Passing Through Paradise (17 page)

She found an annual from 1982, his senior year. A satin ribbon marked a page devoted to Victor and his achievements. Class president, Eagle Scout, varsity swimming, varsity wrestling, varsity everything . . . the list seemed endless. He’d led a varsity life.

Flipping back from the Ws to the Ms, she took only seconds to find a page for Malloy.

Shivers raced over her skin as she brought the annual to the window and sat down, with the late-afternoon light streaming onto the pages. Michael Patrick Malloy.

The simmering resentment inside her bubbled faster, higher. Why hadn’t he told her?

She stared at the full-color photograph on the page. What was it Sparky had called him? A living, breathing love god. It was true now, and had been true twenty years ago. He looked like a young Tom Cruise, square-jawed, clean-cut, but blessed with a smoldering sensuality that made the difference between boy next door and boy most likely to break your heart. He was grinning into the camera as if the photographer were the head cheerleader and he’d just won the state championship. He wore a letter jacket, lived-in jeans and a smile that made her heart beat faster even though she realized she was looking at a teenage boy.

His high school career had not been as auspicious as Victor’s, but then again, whose was? Still, Malloy posted an impressive roster of accomplishments: varsity football, swimming, membership in several clubs, community service for the Historical Preservation Society. His goals included becoming an architect.

She wracked her brain, trying to remember if Victor had ever mentioned Mike. He hadn’t. Victor had been highly selective in speaking of the past. He told her only what he thought she should know.

She read what Malloy had written at the bottom of the page in controlled, rectangular script. She recognized the penmanship from all the documents they’d pored over regarding the restoration: “Hey, Vic—I don’t know what to say—that won’t surprise you. You were the one who had a way with words, not me. Things to remember: Scarborough Beach, the blue Impala, sailing nationals, Linda Lipschitz, the old boathouse—violin music—You’re the best, you’ll always be the best . . . I wouldn’t even be going off to college if it weren’t for you, so stay cool and all that crap, man. Cowabunga, MM.”

She slammed the book shut on the grinning, too-handsome teenager.

She felt like a prize idiot. She’d let him break through her aching loneliness. She’d let herself feel attracted to him, and the sting of lust had heightened her emotions, rubbing her nerve endings raw in places.

She ought to be grateful to Sparky, really. The woman had given her a reason to push him away just as she was about to trust him.

Shoving the old books back into the dusty box, she stomped down the stairs. Malloy had left before she could confront him. He wouldn’t be back until morning.

The hell with that, she thought, hurrying to the bath-room to scrub the dust and cobwebs from her hands. This new information was burning a hole in her. She wasn’t about to wait until morning.

Chapter
20

S
o there was this talent show at the Y, right?” Kevin’s voice streamed loudly through the receiver.

“I hear you, sport.” Dripping from the shower, Mike slung a towel around his waist and ducked out of the minuscule bathroom. The phone had rung before he could dry himself off, and a chill crawled over his skin. He supposed he could have offered to call Kevin back, but the kid was talking a mile a minute.

“And most of the stuff was really lame, like Travis Gannon doing his duck calls, and Kandy Procter with this ballet dance that looked like a spazz attack. Then David Bates sits down at the piano on stage—one of those giant pianos with the curve in it.”

“That would be a grand piano.”

“Yeah, so he sits down, and he’s looking kind of nervous and then all of a sudden he pukes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope, he yarked all over the piano keys. It was way cool. Mrs. Primosic said they’d have to hire some special company to take the keyboard apart and clean it all up. It was rad.”

“I’ll bet.” Mike talked to his kids every night, and he never knew what he’d hear out of them. He didn’t like the idea that he was getting good at picturing their faces as they told him about their day. But the fact was, he could conjure up a dead-on mental image of Kevin describing his four lay-ups in a basketball game, or Mary Margaret’s dreamy expression as she told him about a field trip to the Breakers or the Gilbert Stuart birthplace.

Sometimes he wanted to hold them and touch them, smell their hair when they laid their heads next to his as he read to them at bedtime. Sometimes he wanted to feel their warmth so bad he ached.

“So anything else new and exciting in your life?” he asked.

“Guess not. If I think of something, I’ll call you back. What’re you doing, Dad?”

Mike stared down at his bare feet, rubbed his hand over the damp hair on his chest. “Just got out of the shower. I was going to open a can of tuna and do the book-keeping on my computer.”

“Bo-ring.”

No shit, thought Mike. He’d give anything to spend the evening with his family, even if it was sitting around watching TV. Each day, it became clearer to him—he wasn’t cut out for living alone.

“What’s your sister up to?”

“Just a second, I’ll put her on. Mary
Margaret,
pickup!” he hollered without bothering to hold the receiver away from his mouth. Mike winced, hearing a clunk, then a bobble as his daughter picked up an extension.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Did you see the talent show, too?”

“Yeah. It was okay until that kid threw up.”

“Kevin thought it was the best part.”

“He would. Trust me, you didn’t miss anything.”

