Passing Through Paradise (32 page)
It was the life he’d always dreamed of having. He became someone so different from Victor Winslow that sometimes he forgot his former life.
But not entirely. Via news links on the Internet, he learned of the dark turn the death investigation had taken. Many times, he’d been tempted to intervene, but Max always convinced him to wait, to see how things turned out. When the accident ruling came down, he believed it was an affirmation that he’d done the right thing. But the latest development—his parents’ civil suit—had taken him completely by surprise.
He liked to think he would have come forward on his own, but would he?
Hollow silence echoed in the wake of his story. He pulled in a deep, unsteady breath, pressed his sweating palms down on the tabletop and looked at Sandra. He wanted to touch her but didn’t dare. She seemed so different now. She was still beautiful; she always had been, with her dark hair, haunted eyes and her unique combination of fragility and resilience. But now, subtle changes strengthened her posture, her demeanor. The way she sat so near his parents and refused to flinch was new to him. Yet her poise was hard-won; he could see the whiteness of her knuckles as she held her hands in her lap.
“I couldn’t have known what would happen,” he told her. “I thought that by disappearing, I ‘d be giving you the shot you deserved. Life insurance fraud seemed the least of my sins, because I convinced myself
that
person was dead, and you’d be free to start a new life for yourself—”
“Don’t expect me to swallow that,” she stated in a tone he’d never heard from her before. “You can’t just walk away and pretend you did it for me. What do you suppose it was like, losing you, grieving for you, putting up with the accusations and hatred while you went to Key West with your boyfriend?”
“I never could have predicted that everyone would hold you responsible.”
“Sandra, we’re so sorry,” his mother said. “If only we’d understood—”
“You didn’t want to understand,” Sandra stated calmly, addressing her directly for the first time since they’d entered the room. His father glanced at Sandra and then, with a twist of guilt on his face, stared down at his knees.
Ronald Winslow ‘s head was not bowed in prayer. Victor knew what prayer looked like. He used to pray on his knees for hours, begging God to make him straight.
When his father finally looked up at him, there was agony—but no forgiveness—in his eyes. “Why did you come back?” he asked. Ignoring his wife’s gasp of horror, he added, “Why did you even bother?”
Victor surged to his feet. “You brought me back, you with your idiotic lawsuit. I left because I couldn’t be who you wanted me to be. You’d rather see me dead than have a son who is gay. So I gave you that. I died. You should have left it that way.”
Without a word, Sandra went to the door, but he stopped her, blocking the way. “Wait.”
“Just let me go,” she said.
“I will. I know I have to.” Voices drifted from the wide hallway outside. “It’s a different world for you, out there,” he said.
“Yes.”
Watching her, he realized she wasn’t afraid—this woman who used to quail at the prospect of facing the press. She was no longer the passive bystander he’d married; she was strong, sure of herself. She could walk away from him and his parents because they were part of an old life, old concerns that no longer affected her.
“Please believe that I never meant for you to suffer,” he said. “I honestly thought it was the best solution, until Mike—”
“Mike?” Shock swept visibly through her, leaching the color from her cheeks.
“Malloy.”
Understanding dawned on her face as she studied the fresh bruise on his jaw. His split lip stung as he tried for some semblance of his old grin. “He brought me back, Sandra. There will be charges against me and I’ll face them. I ‘m here to pick up the pieces, pay whatever this cost you in legal fees, deal with the insurance company, clean up the mess I made of everything.”
“Even my life?”
“Whatever it takes. Anything, I swear.”
“I only want one thing from you, Victor.”
“What’s that?”
“A divorce.”
M
ike lifted the plastic bag of frozen peas from his eye and leaned toward the mirror. The swelling had gone down some, but the bruise was turning dark. He was tempted to tell himself Victor had gotten in a lucky punch, but that wasn’t the case. Mike was out of practice. It had been a long time since he’d beaten the crap out of anyone.
