Passing Through Paradise

by Susan Wiggs

  Phil took out a Camel and turned it, unlit, over and over in his fingers. “That’s pretty much the way to deal with any setback, I figure.”

  Highway 1 followed the curve of the Pettaquamscutt River, visible through the bare trees at the roadside. The sky was a sharp winter blue, so clear it made his eyes smart. If the weather held, he’d work on the old slate roof, a rare opportunity this time of year.

  During the drive to the job site, he went over the work plan, while Phil studied computer-generated diagrams and elevations.

  Paging through the printouts, Phil gave a low whistle. “You’re looking at a tight work schedule.”

  “I’ll finish on time and on budget. I promised.”

  “You’ll have to practically live there.”

  “One thing I have plenty of these days is time,” Mike said. “I only get my kids one weekday and every other weekend.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “The arrangement’s up for evaluation next summer. I intend to ask for a lot more time.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “It sucks, after raising my kids for years, I suddenly have to prove to some social worker I can provide ‘adequate and stable housing,’ and a ‘nurturing environment.’ My lawyer’s advising me to look for a house, but hell, my kids love Paradise. They’re safe on the boat— they’ve spent practically every summer there.”

  “It’s a damned funny thing—if the parents stay together, they can do God-knows-what to their kids, raise ’em as idol worshipers or tattoo their behinds or whatever. But as soon as a judge gets involved, you’re following someone else’s orders. Buddy of mine who’s Methodist has to take his kids to Catholic mass every other Sunday. By order of the judge, of course.”

  “Everything I’ve been ordered to do is reasonable,” Mike said, “so far. I just don’t like being ordered to do it, like I’m a moron or a deadbeat.” The system seemed specially designed to bring out the worst in everybody involved. He’d had to learn to let go of things even when every instinct told him to hold on with all his might. He’d had to change the whole focus of his life, and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, but it sure as hell felt that way. He’d been cutting expenses every way he knew how, living on his boat while looking for the right house for his kids, putting something by for their education every month, no matter what, keeping up with child support payments. Every spare dollar he earned went to savings—for the legal war chest he was amassing for the new custody evaluation, and for making a better life for Kevin and Mary Margaret.

  “Hang in there,” Phil said. “Things will settle down, you’ll see.”

  Mike kept his eyes on the road. He was getting too used to the way things were. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to get accustomed to living alone, to seeing his kids on a court-ordered schedule. What the hell kind of life was that?

  Angela’s husband, Carmine, had more money than time for a family, supplying ample quantities of designer toys while skimping on anything that resembled serious parenting. He liked the idea of having kids more than the reality of it. Mike tried to be thankful that Carmine was an okay guy—a business owner, volunteer fireman, seemed proud of the kids. He didn’t care for Mike at all, of course, though he did a pretty good job of hiding that from Kevin and Mary Margaret. Mike wasn’t crazy about the fact that Carmine doled out expensive gifts like candy on Halloween, but he never said a word, even though they always seemed to have something new from their stepfather.

  Sometimes Mike tortured himself, wondering what it was doing to them to have their family split into two separate households. He’d watched Mary Margaret and Kevin stagger through the whole gamut of emotions from grief to remorse, insecurity to fury. The family counselor advised him and Angela to expect conflicts of loyalty, acting out, sliding grades in school.

  What are we doing to our kids, Angela?

  “Hey, slow down, pal,” Phil cautioned. “Don’t want to lose our load before we get there.”

  Mike glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-five. Jesus. “Sorry,” he said and eased up on the accelerator. As they turned down the coast, the landscape grew wilder, more dramatic, the woods unkempt, the waves exploding against high, rocky banks. Mike could see the crooked wind vane of the old house poking above a thicket of mangled trees and overgrown bushes.

  “There’s one thing you ought to be aware of before we get started,” Mike said. “The client is Sandra Winslow.”

  “Victor Winslow’s widow?” The unlit cigarette twirled in Phil’s hand. “You don’t say.”

