Passing Through Paradise by Susan Wiggs Page A

in.
    “I remember you perfectly, Michael,” Winifred said. “The two of you met at swim team tryouts, didn’t you? Was it in the third grade?”
    “You have a good memory,” Mike said. He could still picture the two of them, skinny and pasty in their Speedos, eyeing each other across the lane lines. He and Victor had been unlikely companions. Victor had worn the mantle of privilege, the son of a well-respected pastor and an self-assured debutante. Mike’s father was a commercial fisherman, his mother a dyer at Cranston Print Works. To a couple of small-town boys in school, class differences didn’t matter. But out in the real world, they had. A lot.
    “Michael played quarterback on the high school football squad,” Winifred said, resting her slim hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I’m sure you remember that.”
    The older man grinned as he made the connection. “You’re right. Been a while.”
    “It sure has.”
    Mike couldn’t think of a decent way to broach the topic, so he came right out with it. “Listen, I should have called or visited sooner, but I haven’t been back in the area long.” He didn’t elaborate; he wanted to get this over with. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Victor.”
    Ronald Winslow’s grin disappeared, as Mike had known it would. The older man’s hands trembled, and he pressed them together. Desperation and confusion haunted his eyes, and Mike realized he was no longer the self-assured war hero and leading citizen. Ronald had survived Vietnam, but losing Victor proved to be a disability he couldn’t surmount.
    “Thank you.” Winifred took out a pair of dark glasses and quickly put them on. “He was the most precious thing in our lives. This is everyone’s loss.”
    “Of course. When I heard he’d been elected to the General Assembly, it didn’t surprise me a bit.”
    Winifred smiled with heartbreaking pride, still clinging to Ronald’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come back to the house for coffee, Michael? We’d love to hear what you’ve been up to.”
    Great, he thought. First Sandra, now this. He should have gone fishing this morning. “Thanks. Nice of you to offer.”
    He followed them, his truck coughing in the wake of their specially equipped van as it glided through town with the dignified pace of a parade float. The Winslows lived in a big colonial with a yard like a golf course. The long front porch, painted a dazzling white, looked as though it had undergone cosmetic dentistry. He recognized the hickory tree where he and Victor had once suspended a rope swing. The iron gate leading to the salt marsh behind the house had rusted to a mild greenish color. Beyond the marsh lay the long waterfront; Mike and Victor used to claim they could see all the way to Block Island, and vowed to swim there one day, just to show it could be done.
    The van slid to a halt under a projecting side portico, and Mike stopped his truck behind it. The van door opened, and the wheelchair platform lowered with an electronic whir.
    “Recognize any of this?” Winifred asked.
    “All of it. I have a lot of great memories of this place.”
    The genuine delight in her expression made him glad he’d come after all. Of course, he hadn’t brought up the topic of working for Sandra yet.
    “Let’s go inside where it’s warm, then.”
    As he walked away from the truck, Zeke let out a howl of outrage and pushed his fuzzy face against the windshield.
    “Sorry about my dog. If he bothers you— “
    “No bother at all,” Ronald said. “He’ll settle down once he knows we’re not going to kidnap you.”
    When Mike stepped into the big, bright kitchen, more memories showered over him. With a clarity he hadn’t expected, he recalled the welcoming warmth of this place as he and Victor sipped hot chocolate after a day of sledding. In the summer, they used to track beach sand across the polished tile floor, and ransack the freezer for ice cream bars.
    With controlled, precise