Read Online Take a Chance on Me by Susan May Warren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan May Warren
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Contemporary, Christian, Fiction / Romance - Contemporary, FICTION / Christian / Romance
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see if they had any shut-ins who needed their lawn mowed or house cleaned. Maybe just needed a friend.
He liked sitting with them, listening to their stories. It made him forget his own.
Back at Pine Acres, he grabbed a ham sandwich, then loaded the mower into the back of the truck and tackled the various lawns that needed attention. He sprayed the decimated currant bush, trimmed it, then found the chain saw in the maintenance shed and went to work on the downed tree.
There had been a time when he detested this kind of work, back when he thought his years in law school might mean something, that he should be respected and admired for his academic prowess. When mowing lawns seemed miles beneath him. But now he found the work refreshing, the sweat honest, and it seemed the one thing he could do to earn his room and board, maybe ease the frown from his father’s face.
If that were even possible. He couldn’t quite get on his father’sgood side after the accident. Too many dreams had died that night on the highway.
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 thestress 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
He liked sitting with them, listening to their stories. It made him forget his own.
Back at Pine Acres, he grabbed a ham sandwich, then loaded the mower into the back of the truck and tackled the various lawns that needed attention. He sprayed the decimated currant bush, trimmed it, then found the chain saw in the maintenance shed and went to work on the downed tree.
There had been a time when he detested this kind of work, back when he thought his years in law school might mean something, that he should be respected and admired for his academic prowess. When mowing lawns seemed miles beneath him. But now he found the work refreshing, the sweat honest, and it seemed the one thing he could do to earn his room and board, maybe ease the frown from his father’s face.
If that were even possible. He couldn’t quite get on his father’sgood side after the accident. Too many dreams had died that night on the highway.
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 thestress 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
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