by Susan Wiggs
When Victor was alive, Sunday mornings had taken on the mantle of ritual. As the pastor’s son and a public figure himself, her husband treated worship as something more than a spiritual activity. Each Sunday, he rose early and dressed with meticulous care. He always looked perfect, slender and handsome as a plaster saint as he guided her to a box pew with an engraved brass plaque commemorating the first Winslows of Rhode Island.
Now she was alone, still reeling from the shock of her mother’s announcement and from Milton’s warning about a lawsuit.
She had the sensation of hovering on a precipice, about to plunge over the edge. She’d been a recluse for far too long, keeping to herself while the locals gossiped. Although Sandra had never been a fighter, some small, insistent voice inside kept nagging, nudging, telling her to barge unafraid into the life she wanted. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing but lose her husband under tragic circumstances, yet she kept feeling as though she owed the world an apology.
Ye are cursed with a curse: for ye have robbed me, even this whole nation.
No more, she thought, suddenly awash with the cleansing heat of defiance. It was time to quit acting guilty.
Cursed is the one who perverts the justice due the stranger, the fatherless and widow.
She paced up and down as the decision firmed in her mind. She had to stop torturing herself with uncertainties. She had to get out, do something.
Picking up the insurance check, she firmly endorsed it to Old Somerset Church. As she did, a lightness swept through her, as if someone had lifted a rock off her chest. Then, filled with defiant energy, she tried on and discarded several outfits, finally choosing a navy knit suit with matching shoes — subdued but stylish. Winifred Winslow, whose friends from boarding school still called her “Winky,” had approved it for a DAR luncheon, one of many lessons on being the wife of a politician.
Sandra did her makeup and hair with anxious attention, wishing she could find a way to mask the pallor in her cheeks and the hollow look of having lost too much weight too quickly.
The drive to town should have calmed her nerves, but with each mile, tension knotted tighter in her stomach. The road formed a brittle ridge of shale and granite along the coast, curving around to the main part of town. Winter-bare trees etched the stark landscape, as thin and straight as gouges made with a knife against a canvas of amber meadow grass. Frost hid in shadowed pockets of the fields and clung to the undersides of tumbled boulders at the shoulder of the road. Out on the water, fishing boats plowed through the gunstock-gray ocean, and scavenging gulls circled over the skeletal arms of the raised nets.
Sandra flexed her gloved hands on the steering wheel. For weeks after the accident, she’d been afraid to drive. Panic would gather in her chest, squeezing her lungs until she could hardly breathe. She forced herself to get in the car, go through the motions, focus on her destination. But the nightmare endured.
Fragments of memory haunted her even now; she could still see the slick black ice of the road and the glare of another car’s headlights in the rearview mirror. She could still hear the whine of tires hydroplaning across the bridge deck. Her ears rang with the explosion of impact, followed by the vicious hiss of the airbag detonating.
With a will, she pushed the past away and tried to relax her grip on the wheel. Painted wooden signs, weathered by the ceaseless battering of sea winds and slashing rain, marked the boundary of the township. Paradise was a true hometown, with sidewalks and tree-lined lanes, snug houses wrapped by porches, a grid of streets leading to the business area of neat shopfronts arranged around a faux-colonial community center. A drive-through donut shop, Gloria’s Shrimp Shack and the Twisted Scissors Barber Shop formed a truncated strip mall near the waterfront.
Slowing to a cautious twenty-five miles per hour, she passed the town commons, an oblong green space with a pond in the middle. In the next block . . . She told herself not to look, but couldn’t help it. She studied the Winslow estate, an eighteenth-century mansion in the middle of a pristine lawn. Less than a mile from that was the handsome but less ostentatious converted carriage house that had been the Winslows’ wedding gift to her and Victor.
All her life, Sandra had looked for a place to belong and finally, in Paradise at Victor’s side, she’d found it. When she lost him, she lost more than a husband. She lost her home, her community, her place in the world. She needed to find that again. The question was, how could she do it without Victor?
