Passing Through Paradise (30 page)

Chapter
35

Journal Entry
—
April 9
—
Tuesday

Ten Things My Mother Taught Me

6. The world’s best donut recipe.

7. The fact that each donut contains more fat than a pound of bacon.

8. No hole or run in your panty hose is ever invisible.

9. If you want to know a boy’s true character, look at his father.

10. Nobody ever said marriage was easy, but it’s easier than the alternative.

“Check out your mom and dad,” Joyce said, elbowing Sandra. “They look like a damned Viagra commercial.”

Sandra stopped in the middle of the courthouse parking lot. Joyce pointed at the Babcocks’ Grand Marquis, parked in the shade of a budding dogwood tree. Her father held the car door for his wife, then rested his hand solicitously at her waist. Walking beside him, Dorrie pressed close as though she couldn’t bear to be separated from him. She wore a new cherry-red coat, and their faces glowed, and it wasn’t the spring sunshine alone that gave them such color and life.

“See what I mean?” Joyce said, elbowing her again.

“They’re my parents, for Pete’s sake.”

Joyce turned toward the wide concrete steps of the courthouse. “So I’ll see you inside, okay? Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll need all the support I can get in there.” When Joyce was gone, Sandra hurried across the parking lot. “Mom!”

A second later she found herself embraced by both of them. For a moment, she felt totally safe and cocooned by their steady love. For a moment, she forgot that she was about to face the Winslows.

“Welcome back,” she said to her mother. Her face was a bit plumper, her skin touched with gold from the tropical sun. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too.” Her eyes shining with tear-bright emotion, Dorrie clung to both daughter and husband.

Warmth and gratitude wrapped around Sandra. Two days earlier, her mother had phoned to say she was back, and the news was better than Sandra could have hoped for—her mother was home, and the divorce was off. She held tight to both of them, afraid she might melt into a puddle of relief. She wasn’t all that surprised, though, because any fool could see that their love was real, and always had been. The reconciliation was the one bright spot in anotherwise bleak period for Sandra. She hadn’t seen Mike since she’d banished him from her house, from her life. Not that he seemed to be fighting the banishment. He’d taken off, exactly as she ordered, leaving the crew to finish the work on the house.

“Doesn’t she look great?” her father asked.

“You both do.” Sandra blushed, remembering Joyce’s remark.

“We’ve worked out a compromise,” her mother said with a wink. “I’m going to play golf, but only on foreign soil. And your father will poke around antique shops and museums with me.” She tucked her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm. “Scuba diving and skydiving are still under negotiation.”

Sandra’s heart soared and broke at the same time. Her parents’ bond was even more durable now, strengthened by the fibrous cords of healed scar tissue. Why did they succeed where so many, Sandra included, had failed? It came down to bravery, she realized. Her parents were brave enough to fight for their love and brave enough to change in order to make it last.

Studying her mother’s delicate, age-spotted hands and her father’s round, mild face, she wondered where they found that sort of courage. She kept urging herself to be that brave, that strong, but every time she reached for the phone or drove past the Paradise docks, she chickened out. Nothing could compare to the emotional pain she’d felt after telling Mike to leave. Nothing—except the joy of being with him. She acknowledged that she had been motivated by fear. As long as she didn’t give her heart over to him and his kids and even his annoying dog, she didn’t risk herself.

“I’m proud of you both,” she said. “I know what you went through wasn’t easy.”

“Holding together through the tough times—that’s the real test,” her mother said, sobering. “There’s really no limit to how idiotic two people in love can be, is there? We made the mistake of thinking retirement would be perfection—we’d reached our life goals. Instead, we have to find new roads to travel, new discoveries to make about each other and about us, together.”

“I’m glad,” said Sandra. “Because I’m going to be needing you.”

They went into the courthouse through a side entry and made their way to a conference room with a brass plaque on the door. Milton and his two associates were there already, going over notes and procedures. The lawyers barely acknowledged them as they arrived, except to inspect Sandra’s clothing.