He checked his paint-spattered watch, certain it was broken, because the hands hadn’t moved. Briefly, he considered checking the local news on the TV or radio, but dismissed the idea. That would only make him more crazy. Restless, he left the
Fat Chance
to pace up and down in the boatyard parking lot, debating whether or not to drive over to the courthouse.
Victor had warned of a media circus, and Mike knew his own presence would only add to the confusion and possibly raise even more questions. His lawyer would have a cow. The last thing he needed was for his kids to see him, with a black eye, on the evening news as part of a story about a gay fugitive. So Vic was probably right in advising him to keep a low profile, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.
Hooking his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans, Mike stared out at the water, glinting with the hardness of late-afternoon sunlight. The reunion with Victor had been surreal, almost. When he’d finally arrived in Key West, Mike had been dog-tired, pissed off and out of patience. He found his way to Henshaw’s house, but no one was home. A neighbor directed him to a gallery in the water-front area. Amid the heat and hustle of Mallory Square, he entered a world of tourists and beach bums, gay couples and honeymooners, starving artists, street entertainers and serious students—a transient, relaxed population moving through a sea of anonymity.
From a cantina painted Pepto-Bismol pink, he watched strangers strolling past, sometimes stopping for a drink beneath the Campari sun umbrellas. In the arts and crafts gallery across the way, tropical sunlight flashed through dozens of handcrafted suncatchers hanging in the display window. People wandered in and out, and then at closing time, a tall man had locked up with an electronic security keypad.
Mike hadn’t recognized Victor at first—yellow hair, cutoffs, sandals, a muscle shirt revealing glossy, tanned shoulders. But that long-legged, easy gait and that confident manner had been instantly familiar.
Mike registered only one emotion—rage. He stalked across the street and shoved him up against the seawall, gouged and pitted from centuries of battering storms. “Hey, Victor. Long time no see.”
The suntan had paled.
“Mike?
Mike, Jesus, is that you? What do you want with me?”
“Oh, I think you know, Vic.”
Victor’s fist exploded outward, catching Mike in the left eye. Seeing stars, he grabbed Victor, spun him around and drove his fist at his best friend’s face. The impact split his knuckles and snapped Victor’s head sideways. He staggered back against the wall, sinking slowly. Then he pulled himself up again to flee.
Mike’s second punch drew blood, and a crowd as well. Onlookers gathered in a murmuring clot. Mike didn’t give a shit. “Pack it in now, Victor. Or are you going to make me drag you by the short hairs to the airport?”
Victor brought his knee up, forcing Mike to feint to one side. “I’m not going anywhere—”
“Wrong answer. You’re going back to get your wife out of trouble.”
“She doesn’t need me, Mike. Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”
He twisted his fist into the bloodstained shirt. “I’ll pretend you never said that. You married her knowing you’d never make her happy, and then you disappeared, you fucking coward.”
“I did it for Sandra,” Victor protested, ducking Mike’s fist. “She wanted—”
Mike threw him to the pavement, hearing the wind rush from his lungs. “She wanted a goddamned husband. She wanted kids, you son of a bitch.”
Victor crabwalked backward. “I never meant to hurt her. I thought she was . . . perfect for me.”
“She was safe. You used her.” Some latent sense of fair play caused Mike to allow him to climb to his feet again. The fascinated tourists fell back, expanding their circle. “Were you perfect for her?” he demanded. “Or did you even bother to think of that?”
“I honestly believed I was. She was so innocent, so lonely. She . . . moved me.”
Mike’s next blow had swung wild, missing its mark. “She could move a rock,” he said. “She could move a dead man. Didn’t you see what you were doing to her? She thought
she
was the problem.”
“That’s why disappearing was the answer.”
“Ever heard of divorce, Vic? Handy thing, and it’s completely legal in this country.” Mike pushed him up against the wall again, this time with his forearm across Victor’s throat. They both reeked of sweat and rage, and the crimson trickle of blood from Victor’s lip gleamed grotesquely in the sunlight.