They had lived in the eye of the community, an up-and-coming state senator and his quiet new wife. Now the residence housed a small family, and changes were apparent—new lace curtains that, Sandra thought, compromised the clean lines of the upstairs dormer windows. A little red tricycle on the front walk caused her chest to ache with an old, familiar yearning. She had wanted children, but Victor kept putting it off.
Thinking back on those tense, late-night discussions, she realized how skillful he’d been, finding a reason to wait each time she broached the subject. First he had to settle his campaign budget. Attend to his mother, who had suffered—and survived—breast cancer. Win the election and raise funds for the next race. Position himself to climb the ladder to politics at the national level.
Anything but the truth.
She pulled her outdated Plymouth Arrow into a parking space at the church. The tower clock rang half past, and she let out a sigh of relief. She’d wanted to arrive early and approach the Winslows in private. Although it was tempting to make her gesture before the entire congregation, she couldn’t bring herself to do something so manipulative and disingenuous.
It was the sort of thing Victor would have done. But then again, it would have worked for Victor.
Drawing the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she slammed the car door. Self-conscious after her long absence, she recalled her first visit here, when she was the outsider, the unknown quantity, an object of scrutiny. In some ways, that had never changed, but eventually she’d meshed with the intricately woven pattern of church and town; she’d been comfortable here, much the same way she’d been comfortable with Victor.
But even in the most connected moments, she some-times felt like a fraud—she’d never been particularly religious and some aspects of the church scene felt false to a person of her dark imagination. Yet her duties as Victor’s wife had included volunteering in the children’s Sunday school, and secretly she thought leading a chirping chorus of “This Little Light of Mine” offered more grace than her father-in-law’s thundering sermons.
Tucking her coat around her, she headed for the rear of the church and a wide door marked “Pastor’s Office.” She didn’t have long to wait. Within a few moments, the Winslows’ van turned into the rear lot and glided into the spot reserved for the pastor. They didn’t appear to see her at first as they went through the routine of disembarking from the van.
After thirty years of living as a paraplegic, Ronald Winslow managed with easy grace. His wife neither pitied nor babied him; to Sandra’s knowledge, she never had. They always looked completely natural together, as dignified as any blue-blooded New England couple of a certain age. The bond of their love was a subtle but tangible thing—he effortlessly adjusted the electric glide of his chair to her pace as they crossed the parking lot. The sight of them had a special poignance for Sandra now. The thought that her parents would never be together like that again burned her like a brand.
The knot in her stomach tightened, but she forced her-self to walk toward the access ramp leading to the office.
“What are you doing here?” Her father-in-law’s blunt question stopped her.
With the chill wind lashing at her cheeks, she faced him squarely. Ten Really Bad Ideas for a Sunday Morning . . . Her notion of coming here, which had filled her with hope an hour ago, now seemed the height of foolishness.
“Hello, Ronald,” she said, feeling their stares like chisels. “Hello, Winifred.”
Victor’s mother didn’t even look at her. The outline of her tur
ned-away face spoke more eloquently than any words. Her small, delicate nostrils emitted twin puffs of frozen air. Winifred, who had taught her how to plan a benefit dinner and give a speech to the League of Women Voters, acted like a stranger now.
Sandra heard the faint whine of a ship’s whistle in the harbor, the plaintive cry of a winter curlew overhead. No other sound intruded. Somehow, she found her voice. “I’m here because I want this to be over,” she said. “It was an accident. You were there for the ruling. You heard.”
It had been torture, sitting across the aisle from them, their sadness a dead weight, their censure pure poison.
“We heard the ruling.” Ronald moved the chair slightly in front of his wife as if to protect her. “That doesn’t mean we heard the truth. You were in the driver’s seat. You survived, and Victor died.”
