Passing Through Paradise

by Susan Wiggs

  She put her hands in her lap and looked from one page to the other. Six weeks or six months. Quick fix or full restoration. A hefty price versus a financial hemorrhage.

  “Well,” she said. “Well, thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “Don’t you have any questions?” He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. His stare was direct, unsettling, yet at the same time, she could look into his calm blue eyes without fear. A funny feeling came over her. He listened to her with a different quality than her folks did. For as long as she could remember, she felt their anxiety about her stutter. They didn’t know it showed, but when she spoke, they were on the edge of their seats, straining with hope, and even as a child, she could feel that. Malloy simply listened, relaxed and confident. There was something rock solid about this man. For the first time in months, here was someone who knew exactly what he was about, who spoke plainly and honestly, who was entirely up-front.

  Or so she thought. Maybe she shouldn’t trust herself enough to conclude that he was all right. Events of the past year had proven her judgment dangerously flawed. Once again, she caught herself comparing Malloy to Victor. Her husband had been larger-than-life, whereas Malloy was just. . . large. Ordinary. Maybe that was why he appealed to her more than he should.

  “These bids are clear. They say what each job entails, and approximately what it will cost. That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “Let me know what you decide, then.”

  Her heart sank at the finality in his voice, and the way he pushed back his chair. She’d cleaned the house for an hour this morning, expecting him.

  He wasn’t company, she reminded herself, repeating it like a litany. Still . . .

  “You know,” she said, “since I’m selling the place, I shouldn’t care whether the house gets fixed up just enough to bring it up to code, or if it gets a full restoration.”

  “But?”

  “The restoration is tempting.”

  “This is a special place,” he said. “It’s one of a kind. It would be a shame to see the house torn down or ruined by someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “I agree. But why should I care?”

  “Didn’t you say the place is a family legacy?”

  “Sure, but not after I sell it.” She didn’t consider herself a sentimental person, but when she thought of letting go of the house, she felt a lurch of her heart. This was her place, her sanctuary.

  Ridiculous, she told herself. The sooner she got out, the better. Living in this old house, filled with family history and fond memories, didn’t account for much when no one came to see you. Correction. No one but hired help.

  “I’d better go with the lower bid, just the basics so it’ll pass inspection.”

  “Have you calculated your asking price?”

  “Um, not really.” She hadn’t been able to make herself go there. Somehow, disposing of the property seemed like a betrayal.

  “I printed out some recent comparable sales in the area.” Paging through the papers on his clipboard, he showed her the MLS listing on properties nearby. “Historically, in this area, a restored home sells for about twenty-five percent more than an unrestored home.”

  “This bid is a lot more than twenty-five percent higher than the other,” she pointed out.

  “I’m planning on doing a lot more than twenty-five percent more work. If I get the job,” he added.

  “Oh, you get the job, don’t worry about that,” she said. Realizing she sounded too easy, she added, “That is, if your references check out. You do have references, don’t you?”

  She expected him to get defensive. Instead, he took a stack of papers and a thick album from the zippered portfolio. “Of course,” he said. “Help yourself. Feel free to call any of my former clients.”

  She opened the album and nearly choked. A Newport mansion shimmered on the page like something out of a dream. The ensuing layout showed gleaming floors, graceful staircases, soaring columns, polished woodwork. The album displayed house after house, letters of commendation from historical societies, even awards.

  She lifted an eyebrow. There was more to this drive-by handyman than met the eye. “This is very impressive.” Then she picked up a magazine. “Architectural Digest?”

  “They’ve done a couple of features on my projects.”

  She located an article entitled “The Spirit of the Past.” The photographs were stunning—Gilded Age and Colonial homes, lush gardens, storybook gazebos and beach cabanas. Scanning the captions under the spread, she read aloud, “ ‘Malloy is endowed with a shamanlike vision, a mystical gift for evoking the winsome charm of a forgot-ten age.’“

  His face reddened and he shifted in his chair. “I didn’t write it.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Shamanlike vision?”

  “That’s crap. The fact is, I do my research and work my tail off. I only deal with subcontractors who can do the job right.”

  Sandra sighed, studying a photo of a painted saltbox house in Sakonnet that might have passed for an Andrew Wyeth painting. “I have to be honest with you. I really can’t afford to restore this place. I guess I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

  “Didn’t you say you own it free and clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d qualify for a loan, no problem. The house is your collateral.”

  She pictured herself going to the local bank, applying for a loan, dealing with people who had known Victor for years. “It’s not qualifying that worries me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You know, this thing about my husband.”

  “Banks are in business to make money. Not to listen to gossip.”

  She studied his rough-hewn face, his patient, blunt hands. He wore no wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything. He was a workingman; he’d probably left his jewelry at home. Maybe on the nightstand, next to his sleeping wife. Did he bend down to kiss her when he left in the morning? Did she inhale the scent of his pillow, feel his lingering warmth in the bedclothes?

  Sandra swallowed hard, chagrined by the turn of her thoughts. “But my husband is . . . Victor was pretty well known around here.”

  “I don’t know the finer points of the law, but it’s illegal for a bank to discriminate.”