  “She wants to sell the family beach house.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. You can’t get away with murder until you actually get. . . away.”

  “You think she did it?”

  “Probably not,” Phil said, “but where’s the fun in that? So what’s she like?”

  Sad. Quiet. Nervous. Fragile. Mike wasn’t sure how to describe her. He couldn’t even figure out his complicated reaction to her. The fact that she was so alone reminded him of his own losses, bringing him face-to-face with a truth he didn’t want to acknowledge. “She doesn’t strike me as the type who would off her husband for the insurance,” he said.

  “You never really know about people, eh? But you’re okay with her as a client?”

  “I can’t be choosy.” In the past, his clients had reacted to his work with pride and wonder, but he didn’t expect enthusiasm from Sandra Winslow. Impatience and irritation, maybe.

  Mike pulled into the drive, parking behind her blue hatchback. Phil got out and lit up, pushing back his cap to look at the house.

  “So this is it,” Mike said. A hedge of mountain laurel bordered the yard, and Concord grapes, with last year’s shriveled clusters still hanging on the vines, draped the rickety cedar fence on one side. Under a graceful sycamore tree stood a small bird feeder, and he was a little surprised to see that it was well stocked with seeds.

  “This is some place,” Phil said. “I don’t blame you for wanting to restore it.” He surveyed the long, curving porch and busy woodwork edging the roof. Like most Carpenter Gothics, the house had been drawn from the builder’s own fanciful ideas rather than the plans of a trained architect. The ornate wooden detail was unique to this house alone, one of the factors that was going to make it a valuable piece of real estate.

  A peculiar feeling came over Mike each time he studied the house. He felt a vague sense of recognition—not only because he was an expert on this sort of design, but because of the way the whole place was put together. It felt right, oriented perfectly to the ocean view, every line whimsical but balanced.

  Sandra Winslow met them at the front door, and Phil ground out his cigarette on the brick walkway. She looked a little distracted, a pen tucked behind her ear, a tentative smile on her face. Today she wore dark slacks and a sweater, her hair pulled back. No makeup. Mike introduced them, explaining that Phil would be in charge of the electrical and plumbing work.

  She held the door open wide to the formal vestibule. “There’s coffee on in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Phil stepped into the entranceway, all business as he scanned the area from baseboards to tall ceilings. The house had a dining room adjacent to the broad front parlor, a library nook and a big country kitchen down the hall. Phil headed toward the kitchen, drawn by the sharp, rich aroma of coffee.

  “Your copies of the contract.” Mike handed her the stapled pages. “You’ll want to take your time looking over that.”

  “Thanks.” The softest of smiles touched her lips. “And I have something for you.”

  His mouth dried. Damn. What the hell was it about this woman? Just one look, a brief exchange of conversation, generated a swift, unexpected heat between them, and the reaction intensified each time he saw her. She wasn’t beautiful the way Angela was, not in a head-turning, wolf-whistle way. Sandra had a subtle magnetism in the depths of her brown eyes, and there was something fresh and honest in her face. According to Ronald Winslow, that was how she’d bea
ten the rap during the medical examiner’s investigation.

  “So I’m supposed to guess?” he asked.

  “You’d never guess.” She led the way into the parlor, the most dramatic room in the house with its leaded bow-front window framing a view that dazzled today. The blue of the sky had the crispness found only in winter, imbuing the Atlantic with the deeper hue of sapphire. A pair of colored glass birds hanging from the window sash caught the light. He touched one with a finger, and color swept across the room.

  “Victor made those,” she said softly. “It was a hobby of his.”

  Mike turned away, making no comment. It was hard, seeing those little glass ornaments hanging in the sunlight, knowing Victor had made them. How much harder it must be for Sandra, his widow. He wondered how she could stand it.

  She went over to the library alcove, which was littered with books, a desk with a computer and printer, stacking trays overflowing with letters and forms. He couldn’t quite make out the text on the computer screen. Had she been surfing the Internet? Playing computer solitaire? Sending E-mail to a secret lover? Was her world inside that computer now that the locals shunned her?