“No Winslow ‘s ever been divorced. But plenty of us have died young.” He swallowed hard against Mike’s pressing arm. His face turned dark; his breath became an air-starved wheeze, and the fight drained out of him.
As Mike eased his grip, the adrenaline haze slowly cleared. He felt the curiosity of the onlookers, the heat of the South Florida sun on his back. “We need to talk,” he said.
Victor warily sidestepped him. “Show’s over, folks,” he said. The tourists dispersed, shuffling away, casting dubious glances over their shoulders. Victor studied the palms of his hands, scraped and livid. “I had no idea everything would blow up in her face,” he admitted. “I just didn’t think—and when I did, I wanted this new life and didn’t know how to give it up.”
Now that Mike could relate to. He had a hard time giving things up himself.
Victor stood quietly for a long time, studying the glitter of sunlight on the water, oblivious to the drying ribbon of blood down his chin. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
During the flight home, Victor told Mike everything— the secret affair, his vow to live “straight” in order to honor his family and focus on his political goals, the reappearance of Max, the constant terror of discovery and the opportunity that had been given to Victor the night of the accident. “I thought a second chance was what she needed,” he said.
“Sandy doesn’t need a second chance,” Mike said. “She needs you.” Everything Mike thought he knew about his best friend had been turned on its ear. And yet, for the first time, Victor finally made sense in a way he never had before. Mike couldn’t keep from asking the question that had nagged at him ever since he found out. “When did you know?”
Some of Victor’s old humor had glinted in his eyes. “You mean, did I get turned on at our campouts or sleepovers? Hell, Mike, it wasn’t some big epiphany. I guess I sort of always knew, but I trained myself to ignore it—even after Brice Hall. I never told you what happened there, did I?”
“I figured you didn’t want to talk about it. I was a dumbshit growing up, Vic, but even I’d heard about the weird things at all-boy boarding schools. I thought they only happened in English novels.”
“I thought it was a case of adolescent experimentation. Denial’s the Winslow way, you know. I really thought I could live straight. God knows I tried. But in my family, when you’re torn between duty and desire, you choose duty every time, hands down. I never even knew I had a choice.”
“You made a lot of choices,” Mike snapped. “Sandy was one of those choices. Christ, you almost destroyed her.”
Victor had settled into a thoughtful silence. Then he said, “You love her—that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
“You fucked up any chance I might’ve had with her.”
“Oh, no, Mikey.” Victor’s old aplomb shone through. “I’m guilty of a lot of things, but not that. I’ll shoulder the blame for my screwed-up relationships, but not yours.”
The words lingered in his mind even now, as the light deepened with the end of day and an evening chill sharpened the air. Mike turned up the collar of his jacket. By now, Victor would have made his appearance, his public statement. Had Mike done the right thing by forcing the confrontation, or had he blown it?
All he could do was wait and hope. He thought about the house, and the past they’d never shared, the dreams that hadn’t had a chance to come true for them. He’d gone into his relationship with Sandra the way a hiker goes into a pristine forest—he wasn’t sure what he was looking for or even if he’d find anything, and he risked getting hopelessly lost. But he went forward anyway.
Quietly, maybe without meaning to, Sandra showed him the way back to love. But even though falling for her was the most powerful thing that had ever happened to him, it was fragile. Mike knew he needed to protect his love for Sandra in a way he never felt compelled to do with his wife. He used to think that working hard and getting ahead proved his commitment to Angela. With Sandra, he realized commitment meant risking the deepest part of himself—and damn the consequences.
Putting his fingers to his lips, he whistled for Zeke. The dog, still a little too well groomed for his taste, raced across the parking lot and leaped into the truck.
Journal Entry
—
April 9
—
Tuesday
Ten Things to Do with the Rest of My Life
1. Think up ten tortures for Victor Winslow.
2. Take up a career in public speaking.
3. Write a tell-all memoir and go on the talk-show circuit.
4. Stop at the pharmacy and buy a home-pregnancy test.
It took a long time for Sandra to extricate herself from the chaos of the courthouse. Despite all that had happened, somethings never changed. Being around Victor was like being a groupie to a rock star. Everyone was eclipsed by his burning, almost manic energy. Even as he bared his soul to the press, he had a way of sucking up all the attention.