  She thought about what happened Sunday, the Winslows refusing her gift to the church, and the sting of that moment hardened into stubborn certainty. She couldn’t recall the last time she had felt so decisive about something. But she wanted this. Wanted to transform the house on Blue Moon Beach into the beautiful home her great-grandfather had built for his family. It didn’t seem to matter that she had to let it go once it was finished. The prospect of the building project itself had an elemental appeal. It was something constructive, something that had a beginning and an end. Maybe it would bring her life back into balance, at least for a while. “All right,” she said. “Let’s talk about the restoration.”

  They worked out a tentative plan, and he was more than reasonable, even agreeing to defer his own fee until the house sold. Enviably self-confident, Malloy led her through each step of the contracting process. Victor used to take charge, she recalled. But in a much different way. Victor had an agenda. Mike had a vision. They were two different things.

  As they concluded their schedules and figures, the kids came back from the beach, running across the yard. Mike got up, his whole face softening at the sight of them. “I’ll have them wait in the truck.”

  “Oh, no you won’t,” she said. “Not on a day like this. It’s freezing outside. They’re probably starving.”

  Doubt shadowed his face and her stomach plummeted. Maybe he wasn’t immune to the gossip after all. Maybe he didn’t want his kids in the house of a killer.

  “They’ll live,” he said. “I don’t like leaving them by themselves when I’m at work.”

  “You’re a single dad?”

  He nodded. “The kids live with my ex-wife
in Newport.”

  “I see.” So, he wasn’t married after all. Suddenly, the world changed color. And her palms began to sweat. When she thought he was married, her interest in him had been like her interest in a Judith Lieber evening bag—something dazzling, but way out of her reach. The fact that he was single took away that safe distance.

  “You seem to like having them with you,” she said.

  “It shows?”

  She smiled. “In every breath you take. I really would like it if they’d come in and warm up.”

  “You asked for it.” He studied her briefly, then went to the back door and held it open. “This way, you two,” he said. “Leave your boots on the mat. Leave the dog out there too.”

  “But, Dad, Zeke is freezing his balls off,” Kevin said. “His little furry balls.”

  “That’s it. I’m leaving you on the porch,” Mike said.

  Kevin stared at the floor. “Sorry.”

  “Just leave your boots, okay?”

  Trailing their jackets behind them and walking along in stocking feet, Kevin and Mary Margaret came into the kitchen. They looked around, Hansel and Gretel with red cheeks and hungry eyes.

  Sandra was suddenly grateful she’d made that batch of molasses cookies. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Sandra. Would you like some cookies?”

  “Sure, thanks.” Kevin Malloy had round cheeks, lightly dusted with freckles, his father’s petal-blue eyes and a grin that wouldn’t quit. Just seeing it stretch across his face made Sandra smile, too. For that alone, she liked the kid immediately.

  “What about you, Mary Margaret?”

  The girl shrugged. “All right, I guess. Thanks.”

  There was nothing instantly likable about Mary Margaret. Sandra understood this as fully as a weather report. She noted the wariness in the girl’s wind-chapped face and hooded eyes, and it was like gazing into a mirror through time. Mary Margaret was the same kind of child Sandra had once been—awkward, intelligent, emotional. Her sharp gaze never missed a thing.

  “What about some hot spiced cider?” Sandra suggested. “It’s from a mix, but it’ll warm you up.”

  “Okay,” said Kevin.

  “Yes, please,” Mary Margaret said. Without being told, she went to the sink to wash her hands, and motioned for her brother to do the same.

  Pouring hot water from the kettle, Sandra mixed the spiced cider in thick china mugs. The kids sat at the table eating cookies, waiting for the cider to cool. Mary Margaret took a delicate sip. Almost crossing his eyes, Kevin blew on it with all his concentration. Sandra noticed Mike watching his son with a depth of affection so apparent and so private that she glanced away.

  Mary Margaret tried to smooth down her fine, sandy brown hair, staticky from the hood of her jacket. Her gaze wandered to the profusion of notes stuck to the refrigerator with cartoon-character magnets. Sandra’s habit of making lists had long since gone beyond the notebook phase. Quickly, she scanned the notes to see if any of them would embarrass her. Ten Things to Eat for Breakfast. Ten Things I Remember About Granddaddy Babcock. Ten Things to Say to a Phone Solicitor.

  “I keep a lot of lists,” she explained, though no one asked. For some reason, she didn’t feel at all silly—probably because they were kids. Children never made her uncomfortable. It was one of manythings she liked about them.

  “They all say ‘Ten Things,’” Mary Margaret observed. “Why ten?”

  “I’m not sure. I picked that number randomly, a long time ago, and now it’s a habit. I suppose if you can’t think of ten items for a list, then either you’ve picked the wrong topic, or you’re not thinking hard enough.”

  Kevin made a loud slurping sound in his mug, then announced, “My dad’s thirty-eight.”

  “Thanks, pal,” Mike said, half smiling.

  “Idiot,” Mary Margaret muttered under her breath.

  Kevin ignored her. “Did you know a horse’s heart weighs nine pounds?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Sandra. “Did you know that a beaver can hold its breath for forty-five minutes?”

