Passing Through Paradise (9 page)

And her mother, of course, was beautiful in the luminous, uncertain way of all brides.

Sandra knew she, too, had looked that way at her wedding to Victor. She knew, because the pictures had run in the papers.

She tried to read the smiling faces of her parents in the old wedding portrait. Was there some clue, like a shadow hovering over them, that condemned their marriage to failure? Back in 1966, was there any indication at all that the union was only going to last thirty-six years? She wondered if the happiness of those young, naive people was worth the pain they were going through now. Some nights, lying awake, she wondered if she would have been better off never having met Victor at all. He’d changed her life in so many ways.

Her father’s thumb lingered over his bride’s signature, rendered in plump girlish script: “Dorothy Heloise Slocum.” His face softened with remembrances she knew he wouldn’t share.

“Dad,” she said quietly, “I’m so sorry. I really do think you and Mom can fix this.” She pointed to the photograph. “Look at you. There’s so much love there. It’s written all over your faces. You can’t let it all break apart because you’re having a tough time adjusting to retirement.”

“It goes a lot deeper than that, honey.”

“Then you’ll have to dig deeper to fix it.”

He pulled out a folded parchment document, tied around the middle with string. “Here it is,” he said. “The original deed to Blue Moon Beach, the will and the transfer.”

Opening the old papers, she read the terse legal definition of the property and ran her finger over the raised seals on the document. “Fair enough,” she said. “I plan on getting the place sold by summer.”

“And then what?” her father asked.

“And then—” A chill ran through her. She had no earthly idea how to start the rest of her life from here. “And then . . . I guess I’ll see.”

Chapter
11

Journal Entry
—
Tuesday
—
January 8

Ten Lies I’ve Told My Therapist

8. I never let my stutter define me.

9. I am fulfilled by my role as a daughter, wife, friend and writer.

10. I find sex enjoyable, rating it somewhere between “most of the time” and “always.”

No wonder she’d only managed to make it through two incredibly unproductive sessions, six months after marrying Victor. Even then, she’d sensed a problem—something her heart knew even as her common sense rejected it. But subconsciously, she probably hadn’t wanted to explore the shadowy undercurrents pushing her and Victor apart, which was why she hadn’t returned to the therapist.

Her stomach tightened into a hard ball of nerves when she heard the crunch of Mike Malloy’s pickup truck coming up the drive. He made her edgy; she couldn’t decide whether he was ally or adversary. Regardless, she knew she couldn’t trust him.

Going to the front door, she absently ran a hand through her hair, and then felt a stab of surprise. She had dressed up for him, relatively speaking. Instead of donning her usual jeans and oversized sweatshirt, she’d put on khakis and clogs, an angora sweater with a silver cat brooch Victor had given her one Valentine’s Day.

She looked good. Not politician’s-wife good, but everyday good.

It was Victor who’d taught her to worry about her appearance. Until Victor, she never had, because she thought she was invisible. After the lonely experience of high school, she’d expected to settle into anonymity after college at URI. Her small, quiet life would have gone on undisturbed, except that one autumn night, her speech therapist had sent her to a support group meeting. She thought no one would notice the girl in the back of the room, scribbling in a yellow notebook. What she hadn’t known was that she’d caught the eye of the local hero.

After that, everything, every moment of every day, had changed.

Watching through a front window, she observed that Malloy didn’t seem to have much compunction about his appearance. Not that he needed it, she thought with a warm shiver she wasn’t expecting to feel.

His dark, longish hair stuck out of a baseball cap. He had a face that looked lived-in and eyes the color of forget-me-nots. But on Malloy, the delicate blue wasn’t a feminine attribute, and looked striking in contrast to his black hair. A thick athletic sweatshirt and an insulated vest exaggerated the breadth of his shoulders, and heavy gloves covered his hands. His Levi’s were faded in all the right places, and his work boots added another couple of inches to his six-foot-plus height.

His rough but undeniable appeal drew a strange visceral reaction from her. How could that be? She remembered how attracted she’d been to Victor’s refined urbanity, his sophistication. Mike Malloy was a far cry from urbane and sophisticated. She didn’t like his effect on her. She wasn’t even sure she should have an opinion about him.

Then she saw something that surprised her. Two kids tumbled out of the passenger side of the pickup truck. The bigger one was a girl of about twelve or thirteen, wearing a pink ski jacket and matching hat and mittens. The boy was younger, clomping around in baggy jeans and unbuckled boots, with Malloy’s scruffy dog tucked under his arm, wriggling and straining until the boy let him go.

