She tried to decide if she felt differently now. They’d drawn the lines of battle, and a dark urge stirred inside her. She was tempted with every nerve in her body to blurt out how wrong they were about everything, how they never really knew their own son. But she didn’t want to be the one to end their dreams, to turn cherished memories to bitter disillusionment.
She wasn’t being a martyr, wasn’t being noble, keeping her silence. She was simply being pragmatic. To end her silence at this point would do more harm than good. Because the truth was, during his last moments on earth, her husband had given her a reason to want him dead.
F
or lapsed Catholics and divorced dads, there was nothing as lonely as a Sunday. Mike drove through the streets where he’d spent his boyhood, a dull ache pressing at his chest. You don’t get any second chances in life, he reflected. If you don’t get it right the first time, you can’t just start over from scratch. But that was just what he was trying to do.
On the seat beside him, Zeke sat at full attention, ears pricked and tongue lolling. Every few seconds, the dog indulged the occasional need to bark.
Before the divorce, Mike used to take his kids to mass at St. John’s, and after catechism class they’d drive up to the beach, or just hang around the house, shooting baskets or riding bikes. It had been easy to believe those days would never end, easy for both him and Angela to pretend they didn’t see the end coming.
His head and heart were crammed with memories, but they were fragmented—Mary Margaret’s first step. Kevin’s first communion. Trips to Florida to see his folks. As for the day-to-day stuff, it was all a blur, like the landscape smearing past when you sped down the Interstate. He had buried himself in work, chasing down jobs, building up a clientele with single-minded, manic energy.
And for what? So Angela could get a new car every year. So he could upgrade his boat. Join a country club. Send the kids to private school.
He knew why. He wanted the best for his kids, but he had never fully understood what that meant. He’d always felt like a failure, getting booted off the team and having his scholarship yanked, quitting his degree program to start a business. Everyone admired him; he’d become one of the biggest contractors in Newport, and for years, that had defined him. Time passed at warp speed. Then one morning he woke up, looked at his wife and saw a stranger.
A stranger who wanted a divorce.
She’d “met” someone.
Mike shook off the thought of his ex-wife. Today he had something else to think about—a long-overdue condolence call to Victor Winslow’s family.
He drove even slower, pissed at himself for putting this off. He and Victor had been best friends, and no matter how many years had passed, he owed the family a visit to express his shock and grief and genuine sorrow. Now he had the added burden of a confession to make. He was putting in a bid to restore Sandra Winslow’s old house at Blue Moon Beach.
In the church parking lot of Old Somerset Church, a woman hurried away from the building, fast, like she had to go throw up or something.
Mike pulled off to the side of the road and watched her. Dark coat flapping in the wind. Shiny brown hair.
Sandra Winslow.
What the hell was she doing here?
She got into her car and slammed the door. For a minute, she sat there with the heels of her hands resting on the steering wheel and her head down. The morning light haloed the fragile, unguarded lines of her face.
Mike tried to dismiss the unsettling image of her. The house, not the woman, concerned him, he told himself, easing up on the brake pedal. Just then, Zeke decided to bark. Son of a bitch had a loud bark.
Her head lifted, and she looked straight at Mike.
Busted.
Shit, he thought. Shit shit shit. Peeling out now would look rude. He couldn’t afford to be rude to a potential client, even Sandra Winslow.
He raised one hand in a half wave. She rolled down the car window. At a loss, Mike slapped the truck in park and got out, telling Zeke to stay. He walked across the parking lot. “Car trouble?” he asked.
“No.”
He glanced at the church. “They let you out early for good behavior?”
“Something like that.” She grimaced. “I changed my mind about church today.”
She was a real charmer, he thought. Yet there was something in the way she held herself that made her look as though she could break at the slightest pressure. She was about to cry, he realized uncomfortably, focusing on the dangerous brightness in her eyes. He shouldn’t care— he didn’t care—but he heard himself say, “I was just going to go for a cup of coffee. You want to join me?”
She flexed her hands on the steering wheel. “All right. Where?”
“Follow me.” Mike kicked himself all the way back to his truck. He led the way to the drive-through donut stand, and she waited in her car while he ordered the coffee and two donuts. No big deal, he told himself. He’d give her a cup of coffee, then find the Winslows when church let out.
At the end of the road, he pulled over and got out. A dock jutted from the seawall where a little fleet of quohog skiffs bobbed. To the side of the wall, a sandy slope led down to the water. Zeke exploded from the truck as if shot from a cannon. The dog raced flat-out over the sand, kicking up a spray before disappearing over a tumble of wave-gouged rocks.
Carrying the coffee in a cardboard tray, Mike motioned for Sandra to join him. She followed him through the empty breezeway of the abandoned concession stand. In summer, the place swarmed with families and students on vacation, but now the wind howled through the shadowy passageway, spitting them out on the other side, where there was nothing but ocean, sand and sky.
He set the tray on a concrete picnic table. “There’s cream and sugar in the bag with the donuts.”
Sandra sent him a funny little look. “Thanks,” she said, prying the lid off the coffee. She added cream, then poured in at least three packets of sugar. She seemed a little steadier now, he observed. A decent guy would probably ask her what was wrong, why she’d been in such a hurry to leave the church . . . but Mike didn’t want to know. He’d spent his entire marriage trying to figure out a woman, and he’d failed. He wasn’t about to try to understand Sandra. Though he barely knew her, he suspected she was a hell of a lot more complex than his ex-wife could ever be. But his mind kept coming back to the idea. With Angela, no matter what he did, he hadn’t been able to fill the empty spaces inside her. Whereas with Sandra, that could be his key role—he’d known it instinctively the first time he’d met her, and the feeling only grew stronger with each passing moment. It was a strange and unwelcome notion, and he hoped it would go away.
Stooping, he picked up a length of driftwood and flung it for Zeke, who sped off in pursuit.
She blew gently on her coffee, then took a sip. “Is he any particular breed of dog?”
“Poodle, but don’t tell him that.”
“What’s his name?”
“Zeke.”
“Of course. What else would you name a poodle?” Her smile was genuine, reaching her eyes this time. Big brown eyes, long lashes. It was a hell of a smile, even better than he’d pictured it. “I bet your kids love him.”
“Yeah.” He was glad he had Zeke, though the dog was ridiculous even without the haircut. He missed his kids so bad that he almost said something to Sandra Winslow.
The separation and divorce had stripped him bare by layers. He’d looked around one day and realized he had nothing but his boat, his truck, tools and equipment he couldn’t stand to part with and a cell phone with an overdue bill. He was slowly crawling out of the hole, rebuilding his business, but some days he felt as though he were standing still.
Zeke had nosed his way into Mike’s life through a back door Mike hadn’t yet barricaded against sentiment. He’d been at the quarry up in Waverley, picking out flagstones for a patio he was building in Point Judith. In the office, he’d encountered a foreman glaring down into a dilapidated cardboard box. The guy explained that his wife’s French poodle had whelped, all the pups had been sold and for the life of him he couldn’t give away the runt of the litter. Conformation problems, coloration problems, a whole litany of complaints. This one was for the pound.
Mike had peered into the box at the little white ball of fluff, and that back door had cracked open just enough to let in the furball, worms and all. He was in denial about the breed, even though it was printed clearly on the AKC papers. He figured if he never clipped Zeke’s hair, he’d eventually forget he was a poodle.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” 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 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.