Grief had ravaged this man’s noble face, so like the face of his only son. Shadows of sleeplessness were carved beneath his eyes; his cheeks looked ruddy, the way they did when he ate too much on Thanksgiving during the football games. A vital piece of this man was missing, and Sandra knew there was no way he’d ever get it back.
Victor had been their miracle baby, their only child— prayed for, desperately wanted, born against all medical odds to a man whose disability should have prevented conception at all. They raised him as their ultimate work-in-progress, mapping out a perfect life for their golden boy. He measured up in all ways but one—the woman he’d chosen to marry.
When Victor introduced her to his parents just three weeks after their first date—if you could call it a date—the Winslows had been gracious and unfailingly polite, but couldn’t quite mask the disappointment in their eyes. The words they would never, ever speak aloud hung like a fog in the air: Why her? She’s a nobody, and so young. We had such hopes for you. . . .
Later, Victor confessed that they’d spent years pushing him toward the daughter of their closest friends, a woman who was beautiful, ambitious, pedigreed and well connected. A woman who had carried a torch for Victor ever since they’d met at a church picnic as teenagers. Her name was Courtney Procter.
After watching the WRIQ reports, Sandra knew for certain that Courtney had never forgiven her.
“You know I ‘d never harm Victor.” Thrusting her hand in her pocket, she closed her fist around the check. “You know me, Ronald,” she went on, struggling to keep her tone even, her voice free of hesitation. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No one ever knew you, Sandra,” Winifred said, finally speaking out in a cold lash of anger. “You never let them.”
Sandra thrust the check at Ronald. “This is the first part of the life insurance settlement. I ‘m donating it to the church.” The pale green slip of paper dropped into his lap.
He brushed it away as though it were a live coal, and it fluttered to the bare pavement. “You can’t buy absolution with your profits from Victor’s death.”
“I’m not trying to buy anything. I don’t need to, because I didn’t do anything wrong—except, as you said, survive.” She held his gaze, and recognized the hurt buried in his eyes. “I miss him, too. I miss him every day, just as you do. That’s what this is about.”
“You’re trying to buy your way out of trouble, and it won’t work.”
“Stop.” Winifred put a hand on her husband’s arm. “We don’t have to listen to anymore of this.” With that, she turned, making her way up the ramp. Stone-faced, Reverend Winslow angled his electric-powered chair and followed his wife.
The Winslows were beyond comfort and apparently, beyond reason.
Sandra gripped the railing, started after them, then stopped. She stared down at the check, tumbling like a leaf along the pavement. A slow burn of anger swept through her. Her hand slipped down the iron railing as she stepped backward once, twice. Then, with shoulders squared and chin held high, she retrieved the check, turned away from the church and hurried toward her car.
The front doors of the sandy brick church now stood open to the day. She could see the glow of candles within, and the spice of fresh flower arrangements wafted from the sanctuary. The subtle, murmuring notes of the organist warming up for the processional rode the morning breeze.
But it was a false welcome, she knew that now. She wanted to kick herself for her own stupidity. She should have listened to Milton. Of course they wouldn’t change their minds simply because of the ruling.
Enough, then, she told herself, slamming the car door on the belly-deep sound of the church bells tolling. It would never be over. Especially not now. Everything was just starting now. Her hand closed around the check in her coat pocket. By declining her money, they were making her decision about the house much easier.
Yet it didn’t feel easy. These people wanted her humiliated, banished, ruined. They probably wanted her to burn in hell. A hundred times, she had been tempted to reveal the whole truth about that night, but she always fought the impulse. The truth would only add bitterness to their grief, and no explanation would bring Victor back to life.
Despite their anger at her, Sandra felt protective of Victor’s grieving parents. They’d been so proud of Victor. They missed him so much. Ever since his death, she’d shielded them from something only she knew. She told herself it was because she respected their grief—but maybe in her heart she was also engaged in a silent bargain: I’ll spare you the truth about your son if you’ll forgive me for my role in his death.