Except today, the focus had shifted to her. Everyone wanted to talk to her—Victor, his parents, her lawyer, Sparky, the press. She felt half-drowned in the attention, battered by questions. She managed to telegraph a look of desperation to her parents. Joyce shoved her into the ladies’ room and stood guard at the door. She and Sandra switched hats and coats, then kept their shades on and heads down as they left the building through a rear exit.
Her parents traded cars, driving away with Joyce in tow. The news vans followed them while Sandra took the Grand Marquis and quietly and anonymously made her way back to Blue Moon Beach.
She wept as she drove home; her tears expressed neither grief nor joy, but simply a shattering relief. She felt empty, scoured clean.
It was late afternoon by the time she walked into the now-beautiful house. Isolated and lovely, it reminded her of a single perfect seashell left on a deserted beach.
The phone rang incessantly; instead of answering, she unplugged all the extensions. In the creaky silence of the old house, she could hear the rhythm of her own heart. Dropping her borrowed coat and hat on the window seat, she looked out the big picture window, unsure of what to do with herself next.
Her life had taken a left turn again. She was no longer a murderous wife, but the victim of a troubled man whose worst crime was loving too passionately and being afraid of who he really was. She supposed she would forgive him one day . . . not today, though. Today, she simply had to get used to the idea that the nightmare of the past year was finally over.
But she was still Sandy Babcock, who wrote controversial books and sometimes stammered when she spoke.
Her gaze fell on the fax machine. The thing had disgorged a long, unbroken banner of thermal paper that hung down the side of the desk. Idly, she scanned the first page.
Her book had won the Addie Award. Although the honor represented the highest level of achievement in her career, the news echoed hollowly through her. That’s what she was—hollow, with nothing inside that knew how to savor her blessings. She helped herself to a few M&M’s from the bowl on the desk. Perhaps she should call her folks, share the good news with them, but. . . Victor’s dramatic resurrection made everything else seem trivial. And the fact that it had been Mike who’d made him come forward—with cuts and bruises that implied a struggle—trumped everything else in the world.
The other pages of the fax were unrelated to the award. They were preceded by a scrawled message on Sparky’s letterhead. “I couldn’t get near you today. Join the living and get an answering machine. News! I found you a buyer. Coming out to meet with you at six
P.M.
You’re going to
love
this. Offer to follow. Suggest you accept, contingency and all.”
Sandra checked the clock. Almost six
P.M.
Damn. She didn’t want to see anyone, not now. She tugged on a jacket and hurried outside, crossing the yard and forging over the dunes. Loose sand poured into her good shoes, but she didn’t care. She also didn’t care that she was running away again—avoiding her problems rather than facing them.
On the beach, she stood at the water’s edge, feeling the breeze pass over her and listening to the hush of the waves. A sweep of clouds reflecting the color of sunset crowned the horizon. Everything was happening so fast, yet the unhurried rhythm of the changeless sea calmed her with its never-ceasing heartbeat.
Selling the house, moving away, had been her goal, yet achieving it was a bittersweet victory. What now? she wondered. Manhattan? Mendocino? Athens, Hong Kong, Copenhagen?
She wondered who would live here after she was gone. A happy couple just starting out, a young family seeking a storybook setting for their kids. A pair of cheerful retirees, perhaps, who would sit on the porch together each morning and watch the sun come up. Now that the offer had actually come in, she felt an overwhelming sadness. It was going to be so hard to let go after all the time she’d spent here, all the energy she’d put into restoring the dilapidated old house, all the arguing she’d done with Mike over light fixtures and door hinges, all the time they’d spent making love in the tall-ceilinged bedroom overlooking the endless sea. Without meaning to, she’d filled the place with memories, and now she didn’t want to let go.