  His eyes got big, and she could see him mentally filing the factoid away while Sandra did the same—assimilated the fact that Mike was the same age as Victor would be now, had he lived.

  Kevin held out his wrist, showing off an oversized watch. “It’s one A.M. in Italy right now. This thing’s got three time zones.”

  Mary Margaret exhaled a long-suffering sigh at the ceiling. Malloy, who was scraping a cabinet with his penknife to see what was under the green paint, paused and turned to Kevin. “Where’d you get the watch, son?”

  “Carmine. That’s my stepdad,” Kevin told Sandra.

  She sensed a sudden chill in the room and changed the subject. “My dad spent all his summers here when he was a boy,” she said. “He claims there’s buried treasure in the yard, but he can’t remember where.”

  Kevin asked, “Is this a haunted house?”

  “I’m still checking on that. When I was little, I used to visit my grandparents here, and I thought it might be haunted.”

  “Really?” His blue eyes grew round with wonder.

  “Yes, but I’d better not tell you about it, or you won’t get to sleep at night.”

  “Ghosts don’t scare me.”

  “See this?” She went to a square, shoulder-height door on the wall. “It’s a dumbwaiter. Broken now, but it used to run between the kitchen and the root cellar. When he was a little boy, my grandfather used to hide in here. One day, when I was about your age, I noticed that it seemed to go up and down all by itself.”

  Kevin whistled between his teeth. “Cool. Does it still do that?”

  “I ‘m not sure.”

  “But it might,” he persisted.

  “Maybe. This house is over a hundred years old-plenty of time to get infested by ghosts.” Almost defiantly, she stole a glance at Mike to see if he disapproved of the conversation, but he seemed preoccupied with measuring the soffit space above the cabinets with a long metal tape measure.

  “Why do you say maybe?” Mary Margaret asked. “Have you seen any evidence?”

  “I haven’t exactly seen anything. It’s just a feeling I get sometimes. I might be staring at the fire in the wood-stove, and see something unusual in the flames.”

  “Do you get scared?” asked Kevin.

  “No. A little sad, perhaps, because in most explanations of hauntings, the ghost suffered some sort of sadness or loss in the house. But my grandparents were nice people, so they’d probably turn into nice ghosts.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Mary Margaret said.

  “Are you going to fix this place, Dad?” Kevin asked his father.

  “You bet, sport.”

  “Good. It needs it.”

  “Kevin— “

  “Sorry. Let me know if you spot a ghost.”

  Mike reeled in his tape measure with a metallic hiss. “Sure thing.”

  Chapter 12

  T hey sure were happy to see you at the lumberyard,” said Phil Downing, climbing into the passenger seat as Mike signed the invoices.

  “Yeah, it’s been a while.” Mike started the engine, adjusted the mirror to check the load of lumber, plaster, concrete, nails and tools in the bed of the truck.

  “Feels good to be working on something other than a leaky basement,” Phil said. He was a plumbing and electrical contractor Mike had used in the past. Mike planned to subcontract for the painting, plaster and finish work, but not until the job was further along.

  “Trust me, you’ll find more than leaks at this place.” The prospect of restoring the old beach house reminded him of the things he used to love about his work—probing the hidden mysteries of a hundred-year-old house, excavating the core layout, trying to see the building and landscape through the eyes of its original designer.

  He’d spent days with the Babcock house in his head and on his computer screen, mentally and virtually weaving together history, symmetry, nature and architectural theory. He always
liked this stage of the work, but it also brought on a bittersweet sense of regret. This was what he’d liked way back in his college days—this was what he was good at. Everyone had dismissed him as a jock, but his classes on architecture and design had set his brain on fire. Then the knee thing had happened, then Angela, and he’d had to leave in the middle of it all. Everyone said how great he’d done, the way he’d started his firm and made a big success of it—yet he’d always wished he could have stayed in school.

  The current project couldn’t compare to the work he used to do in Newport, when he’d hired crews of restoration specialists and handled seven-figure budgets for wealthy clients. All that had fallen away during the divorce and dissolution. Fifteen years of work and sweat. Maybe Mike would build back up to that point one day, maybe not. For now, he’d settle for a project with a scope and rhythm he could control.

  He put the invoices in a folder and drove out of the parking lot. “This order is chickenfeed compared to our previous volume.”

  “One day at a time,” Phil said, then chuckled at the look on Mike’s face. In his late forties, a chain smoker in a knitted fisherman’s cap, Phil was a quiet, deliberate type who did steady work and kept his promises. He had one other skill Mike found rather startling—Phil had become a sophisticated computer expert. His gift for ferreting out lost files and configuring systems had bailed Mike out more than once. Mike didn’t know him well, but Phil was pretty open about the fact that he hadn’t always been so reliable. He’d had a rough life. Years ago, he was held liable in an auto accident he hadn’t caused. He started drinking, and his wife had taken their two boys out of state. Phil had hit bottom with a DUI, gone into court-ordered rehab and had been sober a good ten years.

  He was like a ghost, sitting there—a sad, middle-aged guy, out of touch with his kids and ex-wife, subsisting on coffee and cigarettes and memories that grew dimmer every year.