle of the lake and shot it full of holes.”

He sobered. “I didn’t know that.”

“Maybe you also didn’t know that he went to your initial arraignment. And that he spoke to the county attorney on your behalf.”

Now he felt a little ill, his conversation with Gibs replaying in his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“He missed you, you know.” She swallowed and bit her lip as if trying not to say something more.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t know why I keep trying. This town will never forgive me.”

“For pete’s sake, Jensen, you never asked!”

He stared at her, his mouth open. “I couldn’t—I . . . Listen, the second I stood up there and asked forgiveness, it would have been over for me. I . . . I wanted to,” he said softly. More than anyone could know.

Her eyes were shiny. “Don’t quit, Jensen.”

“I’m not quitting, okay? I’m staying. But it doesn’t matter, Claire, because the truth is, I’m going to jail anyway.” He held out his hands as if in surrender. “So whether I violate my probation by going on the lam or simply wait out the inevitable, it’s happening.”

She was staring at him now, her eyes bright, her face still a little soggy. “No. You’re not.”

“Claire, unless you have some sort of secret pull with the court system, yes, in fact, I am.”

“My neighbor is the new assistant county attorney. We’ll just talk to her. She’s really nice. You’d like her.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, my father is an attorney. Believe me, if he wanted me off, he’d get me off.”

Who knew but his father had orchestrated the entire community service bondage. Jensen couldn’t prove it—not with another firm handling his case—but he believed his father had somehow come up with the plan to indenture him to Deep Haven.

Maybe he’d been trying to help. At the very least, avoid the embarrassment of having a son in prison.

And although Jensen had been ready to defend himself, when his lawyer blindsided him with the plea agreement, his father pulled his financial support. Right then, Jensen had looked at his future, and what choice did he have?

“I don’t think your neighbor can help me.”

“Maybe you could let her try?”

Oh, he wanted to believe the hope in Claire’s eyes. The way she looked at him as if she saw something more than the man he was.

“I’m sorry I let you down,” he said softly, not sure where that came from.

“You didn’t . . . I mean . . .” She shook her head. “Listen, the past is the past; let’s try to move on.”

It cost her something to say that—he saw it on her face. “How?”

But she stepped up to him, pressed her hand to his mouth. Smiled, something honest and without judgment.

The sense of it swelled inside him, washing over the wishes and the regrets.

He smiled back. “Okay. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go talk to the assistant county attorney. What’s her name?”

“Ivy. Ivy Madison.”





Ivy sat in her yoga pants, eating a bowl of ice cream, staring at her cell phone. The night pressed against her windows, only her overhead fixture splashing light onto the table. Dishes were piled in the sink, and in the next room, a bath filled.