“I miss you, kiddo.”

“Me, too.” A smile softened her voice. “I got my dress, Dad. The one for the Valentine’s dance.”

In the background, Kevin made a gagging noise.

“Bug off, punk!” Mary Margaret yelled at him.

Mike held the phone away from his ear for a second. He heard footsteps as Mary Margaret carried the cordless phone to a more private place. He pictured her hunkering down in her favorite nook on the upstairs landing, holding the phone in one hand and twirling a lock of hair around her finger. His shy, pretty daughter, growing up so fast. “I bet it’s a real nice dress,” he said.

“It’s pale green and has these really sheer sleeves. Mom and I went to Filene’s, and she let me get shoes to match.”

“Can’t wait to see it,” he said. Angela had always been a world-class shopper—he was still paying off her credit card debts. He didn’t doubt the dress was great. “Hey, are you reading those books we got from the library?”

“I finished one, and I’m halfway through the other. They’re awesome.”

Mike thought so, too. He’d bought one the other day, curious about Sandra’s work. The one he’d read was the story of a shy girl, thrown into impossible circumstances, who was forced to be brave and strong, and who rebelled in the end. Art imitating life? he wondered.

“I have to go, Dad. I promised I’d shoot baskets with Kevin and Carmine. He put floodlights in the driveway.”

“Great.” Resentment twisted inside Mike as he pictured the 1847 carriage house blazing with lights on aluminum posts. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, honey.”

As he hung up, he tried to steady his nerves. Outside, the weather was kicking up, shoving at the boat. He told himself he should be getting used to the idea that some other guy lived in his house, slept with his ex-wife, played with his kids and tucked them in each night. There were a million single dads around these days, he told himself. Guys put up with this all the time.

But Mike couldn’t seem to get used to it, no matter how much time passed.

To keep himself company while he got dressed, Mike flicked on the small black-and-white TV. Courtney Procter sat at the news desk looking cool and competent, buffed to a plastic sheen. Mike thought about her producer’s proposition to him, turned the thing off and flipped on the radio instead, to a song by Aimee Mann.

A second later, he heard footsteps on the deck above. Zeke leaped into action, hurling himself at the glass saloon door. It was dark already, and the blinds were drawn. He slid open the door, feeling a rush of cold wind on his bare chest and legs. There, in the yellowish glow of the harbor lights, stood Sandra Winslow.

His reaction to the sight of her was instant and unrehearsed. Holding the towel around his waist, he grinned despite the raw wind streaming in through the open door. “Hey, stranger.”

“You . . .” She paused, her mouth twisted, and then she spoke more loudly. “You can say that again.” She didn’t seem to notice he was practically naked, or that the dog went into a dance of joy at her feet. Without waiting to be invited, she grasped the rail and climbed aboard. She was wearing jeans—he’d always liked a woman in jeans—gloves that didn’t match and an oversized parka.

“Say what again?” he asked, distracted by the shape of her thigh as she stepped into the saloon. He turned down the radio.

“Stranger. I thought we were getting over the ‘stranger’ stage, but apparently that was a little one-sided of me.” The blustering storm slapped at the hull, and she steadied herself by clutching a handrail. Zeke gave up vying for attention and flopped down on his cushion.

“You’ll have to explain.” The wind shivered through the main saloon. It was a terrible night, with the promise of a storm heavy in the air, the wind whistling through the halyards, and Mike hurried to slide the door shut. “Just a second. I need to put something on before I freeze my n—before I freeze.” He ducked into the stateroom and yanked on a pair of gray sweats. Pulling an old URI Rams sweatshirt over his head, he went back to the saloon. She was here. Sandra was here. He couldn’t get over it.

What did she want? he wondered, haphazardly scrubbing his hair dry with the towel. A loud creak sounded as the boat strained at its moorings. What the hell was she doing on his boat, in his life? Neither of them was in a position to start anything. Neither wanted to feel the heat that stung the air around them each time they were together, but like the gale brewing outside, it couldn’t be altered or ignored. Mike figured he’d have to ride it out, and hope it would blow over soon.

“Welcome aboard the
Fat Chance,”
he said. “How’d you find me?”

“Your name and slip number are on the mailbox, and the marina gate wasn’t locked.” She stood in the middle of the room and looked around. Mike felt her gaze assessing the place—business files crammed into every available shelf, navigation equipment and computer, pictures of the kids hanging crooked, Kevin’s artwork and Mary Margaret’s A papers adorning the little galley fridge. Though Sandra said nothing, he felt defensive. This is my life, he thought, and wondered what she was thinking, seeing it for the first time.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you tell me you used to be best friends with Victor?”

Whoa. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Sparky said something.” It wasn’t a question.

“She didn’t realize you were hiding it from me.”

“Shoot, Sandra, I wasn’t hiding anything. The fact that I used to know Victor . . . that’s ancient history. I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Everything matters now. Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

“All right, I should have said something. I don’t know what, though. We knew each other as kids, but after high school, we lost touch. I bet Victor never mentioned me.”

