Take a Chance on Me (19 page)

“You don’t hate Felicity,” he said softly, his heart hammering under her ear. “If you should hate anyone, it’s me.”

Well, that was true. But she didn’t feel it. Not anymore. “I don’t hate you, Jensen.” She took a long breath, listened to it shudder out. “And you’re right. I don’t hate Felicity either. It’s just . . . nothing feels right since she died.”

She pushed away from him. His gaze held her, his lips tight.

“I can’t seem to . . . I can’t seem to forgive.”

He nodded.

“No, you don’t understand. It’s not Felicity I can’t forgive. Or even . . . even you.”

He swallowed at that, something desperate in his face. But it seemed she couldn’t stop herself. That right now, with the flowers she’d planted lying in ruin around her, she couldn’t keep it in.

“I can’t forgive God, Jens. I don’t trust Him anymore. I . . . keep blaming the fact that I’m stuck in Deep Haven on Felicity or my grandfather. But the truth is, it just . . . it just confirms that I was right.”

He frowned.

“God isn’t kind.” She clamped her hand over her mouth, horrified at her own words. But she kept going, speaking through her hand. “He’s not kind. He took away Felicity—”

“
I
took away Felicity.”

“No. God could have protected her on that road. He could have . . . Why didn’t He protect her? Why didn’t He stop—?” Her voice grew soft. “She. Was. So scared.”

Jensen licked his lips, swallowed. “She never woke up, Claire. She died almost instantly.”

She closed her eyes. “I know.”

His touch on her cheek startled her. She opened her eyes and he cupped her face. “We’re not talking about Felicity, are we?”

She stared at him, began to tremble. “No.”

“We’re talking about you, in Bosnia. About the men who attacked you, beat you, scared you. Nearly killed you.”

She drew in a shaky breath.

“We’re talking about the fact that a terrible thing happened and you haven’t felt safe since. Even here in Deep Haven.”

He knew her that well? She swallowed, nodding.

“Because . . . it’s not about Deep Haven,” he said softly. “It’s about God. How can you trust Him, put your future in His hands, when He lets bad things happen to . . . people like you?”

She clenched her teeth together, but a moan emerged and her control broke. “Yeah. Me.” She gulped a deep breath. “It shouldn’t have happened to me.”

Jensen touched her forehead with his, his arms still around her. “You’re safe here, Claire. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. I’ll figure out a way for you to stay. You don’t have to leave Deep Haven.”

Oh, she wanted to believe him. Especially when he pulled her to himself. They sat there in the pocket of the night as she listened to his heartbeat, strong against her ear.

It wasn’t until she finally looked into his eyes, ever so briefly, that she realized the truth.

She was jealous. All these years, despite her best efforts, she had hated Felicity, at least a little. Because Felicity had what Claire had always wanted.

The heart of Jensen Atwood.

Claire had turned Felicity’s gravesite into a debris field. Flowers littered the lawn, and tomorrow, the cemetery gardener would think wild dogs had trampled on Felicity Christiansen’s grave.

Unless—worse—someone had seen his Mustang parked outside the entrance, done the math, and again assigned blame.

Jensen had no doubt that there might be formal charges, at the very least some sort of probation violation cooked up.

See, he didn’t have to leave town to find trouble. But he didn’t care. Not really. Not with Claire in his arms.

Not that it didn’t seem a little awkward, sitting here at Felicity’s grave. He couldn’t escape the irony. Felicity, between them again.

He probably should have kept driving tonight. Should have put the past behind him, at least until the authorities caught him. But he’d seen Claire’s shiny red bike leaning against the entrance, and . . . well, he worried.

He always worried, just a little. Ever since her story, so many years ago. It kept him up at nights sometimes, how close she’d come to being killed.

Of course she felt betrayed by God. He did too, although he knew better. The only person who’d let him down was himself.

“I never asked . . . what are you doing here?” Claire said.

“Uh . . .”

He didn’t want to let her go. But she pushed away from him. “Jensen? Why are you here?”

He leaned forward, began gathering the flowers. “Can these be replanted?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll have to buy more.”

He scraped them all into a pile.

“Were you following me?”

“Nope.” He pricked his hand on a couple thistles at the bottom of the pile.

“Jens!”

“Okay, fine.” He got up, holding out his hand, the other still gripping the flowers. “I . . . I was out for a drive.”

She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet. “A drive.” Her gaze went past him, to the entrance. “Is that your Mustang out there?”

His attempt at a smile fell flat, so he walked toward a receptacle and dropped in the mutilated flowers.

She followed him. Then, quietly, to his back, said, “You were leaving, weren’t you?”

He closed one eye, a half wince. “No,” he lied.

“Please. Seriously? I know you, Jensen. You haven’t driven that car for three years.”

And how could he? First, the police had impounded it, and then he didn’t want to see it, even once his father had it repaired. It sat in the garage until today, when Gibs turned on him.

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.

Maybe Darek would never call. After all, after four days . . .

Could she live with that? Only one date, no explanation, even after he’d kissed her so sweetly?

Yes. Maybe.

Or not.

Especially when she thought of Tiger, the way he nestled into her lap, throwing rocks, then playing with the glow stick she’d purchased for him.

He had a sweetness about him, a little-boy charm that he must have inherited, at least in part, from Felicity.

Felicity Holloway Christiansen.

Her file lay on the round pine table. Ivy had pulled it after lunch today, in between writing up complaints, summonses, and evidentiary briefs, not to mention following up on cases and answering about a hundred e-mails. Her brain had turned to mush, and the accident report and evidentiary briefs and memorandums in Felicity’s case couldn’t be considered light reading.

But she had to know.

So she’d read every detail, remembering it from when she’d read it the first time. Although, instead of Felicity being labeled as “the victim,” as Thornton Atwood had done in the file she’d been given, and Jensen as “the accused,” in this file, she’d discovered names. And witnesses. Including Darek.

If she’d been less eager three years ago, she might have dug
around a little, instead of wanting so much to please her boss, to impress him. Though she hadn’t known the accused was his son until after she handed in her recommendation—Thornton had masked the entire file and made her believe it was just a teaching exercise.

She easily pieced the scene together—a fight with Darek put Felicity in a running mood, and she’d ventured out, probably still angry, just after 9 p.m., in her Jeep, parking at the Cutaway Creek overlook. Maybe to just sit and think. They’d discovered her Jeep there, later that night.

Sometime after 9:35, she took off running, downhill, toward town. With traffic.

Jensen, on his way into town for pizza, came around the curve and an oncoming car’s headlights hit him in the eyes. He’d blinked and taken the curve too tight.

That’s when he felt the car hit Felicity. Investigation indicated that he hadn’t run into the ditch—on the contrary, they supposed she might have been crossing the road and hadn’t seen his lights.