Passing Through Paradise by Susan Wiggs

Sandra Winslow said. “There’s something I need to explain.”
    Great, he thought. Here it comes. She’d changed her mind about the job. “Yeah?”
    “It’s about my late husband, Victor Winslow. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
    “Sure. Everyone has.” Mike didn’t elaborate.
    She looked straight out to sea, tiny wisps of hair blowing around her face. “Last February, he and I were involved in an accident.” Her hand trembled, and she set down her cup. “The medical examiner officially ruled it an accidental death. But there are still some people who think the worst of me.” She took a deep breath and stuffed her hands into her coat pockets. “Anyway, I thought you should know that before you do business with me.”
    “Did you think I’d change my mind?”
    “I don’t know, Malloy. I don’t know you.”
    He helped himself to a donut and offered her one. “You’re the client, I’m the contractor. I’m interested in your house, not your reputation.”
    She hesitated, then took the donut from him. “Thanks. I skipped breakfast this morning.” They ate in silence, watching the waves rush up to shore. Sandra chewed slowly, her nose and cheeks growing pink in the cold wind. She looked totally different from the wild-eyed woman he’d encountered at the woodpile. She had the strangest effect on him—he was emotionally broke, and had nothing to offer in that department. Yet something about her brought back all the things he missed about being connected, having a family. He resented her for that, and at the same time, he was drawn to that very aspect of her.
    “How are your hands?” he asked.
    “Healing,” she replied, showing him. “Thanks. And thanks for the mailbox. I assume you’re the one who replaced it.”
    “Yep. No problem. I’ll get that proposal to you soon.”
    “Good. Well.” She dusted the crumbs from her hands. “I’ll look forward to that. I’d better be going now.”
    They walked together to their cars, and Mike thought maybe her step was a little lighter. He felt guilty, playing dumb when Gloria Carmichael had been filling him in on all the Winslow gossip. But he figured the less personal he got with this woman, the better.
    Out of habit, he held open her car door for her, then stood back while she pulled away. He whistled for Zeke, and within seconds the dog streaked to the truck and sprang up in a single perfectly aimed leap.
    Mike headed back to the church and sat with his pickup truck idling roughly in the cold morning air. After a while, the church bells rang and people streamed from the building. They walked in little family clusters, toddlers holding on to their parents’ hands and swinging their feet up in the air, old people leaning on each other as they made their way to their cars.
    An electric-powered wheelchair emerged from the main entrance. Reverend Ronald Winslow shook hands with the departing parishioners, his gently smiling wife beside him.
    Mike continued to wait, the chill slipping into the cab of the truck, until the last of the worshipers had left. Then he got out, cautioning Zeke to stay put.
    The Winslows were headed for their van when he caught up with them. “Mr. and Mrs. Winslow?”
    They stopped, eyeing him curiously. Up close, he could see how much they had changed. They both looked smaller, diminished by their loss. Ronald’s thick hair had turned snow-white; Winifred’s navy coat hung loosely on her thin frame.
    “I’m Michael Malloy,” he said. “Mike. I used to be friends with your son Victor, years ago when we were kids.”
    Ronald Winslow frowned, but his wife’s face immediately softened. “Michael. Of course,” she said, holding out both gloved hands. Mike took them awkwardly, held on for a brief squeeze. In his mind’s eye, he imagined he could still see the mom in Stuart plaid skirt and navy-blue cardigan who used to bake cookies after school, who showed up at every class play or swim meet or choir recital Victor was