  He wanted to ask her, but he knew he wouldn’t. Her invisible, self-protective shell set boundaries between them. At the same time, she moved him in a way he hadn’t expected and didn’t like. Her vulnerability made him sharply aware that he had numbed himself to emotion and had been doing so for too long. He wanted his family back, he missed them like hell, and for some reason, Sandra Winslow unearthed all that buried need in him.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing him a rolled document, yellowed with age and brittle at the edges. Just for a moment, her eyes shone with artless delight. He wondered if she’d been this way with Victor, unconsciously sexy, a little awkward, almost girlish in her appeal.

  He unrolled the paper on the round table in front of the window. Sandra weighted the corners with a seashell, an ashtray filled with buttons, an empty soda bottle and a coaster from Schillers Bar. Mike stared in amazement at a well-preserved house plan, complete with detailed elevation drawings.

  “Cool, huh?” she said, standing close enough to touch. “I found this at my father’s, along with the deed.”

  “You’re—” Mike broke off, unwilling to get too personal with this woman. “It’s a rare document—pretty in-credible. I’ll have working copies made, and we can register the original with the historical society.” For a second, a light glinted in her eyes, giving him a glimpse of a different woman beneath the somber facade. The unguarded moment revealed sensitivity, vulnerability, and those were things that shouldn’t interest him at all. But the thought swept through him like a rogue wave—I want you—and somehow, she must have felt it, because she stepped back, as though from a too-hot stove.

  “Fine with me.” Even without moving, she seemed to withdraw.

  “You’re lucky. It’s a hell of a find.” Mike could tell he made her nervous, and he didn’t know why. He thought about the way she’d been around his kids—far more relaxed and natural than she was with him. Kevin and Mary Margaret didn’t have a clue about her troubles, and they accepted her at face value. In the truck on the way home, Kevin even declared that he liked her. Mary Margaret hadn’t said much at all—Mike was never sure what was going on in his daughter’s head these days.

  “I’m going to start by pressure washing the roof while the weather holds,” he said, warning himself not to speculate any further about this woman, especially with regard to his kids. She was a client, nothing more. “I don’t think it needs replacing, but I’ll know for sure once we get it cleared off.”

  “It’s a bit cold to be working outside,” she said.

  “I’ll live. Is there an outdoor spigot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll get started.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Will do.” He studied her for a moment—nervous hands, soft mouth, big eyes. She didn’t look capable of helping with much. She looked troubled and complicated. An unfamiliar urge grabbed hold of him. It was weird to be thinking of a woman again, particularly this woman. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her against his chest, smooth his hand over her glossy hair and—

  “I need to get that sprayer rigged,” he said. What he needed was to get outside, do a job involving cold water and high pressure. Maybe that would clear his head. Without another word, he turned and left her. A half hour later, he was standing on the peak of the roof, the hose connected to a roaring compressor on the ground far below.

  Draped in cables and cords, Phil went back and forth between the house and power line, studying the antique knob-and-tube wiring scheme and scribbling notes.

  Mike derived a distinct, primal satisfaction from the powerful gush of water pounding at the roof tiles, uprooting mosses and mildew, flaky lichen and the occasional dried weed sprouting between shingles of old slate. From his vantage point, he could see the traffic on the coastal road. In summer, the road would be crowded with SUVs, station wagons and open Jeeps with radios blaring. But in the dead of winter, the local traffic was sparse.

  In the distance, he spotted a dark sedan gliding along in front of a white van with a bunch of equipment on its roof. He frowned when the sedan turned into the driveway, tires crunching over the crushed shell surface of the drive. The station logo for WRIQ News blazed from the windowless side of the van, and on its top was a small satellite dish. Two men jumped out and opened the back, reeling out heavy spools of thick cables.