“You look good,” he pronounced, checking out her navy-blue suit. “Conservative, not too flashy.” He waved at Sandra’s parents. “Don’t want the judge to think she’s out shopping with the ill-gotten gains.” He studied them. “So are you still getting a divorce? Sandra said you were going to call it quits.”

“We changed our minds,” Lou stated.

“Yeah, at our age, it’s probably better to stick with the devil you know.”

“Yes,” Sandra said to her parents’ unspoken question. “He’s always this obnoxious. I’ll see you in the hearing room, okay?”

“What’s the media doing here?” her father asked, scowling at the crowd in the hallway. “It’s only a hearing. You’d think somebody called them all.”

Courtney Procter? Sandra wondered. No, she’d want an exclusive. But judging by the crammed foyer, bristling with microphones, she’d been scooped. It was odd, though. Sandra’s case was old news, yet the press was acting as though this were a breaking story.

“Don’t say a word to the Winslows, the press, the spectators,” Milton cautioned. “I can only help your daughter if I have complete control over what goes on during the hearing.”

“Trust him,” Sandra said. “He’s all I’ve got.”

“And the best there is,” he added.

“Everything is going to be fine,” her mother promised. They each hugged her and went to the door. Their departure left a hollow inside her, raw and sensitive.

She prayed Milton would be good enough now. Returning to the conference room, she thought, as she often did, about Mike. She struggled to see herself as part of a loving relationship with him instead of accepting solitude for the rest of her life.

Though she’d only known him a short time, she was different because of him. She’d never look at life the same way. How could she have known she could live so fully, with such joy? Before, she’d been half-alive, never knowing the peaks and valleys of the roller-coaster ride, never realizing what she could be with a man who loved her.

But this insanity, the wild things he believed about Victor, his futile obsession with finding him, erected a barrier. She told herself Mike was doing her a favor, staying away. In time, she might be able to get back to that numb state she’d lived in for so long—safe from love, safe from harm.

It was true that her life had changed because of Victor. But Mike had affected her more profoundly than that. He’d changed the landscape of her heart.

But that fragile geography had not been tested and tempered by time, and she was haunted by the possibility that had been ripped from her grasp.

A part of her wanted him to come crawling back, swearing he’d made a terrible mistake, begging her forgiveness.

But another part acknowledged the reality that he was, first and foremost, a single dad struggling to stay in his kids’ lives. He had no choice about that, and she wasn’t about to put his relationship with his kids at risk.

He was gone from her life. Kevin and Mary Margaret were gone. Angela had seen to that. Soon, Sandra herself would be gone from Paradise.

“You ready?” Milton asked, gathering up his notes.

She walked to the door. “Oh, I can hardly wait.”

He paused to grin at her.

“What?” she demanded.

“You’re different.”

“Yeah? I had my hair layered—”

“Not like that, I mean really different.” He stood back, narrowed his eyes. “You used to be afraid of your own shadow. Now you’re tougher. Ready to kick some butt.”

“I take it that’s a compliment.”

“You bet your ass it is.”

A gauntlet of reporters and photographers lined the corridor. As she and the attorneys walked to the courtroom, flashes shot off like fireworks; shouted questions peppered and bounced off her. She reminded herself of something Mike had nearly seduced her into forgetting: she was the girl on the Ferris wheel. Around and around and around. Nothing could touch her. Nothing could stop her or slow her down.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar blond head, glossy red-lined lips, a threadlike mike wire tucked into the collar of an Armani blazer. Courtney Procter. She was shoving a WRIQ mike forward.

“Mrs. Winslow, how do you plan to answer the charge that you engineered this whole thing for money?”

“Actually, Ms. Procter, I have a question for you. Are you ever going to get over the fact that I stole your boyfriend?” Sandra said as she walked past. “Better yet, try reporting the truth this time.”

Milton gave a low whistle.

