Passing Through Paradise by Susan Wiggs Page B

movements, Winifred poured coffee, and the three of them sat in the big front room, decorated with furniture that had been in the family forever. Although the antiques were priceless, the Winslows didn’t keep them as status symbols but as reminders:
This is who we are.
Winifred’s needlepoint glasses case rested on a side table in the same spot it had decades before, alongside a leather-bound volume of Proust. Yet despite the elegant presence of signed paintings, Irish crystal and museum-quality colonial antiques, an emptiness haunted the beautiful room.
    “You look absolutely wonderful,” Winifred said, her eyes shining with a fierce maternal hunger. In her gray flannel skirt, crisp white blouse and flat shoes, she appeared unchanged—except that her face reflected unbearable loss. “So . . . so grown-up.”
    “Adulthood tends to do that to a guy.”
    Ronald tipped cream into his coffee. “I wish you and Victor had kept up. You two were quite a pair, as I recall.”
    “I wish we’d stayed in touch, too.” Mike stared at his big hands, resting on his knees. “I figured we’d run into each other one day. I shouldn’t have left it up to chance.”
    Winifred gazed at a display of sterling silver framed photographs on the table beside her. Victor was the subject of each one—skiing, sailing, grinning into the camera as he won some award or other. She shut her eyes, visibly battling a grief Mike could only imagine. “I wish Victor could be here. He always thought so highly of you, Michael. The two of you were like brothers.”
    “Look, Mrs. Winslow,” he said, “I didn’t mean to come here and make you feel bad— “
    Ronald cleared his throat. “Your coming here is a blessing,” he said. “Tell us what you’ve done with your-self. Last we knew, you got a football scholarship to URI.”
    “That’s right.”
    “I remember how proud your folks were. You boys had that big clam bake to celebrate.”
    Mike could conjure up every moment of that summer night. He and some of the guys had helped themselves to a case of beer from his parents’ basement and built a bonfire on Scarborough Beach. Sweating brown bottles of Narragansett in hand, they’d sat against the driftwood logs and stared up at the stars. Thanks to the beer, the night sky had spun gently as though they were watching it from the deck of a ship.
    He could still picture the bonfire, the laughing faces of his friends, the crazy promises that they’d never lose touch, the feeling that the whole world was waiting for him. Everything had seemed bright and new, the future golden, the world opening up like a giant sunflower. Mike, whose parents could barely afford to keep him in Wheaties, was getting a shot at college. Victor was headed for Brown, the crown jewel of Rhode Island’s universities, and eventually he’d do post-graduate work at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government. Big dreams, big plans. Neither of them could have anticipated the outcome.
    “I was injured my second season,” he said before more questions could come. “I had to leave school.” It was all so long ago that Mike couldn’t get pissed about it anymore. But that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it. “So what brings you back to town?”
    “Divorce.”
    “Oh, Michael.” Winifred patted his hand. “I’m sorry.”
    “Thanks.” He fished in his pocket, slid a business card across the table. “I’m starting back in the construction business, but locally.”
    “Well,” Winifred said, “it’s a pleasure to welcome you back.”
    Okay, Mike thought. Out with it. Looking at a window displaying one of Victor’s colored glass ornaments, he said, “I’m bidding on my first big job. A historical restoration in the area.”
    Winifred clasped her hands. “That’s wonderful, Michael.”
    “I wanted to tell you because the house belongs to Victor’s widow, Sandra.”
    A shadow swept over Winifred’s thin, pretty face. “That run-down old place on Blue Moon