Take a Chance on Me by Susan May Warren Page A

chance? What if he showed up at her house with an apology and an invitation to a second date?
    He’d roll up to her driveway and smile—she knew he had it in him—and she’d come off the steps, walk down to the drive to hear him say, I’m sorry I was such a grouch. How about another try?
    Really? Why, Darek, I’m so glad you asked—
    Oh, for pete’s sake, she didn’t need this. Didn’t need Darek in her life, smiling her direction, taking her in his arms.
    Because then what? She’d hop in his Jeep and they’d drive off into the sunset? She knew better than that. Happy endings and family didn’t belong to a girl like her.
    Ivy got up and went back inside, flopping down on the bed in the corner of the room. She turned on her iPod to some Frank Sinatra.
    The crooner was singing about moonlight and dancing and falling in love. She turned it off.
    Walked to the window and stood there in silence.
    Just her and the moonlight.
    It would have to be enough.

“TIGER, YOU STAY RIGHT HERE, next to the cart, while Daddy goes to get a watermelon.” Darek turned and pointed to his son. Red candy stickiness smudged his cheeks from the lollipop on a string the teller at the bank had given him, and he stood licking his fingers, even as the lollipop sagged in his other hand. His stitches had started to dissolve, leaving a thin red scar. He still looked a disheveled mess, however, his new Spider-Man shirt grimy from a morning of “helping Daddy in the yard.”
    “Don’t move.”
    “Okay, Daddy.”
    Darek smiled and rounded the edge of the table, reaching for the biggest watermelon he could find. He slung it under his arm and pulled out his list, just to check.
    His mother had this brilliant idea to serve root beer floats on the deck for the one cabin of guests who had checked in last night, as an Independence Day treat.
    One cabin for the Fourth of July weekend. He well remembered when they’d had to turn people away.
    Darek could barely stand the look on his father’s face today when he’d taken two cancellations, both because of the lack of air-conditioning in their “rustic” cabins.
    Why couldn’t every guest be like the family a couple weeks ago who had fished and swum and hiked and enjoyed the beauty of the north shore without needing the comforts of home?
    Not that he blamed the guests, he supposed. With temperatures soaring into the nineties, the tiny cabins could turn to saunas without the right circulation. But they didn’t need to be nasty about it. He wanted to strangle the snooty young couple who’d shown up, driven to the cabin, then turned around and left, after calling the resort a dump to his father’s face.
    While his father smiled and wished them well, Darek wanted to let them know exactly how many hours his mother had scrubbed their cabin. Preferably he’d do it while backing up the skinny, too-slick-looking tourist against his shiny black Escalade.
    Ungrateful . . .
    Thanks to his mother’s hard work, a guest could eat off the floor of any of the cabins, and his father kept them all in tip-top shape. But their homemade breadboard countertops and wooden floors, the rag rugs and old-fashioned quilts could hardly compare to stainless steel and granite kitchens, travertine tiles in the posh condos in town. And never mind the flat-screen televisions.
    But oh, they’d serve root beer floats and watermelon. Darek shook his head. He’d never be the host his parents were, despitehis efforts, and their hope of handing down the resort to him might be the biggest mistake of their lives. In fact, his dreams, until five years ago, had included seeing the world, finding adventure, and making a name for himself in the world of wildland fire management.
    Now, the only flames he saw were the occasional sparks lifting from one of their lakeside fires, snuffed out as they drifted into the night.
    He rounded the corner of the table.
    Tiger had vanished.
    Clearly he would never be the father his son needed,