“I can’t believe I just said that.” She entered the creaky wooden quiet of the courtroom. Milton reminded her not to look left or right. But she couldn’t keep from seeing the faces there. Ronald’s parishioners jammed the benches, stabbing her with accusing glares. There was Gloria Carmichael from the deli, wearing a sweatshirt that announced, “99 Percent of Lawyers Give the Rest a Bad Name.” Her parents and Joyce sat behind the bar of the defendant’s table. She was startled to see Malloy’s work crew, almost unrecognizable without their paint-spattered coveralls. They had their hair slicked back, work-worn hands balled into nervous fists on their knees. Oddly enough, Phil Downing sat near the Carmichaels, behind the plaintiffs’ table. She wondered fleetingly if spectators were physically divided down the aisle—Friend of the Groom, Enemy of the Bride. The ushers at her wedding to Victor had been instructed to seat people evenly behind both sides of the aisle—no one gave a reason, but she always knew it was to conceal the fact that her friends and family could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

She was even more surprised to see Sparky Witkowski in a cobalt blue power suit, cell phone glued to her ear. Catching her eye across the room, Sparky stabbed the air with a stiletto fingernail and mouthed the words, I
need to talk to you.

Not a good day to discuss real estate, Sandra thought, passing through the low swinging gate and taking a seat at the long Formica table. She didn’t look at the Winslows but could feel their presence, a phantom chill as though someone had left an unseen window open.

She encased herself in numbing armor as Judge Santucci entered and everyone stood. Looking like a Tony Bennett clone, he settled at the bench, then motioned for everyone to be seated. He perched a pair of reading glasses on his nose, peered over the rims and addressed the attorneys, reminding them they were still bound by the instructions he had delineated in the previous days of the hearing.

She tried to find something to do with her hands. She picked up a pen and wrote on a yellow legal pad.
“Ten things nobody knows about me . . .”

Every item on the list reminded her of Malloy. Riding into her life in a rusty old pickup truck, he’d found her at her most despairing moment. Instead of turning his back on her, he calmly went about the business of bandaging her hurts, repairing her house, her heart, filling her life. Making her laugh for the first time in months. Making her love him in a long, dizzying leap that explained why the term
falling
was so apt.

It was not just him that she loved, but everything he represented—the small, everyday miracles that made life worth living. She adored his kids, even liked his dog. She liked that Mike was ordinary, not famous. Good with his hands. Calm and strong, he was the fulfillment of a dream she didn’t know she had until she saw him. He embodied the promise of security, a cushion, a flotation device.

But now she felt as though she were drowning as she walked to the witness stand, raised her hand, swore to tell the truth.

Whose truth? Her own? Or Victor’s?

Milton had coached her to keep her eyes on him throughout the questioning, even when the plaintiffs’ attorney addressed her. She concentrated on Milton, watching for clues. He did his lizard on a rock imitation, sitting statue still.

As expected, the Winslows’ attorney began with benign, polite questions —a bit about where she grew up, went to school. The idea was to lead up to a vivid picture of a desperate woman greedy for her husband’s money.

“Mrs. Winslow, how would you characterize your marriage to Victor Winslow?”

“We were happy together.” She didn’t elaborate. Milton forbade it. Besides, it wasn’t quite a lie. They had been happy, although as time went on, Victor grew increasingly distracted, short-tempered and lost. She’d worried about him, but all she’d known, back then, was that there were moments when he seemed a complete stranger to her.

“We understand you have a career in publishing.”

This was something new. She looked at Milton, who scowled, then shrugged.

“That’s correct.”

“To be exact, you’ve published five novels under an assumed name.”

“Under my maiden name,” she stated.

“Most people think authors are rich. Tell the court, have you gotten rich off your books?”

“You’ll have to define rich.”

“Do you make a living wage?”

“Objection,” Milton said, the word flicking out like a snake’s tongue. “This line of questioning is going nowhere.”

“Your Honor, our purpose is to show that Mrs. Winslow is incapable of supporting herself through publishing alone.”

“Counsel, please confine your questions to the circumstances surrounding the incident.”

“This goes to motive, Your Honor. Other than your negligible earnings from failed books, Mrs. Winslow, what was your means of support during your marriage?”

“My husband’s salary as a state senator. His earnings are—were—a matter of public record.”