Her chest hurt with the effort to contain her emotions. This was the plan, she told herself. But deep down, she knew what was wrong. She’d reached a point in her life where she could go anywhere—but the only place she wanted to be was here, right here in Paradise.
A light evening breeze, with the faintest hint of summer borne on it, sifted through the top layer of sand. Restless memories stirred inside her. She thought of Mary Margaret and Kevin and how they loved to come here even in winter, playing and shouting, running from the waves and throwing sticks for the dog. She remembered how she’d felt the first time Mike took her in his arms, even though it was for a dance lesson, and she thought of the day he built a fire on the beach for her and warmed her hands in his. Maybe then, she thought. Maybe that was the day she’d started to love him.
He had taken her empty, broken-down wreck and made it into a home. Blue Moon Beach was a part of her, perhaps the best part, but coming to love this place hadn’t been in her plan.
Falling in love with Mike hadn’t been in her plan, either. She’d let him into her house, into her life, and he’d found the way into her heart.
At the faint sound of an engine, she hunched her shoulders, hoping Sparky and the buyer wouldn’t see her out here. Maybe they would just go away. For the time being, she wanted the whole world to go away.
A sharp bark sounded above the dunes, startling her. Seconds later, Zeke bounded down the sandy slope, a whitish streak with tongue lolling. Her heart took a sudden leap. But everything inside her froze the moment she saw Mike. Lit from behind by the evening sun, he seemed to emerge from a nimbus of red and gold while she squinted and shaded her eyes.
The heat of tears filled her throat. She had missed him, everything about him—she missed looking across the room to find him watching her with a smile in his eyes, the way he whistled through his teeth as he worked, the smell of his pillow after he left the bed in the morning, the moments of intimacy so deep and true that she found a new person inside her. He had cracked through her wall of ice, and she would never be the same.
But she didn’t know what to say after all that had happened. She didn’t know how to begin again.
“Hello, Malloy.” Amazing. She’d said her problem word—
hello—
without hesitation. “Or should I say Detective Malloy?”
“Not a bad piece of work for a handyman.”
A faint tan—a Florida tan—made him look more rugged, a little exotic, somehow. She noticed that his left eye was swollen, ringed by a darkening bruise. “You’ve been busy.”
“I had to find something to do with myself after you fired me.” He shifted his hip to one side, hooked a thumb into the waistband of his jeans. For the first time, she realized he was nervous. “So did it work out okay?” he asked. “At the courthouse, I mean.”
“Everything works out okay for Victor, even a public confession. He actually had reporters in tears. He made all sorts of promises—he’ll give me a divorce immediately, sort out the mess of our finances, deal with the charges of insurance fraud, cover all the legal fees. When all is said and done, he’s still Victor, still good at taking charge.”
“No surprise there.”
“So . . . what are you doing here?” she made herself ask.
“I left something behind.”
“What?” she asked, speculating. Maybe he’d left some tool, a loose wire, his toothbrush in her bathroom, some small part of himself that he needed to go on.
He hesitated, took a deep breath. “My heart.”
She shoved her hands in her pockets and stepped back. “God, Malloy. You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make me . . .”
Make me want you more than I want the next breath of air.
Blinking fast, she realized she was inches from falling apart. “We have a lot to discuss, but this isn’t a good time. Someone is coming.”
“I know.” He took a step toward her. The breeze plucked at his dark hair, and sunlight glinted in his smile. She kept staring at that black eye; it made her feel shaken by wonderment. No one had ever fought for her before.
“Sparky is bringing a buyer for the house.” Finally a tear escaped, and she brushed it away with the back of her hand, but another one quickly followed.
“I know that, too.” With infinite delicacy, he touched his thumb to her cheek, catching the tear.
His caress nearly undid her. “How?”
“Sandy.” He held her shoulders, steadying her.
She wanted to sink against him, disappear into him, somehow, but apprehension held her rigid. “What?”
“The offer is from me.”