When Mike spoke to the kids, he leaned down, resting his hands on his knees and making eye contact. As he talked to them, he pointed at the beach. The boy let out a whoop and ran up and over the dunes, the dog leaping along behind him. The girl stuffed her hands into her pockets and walked more slowly toward the water’s edge.

When Sandra had first met Malloy, she hadn’t been able to picture him as someone’s dad. Someone’s husband. Not that it mattered, she told herself. But as she watched him surveying the wind-carved dunes where the children played, and saw the expression on his face, she felt as though she had discovered a whole new side to him.

In the past couple of years, Sandra had found herself becoming increasingly preoccupied with kids. Sometimes when she saw people with children, she felt such an unholy envy that it burned like a fire in her heart. She felt that now, watching Mike Malloy. God, what she wouldn’t give to have what he had, a couple of messy, loud, unpredictable kids. Someone to giggle with, to hold close at night, to love with every bit of her heart.

She recalled the first time she broached the topic of having a baby with Victor. They’d been married a year; he was getting ready for opening session of the General Assembly. With the big-hearted charm that so endeared him to his constituents, Victor embraced the idea. He took her face between his hands, holding it delicately, as if it were something fragile and precious. “Oh, Sandra, yes,” he said. “I want that, too.”

She believed him. That was what made him such a good politician. Even his own wife, who knew him better than anyone else in the world, believed everything he said.

Composing herself, she opened the door for Mike Malloy. He grabbed a clipboard and a zippered leather portfolio from the truck and came up the walk toward her. She tried, without success, not to stare, but good Lord. The man turned a pair of old, faded jeans into living sculpture.

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly,” she said, hoping that sudden flush of warmth didn’t show.

“No problem,” he replied. His face was without expression, his eyes unreadable. He didn’t appear to notice how neatly and carefully she was dressed.

Yet even indifference encouraged her. She’d learned to expect open dislike and suspicion from everyone, so this was new. “You brought company today,” she said.

Neutrality changed instantly to defensiveness. “Is that a problem?”

She stepped back, holding her hands palms out. “Not at all. I like kids. I was just making conversation.”

“I see. Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump on you. I just picked them up from school.”

“Let me take your coat.”

Transferring the clipboard from one hand to the other, he slipped out of his vest and handed it over. Her fingers sank into the deep pile of the vest, where his body heat lingered. She resisted an absurd urge to press her face to the fabric before hanging it in the hall closet.

“If your kids get cold outside, they’re welcome to come in.”

He hesitated. She wondered if he’d heard any of the local gossip, or if he’d made inquiries after she told him about her troubles. Then he nodded and said, “Thanks.” He inspected her then, his frank, assessing gaze taking in the angora sweater, the brooch. Then he removed his Red Sox cap, folding the bill and sticking it in his back pocket.

“I . . . guess we should have a seat.” She walked over to the old piecrust table and moved the chairs around to face the bow-front window. From here, they could easily keep an eye on the kids. “How old are your children?”

“Mary Margaret turns thirteen in the spring, and Kevin’s nine.”

Resting her chin in her hand, Sandra watched them playing Frisbee while the dog ran frantically back and forth between them. “They look like a lot of fun.”

“They are.” He set some papers in front of her on the table, separating the pages into two piles. “Here’s what I’ve done. I’ve worked up a bid for basic repairs. The other is for a full restoration. Why don’t you look over them and I’ll answer any questions you might have.”

“Thanks. Um, would you like a cup of coffee or tea or something?” she asked, watching his big, squarish hands. “There are some snacks in the kitchen.” She’d put out a plate of molasses cookies and a dish of cashew nuts. The simple act of readying herself for company had felt alien, reminding her of how long it had been since she’d entertained Victor’s friends and associates at the house in town. She knew, of course, that this was not a social call, but in some ways, it felt like one. And it felt good. Almost. . . normal.

“No, thanks.” He spoke fast, almost harshly. “I’m fine.”

She ought to be smart enough to know a hired contractor wasn’t going to fill the void in her life. Exasperated with herself, she gave her attention to the preliminary bids. His work, on crisp laser-printer paper, was clear and well organized, spelling out what each phase of the project would involve and the estimated costs in labor and materials. Computer-generated images of the house and grounds made the place look like a picture in a storybook.