She tried to decide if she felt differently now. They’d drawn the lines of battle, and a dark urge stirred inside her. She was tempted with every nerve in her body to blurt out how wrong they were about everything, how they never really knew their own son. But she didn’t want to be the one to end their dreams, to turn cherished memories to bitter disillusionment.
She wasn’t being a martyr, wasn’t being noble, keeping her silence. She was simply being pragmatic. To end her silence at this point would do more harm than good. Because the truth was, during his last moments on earth, her husband had given her a reason to want him dead.
Chapter 7
For lapsed Catholics and divorced dads, there was nothing as lonely as a Sunday. Mike drove through the streets where he’d spent his boyhood, a dull ache pressing at his chest. You don’t get any second chances in life, he reflected. If you don’t get it right the first time, you can’t just start over from scratch. But that was just what he was trying to do.
On the seat beside him, Zeke sat at full attention, ears pricked and tongue lolling. Every few seconds, the dog indulged the occasional need to bark.
Before the divorce, Mike used to take his kids to mass at St. John’s, and after catechism class they’d drive up to the beach, or just hang around the house, shooting baskets or riding bikes. It had been easy to believe those days would never end, easy for both him and Angela to pretend they didn’t see the end coming.
His head and heart were crammed with memories, but they were fragmented—Mary Margaret’s first step. Kevin’s first communion. Trips to Florida to see his folks. As for the day-to-day stuff, it was all a blur, like the landscape smearing past when you sped down the Interstate. He had buried himself in work, chasing down jobs, building up a clientele with single-minded, manic energy.
And for what? So Angela could get a new car every year. So he could upgrade his boat. Join a country club. Send the kids to private school.
He knew why. He wanted the best for his kids, but he had never fully understood what that meant. He’d always felt like a failure, getting booted off the team and having his scholarship yanked, quitting his degree program to start a business. Everyone admired him; he’d become one of the biggest contractors in Newport, and for years, that had defined him. Time passed at warp speed. Then one morning he woke up, looked at his wife and saw a stranger.
A stranger who wanted a divorce.
She’d “met” someone.
Mike shook off the thought of his ex-wife. Today he had something else to think about—a long-overdue condolence cal
l to Victor Winslow’s family.
He drove even slower, pissed at himself for putting this off. He and Victor had been best friends, and no matter how many years had passed, he owed the family a visit to express his shock and grief and genuine sorrow. Now he had the added burden of a confession to make. He was putting in a bid to restore Sandra Winslow’s old house at Blue Moon Beach.
In the church parking lot of Old Somerset Church, a woman hurried away from the building, fast, like she had to go throw up or something.
Mike pulled off to the side of the road and watched her. Dark coat flapping in the wind. Shiny brown hair. Sandra Winslow. What the hell was she doing here?
She got into her car and slammed the door. For a minute, she sat there with the heels of her hands resting on the steering wheel and her head down. The morning light haloed the fragile, unguarded lines of her face.
Mike tried to dismiss the unsettling image of her. The house, not the woman, concerned him, he told himself, easing up on the brake pedal. Just then, Zeke decided to bark. Son of a bitch had a loud bark.
Her head lifted, and she looked straight at Mike.
Busted.
Shit, he thought. Shit shit shit. Peeling out now would look rude. He couldn’t afford to be rude to a potential client, even Sandra Winslow.
He raised one hand in a half wave. She rolled down the car window. At a loss, Mike slapped the truck in park and got out, telling Zeke to stay. He walked across the parking lot. “Car trouble?” he asked.
“No.”
He glanced at the church. “They let you out early for good behavior?”
“Something like that.” She grimaced. “I changed my mind about church today.”
She was a real charmer, he thought. Yet there was something in the way she held herself that made her look as though she could break at the slightest pressure. She was about to cry, he realized uncomfortably, focusing on the dangerous brightness in her eyes. He shouldn’t care— he didn’t care—but he heard himself say, “I was just going to go for a cup of coffee. You want to join me?”