“What?”
“I’m offering to buy the house.”
“Malloy . . .
Mike.
”
“I know you planned on leaving Paradise, but everything’s different. People around here will forgive Victor— or not, that’s up to them. He did exonerate you, and there’s no reason for you to leave now.”
She listened to the waves running up on shore, the plaintive cry of a curlew high above. Then she took a deep breath and asked, “Is there a reason to stay?”
He held her hand, chilly fingers holding fast. When he smiled down at her, she held her breath. “Did Sparky explain the contract? There’s a contingency.”
“Which is?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly put it in the contract. It’s a marriage proposal.”
A sudden pounding in her ears drowned out the roar of the waves, the wind, everything. She couldn’t hear a sound except the echo of his words, filling her with wonder and magic. After a while, she found her voice. “Mike. Oh, God.”
“I love you, Sandy. The kids and I—we all love you. Stay here and marry me. Marry
us.
We’ll finish the house together. We’ll fight about paint and plaster and cabinet hardware . . . I ‘ve seen the look on your face when you walk through that house with me. It’s what you want, Sandy.”
“It won’t work. How can it, when Angela—”
“Don’t worry about her.” He spoke with a brusque decisiveness that startled her.
“She’s the mother of your children. She’ll always be a part of your life, Mike. A powerful part. And she doesn’t want me anywhere near the kids.”
“This is not about what she wants. After a while, she’ll get used to the idea—I’m not giving her a choice. She just wasn’t expecting me to find anyone else.” The wind blew a strand of hair across her cheek, and he brushed it away with his hand. “She never knew . . . I could love like this, and I think it scared her.”
His words struck Sandra like velvet blows. She wasn’t used to the sort of passion he ignited—fiery comets and unstoppable whirlwinds that left her tender and exhausted and filled with a dangerous, fragile bliss. Loving him consumed and frightened her, and she found herself bracing for loss even before she flung herself fully into the relationship.
“I’m afraid, too,” she blurted out in a burst of honesty. “What I feel for you is so . . . big, so out of control. I’d risk anything, Mike, commit any crime. It can’t be healthy. Loving this intensely is a destructive thing. It’s dark and frightening. Look what it did to Victor.”
“Lying to himself did that to Vic. You don’t have to do crazy things like he did. There are actually legalways to deal with true love.” He slid his hands down her arms, twined his fingers with hers in her pockets. “He never put you first, and I will. You were convenient for him. That’s not how it is with me. I love you and to be honest”—he grinned a little—”you don’t always make it convenient to do that. But that only makes me love you more. Every day.”
She remembered the Ferris wheel and how frightened she’d been—but she’d done it anyway. She thought about her parents and realized love was never meant to be perfect. “I’m still afraid,” she said.
“I know. Aw, honey, I know. We all are. People really do let the love of their life walk away because they’re scared to show how much they want or need. But you’re not like that anymore.”
She was struck, as she so often was, by his plain-spoken wisdom. She never expected a man like him to have such insights into the human heart, into
her
heart, but he did. Only a few moments ago, being with him had seemed impossible but it was really so simple.
He mistook her hesitation for doubt, and drew her closer. “You can’t turn away from life, and I can’t protect you from everything bad.” Pulling back, he offered a half smile. “I don’t need to, and you don’t want me to.”
He was so right. Life as it unfolded, day by day, was just too rich. She wanted it all—the gladness and pain and laughter and tears. And she wanted it with him.
“We’ll finish the house together,” he said. “Maybe we’ll make a baby or two—” He wiped her tears with a bandanna from his back pocket, and then he kissed her forehead, cheeks, mouth, all the while whispering, “Please. I love you. Please.”
That was it, then. The real deal. The scariest, most exhilarating ride of all.
“Say yes,” he whispered in her ear. “Whatever you want. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
She discovered that happiness could hurt—it was a piercing joy, the sweetest sensation she’d ever felt, rushing through every part of her, rushing out to meet him. “You already have.”