She paged carefully through the first document, bracing herself for the bottom line on the last page. She stared at the number for a long time. Keeping a poker face, she turned her attention to the second proposal. This one was longer, more involved and detailed. As she read through it, she was able to picture what he had in mind. And it was a grand plan. The entire place, from the wild blueberry and rose hedges to the verdigris wind vane on the roof peak, would be transformed into a state of glory the old house had never enjoyed, not even when it was newly built.

She put her hands in her lap and looked from one page to the other. Six weeks or six months. Quick fix or full restoration. A hefty price versus a financial hemorrhage.

“Well,” she said. “Well, thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Don’t you have any questions?” He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. His stare was direct, unsettling, yet at the same time, she could look into his calm blue eyes without fear. A funny feeling came over her. He listened to her with a different quality than her folks did. For as long as she could remember, she felt their anxiety about her stutter. They didn’t know it showed, but when she spoke, they were on the edge of their seats, straining with hope, and even as a child, she could feel that. Malloy simply listened, relaxed and confident. There was something rock solid about this man. For the first time in months, here was someone who knew exactly what he was about, who spoke plainly and honestly, who was entirely up-front.

Or so she thought. Maybe she shouldn’t trust herself enough to conclude that he was all right. Events of the past year had proven her judgment dangerously flawed. Once again, she caught herself comparing Malloy to Victor. Her husband had been larger-than-life, whereas Malloy was just. . . large. Ordinary. Maybe that was why he appealed to her more than he should.

“These bids are clear. They say what each job entails, and approximately what it will cost. That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“Let me know what you decide, then.”

Her heart sank at the finality in his voice, and the way he pushed back his chair. She’d cleaned the house for an hour this morning, expecting him.

He wasn’t company, she reminded herself, repeating it like a litany. Still . . .

“You know,” she said, “since I’m selling the place, I shouldn’t care whether the house gets fixed up just enough to bring it up to code, or if it gets a full restoration.”

“But?”

“The restoration is tempting.”

“This is a special place,” he said. “It’s one of a kind. It would be a shame to see the house torn down or ruined by someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“I agree. But why should I care?”

“Didn’t you say the place is a family legacy?”

“Sure, but not after I sell it.” She didn’t consider herself a sentimental person, but when she thought of letting go of the house, she felt a lurch of her heart. This was her place, her sanctuary.

Ridiculous, she told herself. The sooner she got out, the better. Living in this old house, filled with family history and fond memories, didn’t account for much when no one came to see you. Correction. No one but hired help.

“I’d better go with the lower bid, just the basics so it’ll pass inspection.”

“Have you calculated your asking price?”

“Um, not really.” She hadn’t been able to make herself go there. Somehow, disposing of the property seemed like a betrayal.

“I printed out some recent comparable sales in the area.” Paging through the papers on his clipboard, he showed her the MLS listing on properties nearby. “Historically, in this area, a restored home sells for about twenty-five percent more than an unrestored home.”

“This bid is a lot more than twenty-five percent higher than the other,” she pointed out.

“I’m planning on doing a lot more than twenty-five percent more work. If I get the job,” he added.

“Oh, you get the job, don’t worry about that,” she said. Realizing she sounded too easy, she added, “That is, if your references check out. You do have references, don’t you?”

She expected him to get defensive. Instead, he took a stack of papers and a thick album from the zippered portfolio. “Of course,” he said. “Help yourself. Feel free to call any of my former clients.”

She opened the album and nearly choked. A Newport mansion shimmered on the page like something out of a dream. The ensuing layout showed gleaming floors, graceful staircases, soaring columns, polished woodwork. The album displayed house after house, letters of commendation from historical societies, even awards.

She lifted an eyebrow. There was more to this drive-by handyman than met the eye. “This is very impressive.” Then she picked up a magazine.
“Architectural Digest?”

“They’ve done a couple of features on my projects.”

She located an article entitled “The Spirit of the Past.” The photographs were stunning—Gilded Age and Colonial homes, lush gardens, storybook gazebos and beach cabanas. Scanning the captions under the spread, she read aloud, “ ‘Malloy is endowed with a shamanlike vision, a mystical gift for evoking the winsome charm of a forgot-ten age.’“

His face reddened and he shifted in his chair. “I didn’t write it.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Shamanlike vision?”

“That’s crap. The fact is, I do my research and work my tail off. I only deal with subcontractors who can do the job right.”

Sandra sighed, studying a photo of a painted saltbox house in Sakonnet that might have passed for an Andrew Wyeth painting. “I have to be honest with you. I really can’t afford to restore this place. I guess I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

“Didn’t you say you own it free and clear?”