  Mike climbed down the ladder and turned off the pressure sprayer as a technician crossed the yard, a big camera mounted on one shoulder. Two men in dark suits exited the sedan.

  “This is the home of Sandra Winslow, right?” one of them called.

  “I’m just doing the roof,” Mike said. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want any part of it. He bent down to check a gauge on the compressor.

  “And what are you doing, specifically, to the roof?” asked a female voice.

  He straightened up to see a blond woman standing nearby. Polished nails, cherry-red lipstick, a stare that prodded, intruded. Recognition nagged at him, and after a few seconds, he placed her. Courtney Procter.

  The TV newscaster was shorter than he’d imagined. Smaller waist. Bigger hair. Whiter teeth. Same outstanding tits. She wore a tight-fitting suit with wide, pointy shoulders that gave her the look of an executive dominatrix. A fancy scarf fluttered in the cold breeze, and her high heels dug into the crushed shells of the driveway. She’d done something to her hair so that it didn’t move an inch no matter how hard the wind blew.

  Grabbing a red bandanna from his back pocket, he wiped his hands clean. “Is that on or off the record?”

  The genuine warmth and humor of her smile startled him. “Depends on your answer.”

  “I’m working on the roof.” He indicated his rig. “Mike Malloy, of Paradise Construction.”

  “Courtney Procter,” she said, “WRIQ News.”

  “I recognized you right away,” he said.

  “Of course you did.” She laughed at his expression. “My ego thanks you.” She studied him for a few moments, then said, “So you’re a builder.”

  “A contractor. I specialize in historical restoration work.”

  “How well are you acquainted with Mrs. Winslow?”

  “I know what you’re asking, and the answer’s not what you’re looking for. I never met the woman until she hired me to renovate this house.” He glanced over her shoulder to see the crew setting up. “Mind if I ask what’s going on?”

  “We’re covering breaking news in an ongoing local story.”

  Every nerve ending came to attention inside Mike, but he pretended nonchalance, bending to tighten a connection on the sprayer. “Yeah?”

  “She’s being served a complaint in the wrongful death of her husband, Victor Winslow.”

  Mike didn’t have to ask who was doing the complaining.

  “Miss Procter,
” someone called. “We’re ready.”

  Bars of white light flooded the area in front of a naked lilac bush. The garish lighting accentuated the shabby, weathered siding of the house, the peeling paint of the door frame and porch rails, the overgrown tangle of forsythia bushes with dead leaves still clinging to them. On TV, the place would resemble Ruby Ridge, or maybe one of those backwoods farms where Animal Control people seized starving livestock that had been standing in manure for a decade.

  He wondered what Sandra was thinking right now, what she was feeling. She had to know she was trapped, and that the constable delivering the summons wasn’t going to let her dodge process. And, of course, she realized the local news had come to record her shock and shame in high-definition color.

  He fiddled with the valve on the compressor, letting out excess pressure with a wet hiss. The starter switch lay inches from his foot.

  The van emitted a bunch of electronic noises, and its rooftop satellite swiveled in adjustment. Courtney Procter planted herself like an exotic orchid in front of the house. A woman in a logo windbreaker scurried forward, adjusted the fluttering scarf and brushed some powder over the ridge of the newscaster’s small, straight nose.

  The motor of the compressor made a knocking sound. One of the crewmen glared at Mike. The toe of his boot inched a little closer to the switch.

  The suits from the constable’s office shuffled some papers, and one of them took out a packet secured with a rubber band. He had a steely look in his eyes and cheeks chapped red from the cold. The sea wind plucked at his long black coat. He straightened it, clearly trying to look officious for the camera. The civil servant performing his duty. Your tax dollars at work.

  “. . . three . . . two . . . one,” Courtney Procter said with practiced ease. “I’m standing here in front of the old beach house where Sandra Winslow has been in hiding since the disappearance and alleged death of her husband, State Senator Victor Winslow. Thursday’s accident ruling by the medical examiner failed to end speculation about the mysterious circumstances of the February ninth tragedy.