Take a Chance on Me(97)

“We need to get settled at the missionary house the pastor rented us for the rest of the summer, and then tomorrow we’ll start sorting through your grandfather’s things.” Her mother reached over and touched his leg. “Don’t you worry, Dad; we’ll get you moved in before we leave.”

She turned back to Claire. “And you—I think we need to start getting some applications filled out. What about St. Scholastica? Or even the University of Minnesota, Duluth?”

Her grandfather met her eyes, a hint of compassion in his. “Claire—”

“I can’t believe Jensen did this. I never should have trusted him.” She turned, pushed past her father.

“Claire?”

She had no words for him, for any of them. Not with her heart lodged soundly in her throat, threatening to choke her.

Claire stalked out the door, down the hall, ignored the residents in the lobby, and hit the doors, straight out into the heat of the late afternoon.

Jensen did this.

If he’d never intended for her grandfather to move home, why did he keep working?

She stood in the parking lot, in the glaring sun, realization pouring through her. Of course. To get to Grandpop. The more he wooed Claire, the easier she’d get out of his way. Long enough to convince her grandfather to sell.

Long enough to betray her.

Another deception. Another hit-and-run by Jensen Atwood. Why had she believed his words? He’d probably even lied about his affair with Felicity.

Oh, she was such a fool.

Claire climbed into her Yaris. Sat in the sweltering heat for a long moment, then started the car. The air-conditioning blasted tepid air, and sweat ran down her back as she headed toward her grandfather’s cabin.

She barely braked at a stop sign, then headed up the hill, her eyes watery. Oh, God must be laughing now. She’d been blindsided again. Knocked in the head, taken to the floor, kicked.

God wasn’t kind, and that realization sank deep into her bones until she wanted to wail. But this time, she didn’t have her grandparents to soften the blow, to embrace her, to keep her safe.

She took Evergreen Road, turning on the north branch. Her grandfather’s place was dark, of course. She climbed out, still shaking. Walked to the dock.

Jensen’s house remained dark, not a hint of life. Just like his heart.

“I really hate you.” She wasn’t sure to whom she might be talking—maybe Jensen, maybe life, but the words echoed back to her.

Ignoring Jensen’s new ramp, she took the side entrance, feeling her way into the house in the darkness. She knew where every chair, every lamp, every knickknack sat and now sank into Grandpop’s chair, feeling the grooves in it.

How many times had she emerged from her room late at night to see him here, rocking. Praying. She’d climb into his lap, even at fifteen, and he’d tuck her close and pray for her, quote Bible verses over her.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’”

Claire shook the memory away. Then she reached for one of her grandmother’s knit afghans, bunching it under her head, inhaling the sweet aroma of her childhood.

She didn’t care what plans God had for her. She wasn’t leaving.





After days of digging into the earth, sawing down trees, and creating a fire perimeter around the Garden, Jensen wanted nothing more than to crawl home, take a shower, and sleep.

He’d call Claire first. The memory of her holding on to him, her pretty eyes in his, her smile—yeah, that had kept him going as Joe the Overseer directed him and a small crew of church volunteers during the past few days. They’d cleared twenty feet of forest around the edge of the property, and Joe had laid down hoses across the grounds, setting up sprinklers to face the lodge.

The smoke hovered like a specter, weaving through the trees, descending lower upon the property with each hour. Jensen wore a bandanna over his nose, a pair of goggles that one of the volunteers had gone to town to purchase, and now held a chain saw, wearing earplugs to soften the noise as he mowed down a tall white pine that could turn into a deadly torch should the fire light it. It could topple onto the house, the green perimeter they’d created, and burn the lodge to a crisp.

He’d slept little, the fear in the residents’ eyes pressing him to keep working, and now exhaustion turned his body to ribbons of agony. But at night, he could make out the glow of fire against the sky. Growing.

He knew about the Garden, of course, the group home in the woods for adults with mental challenges. The residents earned some of their own income with an acre of strawberries they picked and sold all summer.