“No, but—”

“It’s no big deal.”

“It was a lie. Okay, maybe a lie of omission, but why would you keep it from me?”

“Because I never know what the hell you’re going to do,” he snapped, surprising them both with a lash of temper. “Face it, Sandy, you’re not the world’s most predictable person. One minute you’re in my face, arguing about paint color, and the next you’re teaching me to dance. I didn’t know if talking about Victor would make you laugh or cry.”

A
stricken look leached the color from her face.

“Sandra,” he said, softening his voice. “Sit down.”

She cast him a narrow-eyed glance, then yanked off her jacket and sat down. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

His reasons were many and complex. And at the moment, not a single one of them made sense. “I ‘m not in the habit of sharing personal information with the people who contract for my services.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Look, you don’t tell your editors and publishing people about your personal life, do you?”

“What about after we started. . . whatever it was we’re—we started?” Her voice shook, and he sensed the same fury he’d seen in her the first day they’d met. “Not that it matters now.”

“Why not?”

“I was just beginning to trust you. I’ll never learn.”

Her words hit him like a slap to the face. A cold, hard feeling twisted in his gut as he realized her trust was important to him. “Look, I never meant—at first I never gave it much thought. In a small town, people’s paths cross. And then after a while, bringing it up seemed awkward.” And it raised questions for him, too, but he didn’t mention that.

“Well, I’ve brought it up now.”

“What is it you need to hear? That I’m sorry? That I should have told you my life story before fixing your house?” He studied the glow of her skin in the dim light, the way her bottom lip gleamed with moisture. Outside, the storm hurled itself in from the North Atlantic. “It’s not like you’ve been a font of information about yourself, either.”

Her accusatory stare burned into him. “Don’t try that on me, Malloy. It won’t work.”

“Fine,” he said. “What can I tell you? We met as little kids. Third grade, I think. You know how friendships are. Kids just sort of fall into them, and then it becomes a habit to hang out.”

“You did more than hang out. I read what you wrote in his senior yearbook. The two of you were best friends.”

“Are you still in touch with
your
best friend from high school?”

She laughed without humor. “What makes you think I had one?”

“Everybody does.”

“Right. So go on. You and Victor.”

He hadn’t touched the memories in a long time, and in his mind, they took on a peculiar glow of nostalgia. He could remember the laughter, the sea air, the racing around, the feeling that everything in the world was right.

“It’s like I told you. We were kids. We lost touch.”

“I came here for answers, Malloy, but you haven’t told me anything yet.”

“It’s been years, Sandra. In all that time, I never saw him, never spoke to him. He didn’t get in touch with me, either.”

She pressed the palms of her hands on the table. He’d never seen a wedding ring on her delicate, ink-smudged hands, and now he wondered why. A widow in mourning wore her husband’s ring for years after he was gone, didn’t she? What keepsakes did Sandra cherish on empty nights—Victor’s Eric Clapton recordings?

“I grew up here. I know most of the people in Paradise. I would have told you about Victor and me, but . . . ” He paused. “To be honest, I’m a lot more interested in you. I figure that should be obvious by now.”

“Nothing is obvious to me,” she said. “Ever.”

Watching her, he could see her anger running out of steam, and felt a deep relief at the prospect. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to bring up the fact that I once knew Victor. I thought any reminders of the past would make you sad.”

“Is that what you thought? That your past with Victor would make me sad? You’re so wrong. He was only mine for a few years. You knew him much longer than I did.” She seemed to be on the verge of saying something. Her throat worked silently; then at last she said, “I wish you’d tell me more. Everything. All your memories of him, good and bad.”

All right, he thought. She needed this. The missing past was something he could give her, though it wasn’t much. Still, he couldn’t help wondering—was it Victor she wanted to hear about, or Mike? “He was an only child and I had three older sisters. So we spent a lot of time together—we had a teacher who called us Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. We grew up running all over the place, riding bikes, hanging out at the beach every summer, the sledding hill or the skating pond in winter.”

“What was he like as a boy?”

“He was a regular kid, I suppose. Smart, funny, good-looking. Everybody liked him—other kids, teachers, adults. And he liked everyone, too.” Turning on the bench, Mike opened a sliding side cabinet and found one of the few framed photos he’d kept when he moved out of the house.

“This was taken at First Beach in Newport one sum mer.” He handed it to her across the table. “We’d just won the Junior Cup.”

She studied the picture, its imperfect colors faded by the years. It showed the two of them aboard a small sail-boat. He still remembered the heat of the sun on his face and the heady feeling of triumph surging through him as their boat cleared the final buoys. In the photo, he and Victor were shirtless, wearing matching surfer shorts Mrs. Winslow had bought for them. They stood with their skinny chests puffed out, holding the shiny trophy between them, their free arms cocked up to show off stringy biceps. Both were grinning in the way boys did, heedless of vanity, pride radiating from every inch of them. Mike was bigger, his eyes very blue in his tanned face. Victor’s hair was summer gold, his lean face bright with freckles.