Free Take a Chance on Me by Susan May Warren

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.
    Claire had lost too many beautiful rosebuds before their time by leaning into the season too soon.
    So despite the mild winter and lack of snow, she had kept thecovers on, not wanting to risk the frost. And her American Beauty roses sweltered under their Styrofoam coverings, broiling instead of freezing to death.
    Why, why didn’t she just listen to her instincts instead of her fears?
    She knelt in the dirt of the city rose garden and lifted one of the containers. Tiny green buds shot out from the cropped limbs, evidence that even in darkness, the roses survived. She pulled the cover off, and the rosebush sprang free as if exhaling.
    “Sorry, little rose,” she said and sat back on her haunches, brushing dirt from her gloved hands.
    “Talking to your plants again, Claire?” Edith Draper strode up the sidewalk on her way to the library, just beyond the garden. She wore an embroidered Grandmas Are for Hugs sweatshirt and held an armload of books.
    “I’m hoping my decision to keep the covers on and protect them from the frost didn’t kill them.”
    Edith raised a shoulder. “You can’t live your life by the what-ifs, sweetie. They look fine to me.”
    “If I kill these roses, the Deep Haven Horticultural Society will murder me.”
    Edith had reached the library door. “They put you in charge because you have the best green thumb in town. Not to mention the most energy. Trust yourself.” She winked and disappeared inside.
    Herself would be the last person Claire trusted. She hadn’t made a right decision since . . . well, since she’d convinced her parents to allow her to move stateside and attend Deep Haven High School. But after that . . . yeah, she’d pretty much let down herself and everyone else around her with a string of flimsy life choices.
    Claire took off another cover. Again, the rosebush underneath had already started to bloom. Phew. Alive.
    She created a stack of Styrofoam containers, then added fertilizer