Read Online Passing Through Paradise by Susan Wiggs - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Wiggs
Tags: Contemporary
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of work, so we’ve got some time,” she informed Milton. “But believe me, the minute it’s fixed, I’m out of here, lawsuit or no lawsuit.”
“Just relax, kiddo. No judge will let this go to trial on such flimsy evidence. They’ll have to find something a lot more compelling than they’ve uncovered so far.”
Sandra gripped the receiver so hard that her healing blisters stung. There was plenty of evidence to find, and if it came to light, she was toast.
Chapter
6
Journal Entry
—
January 6
—
Sunday
10 Things to Do on a Sunday Morning
1. The NYT crossword puzzle.
2. Make pancakes in the shape of lawyers.
3. Go to church.
Sandra stared at item number three, and her heart sped up. Could she? Did she dare?
Until she actually wrote the words, she didn’t realize that the outrageous idea had been hovering at the edge of her mind, pulling at her even as she tried to push it away.
When Victor was alive, Sunday mornings had taken on the mantle of ritual. As the pastor’s son and a public figure himself, her husband treated worship as something more than a spiritual activity. Each Sunday, he rose early and dressed with meticulous care. He always looked perfect, slender and handsome as a plaster saint as he guided her to a box pew with an engraved brass plaque commemorating the first Winslows of Rhode Island.
Now she was alone, still reeling from the shock of her mother’s announcement and from Milton’s warning about a lawsuit.
She had the sensation of hovering on a precipice, about to plunge over the edge. She’d been a recluse for far too long, keeping to herself while the locals gossiped. Although Sandra had never been a fighter, some small, insistent voice inside kept nagging, nudging, telling her to barge unafraid into the life she wanted. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing but lose her husband under tragic circumstances, yet she kept feeling as though she owed the world an apology.
Ye are cursed with a curse: for ye have robbed me, even this whole nation.
No more, she thought, suddenly awash with the cleansing heat of defiance. It was time to quit acting guilty.
Cursed is the one who perverts the justice due the stranger, the fatherless and widow.
She paced up and down as the decision firmed in her mind. She had to stop torturing herself with uncertainties. She had to get out, do something.
Picking up the insurance check, she firmly endorsed it to Old Somerset Church. As she did, a lightness swept through her, as if someone had lifted a rock off her chest. Then, filled with defiant energy, she tried on and discarded several outfits, finally choosing a navy knit suit with matching shoes — subdued but stylish. Winifred Winslow, whose friends from boarding school still called her “Winky,” had approved it for a DAR luncheon, one of many lessons on being the wife of a politician.
Sandra did her makeup and hair with anxious attention, wishing she could find a way to mask the pallor in her cheeks and the hollow look of having lost too much weight too quickly.
The drive to town should have calmed her nerves, but with each mile, tension knotted tighter in her stomach. The road formed a brittle ridge of shale and granite along the coast, curving around to the main part of town. Winter-bare trees etched the stark landscape, as thin and straight as gouges made with a knife against a canvas of amber meadow grass. Frost hid in shadowed pockets of the fields and clung to the undersides of tumbled boulders at the shoulder of the road. Out on the water, fishing boats plowed through the gunstock-gray ocean, and scavenging gulls circled over the skeletal arms of the raised nets.
Sandra flexed her gloved hands on the steering wheel. For weeks after the accident, she’d been afraid to drive. Panic would gather in her chest, squeezing her lungs until she could hardly breathe. She forced herself to get in the car, go through the motions, focus on her destination. But the nightmare endured.
Fragments of
“Just relax, kiddo. No judge will let this go to trial on such flimsy evidence. They’ll have to find something a lot more compelling than they’ve uncovered so far.”
Sandra gripped the receiver so hard that her healing blisters stung. There was plenty of evidence to find, and if it came to light, she was toast.
Chapter
6
Journal Entry
—
January 6
—
Sunday
10 Things to Do on a Sunday Morning
1. The NYT crossword puzzle.
2. Make pancakes in the shape of lawyers.
3. Go to church.
Sandra stared at item number three, and her heart sped up. Could she? Did she dare?
Until she actually wrote the words, she didn’t realize that the outrageous idea had been hovering at the edge of her mind, pulling at her even as she tried to push it away.
When Victor was alive, Sunday mornings had taken on the mantle of ritual. As the pastor’s son and a public figure himself, her husband treated worship as something more than a spiritual activity. Each Sunday, he rose early and dressed with meticulous care. He always looked perfect, slender and handsome as a plaster saint as he guided her to a box pew with an engraved brass plaque commemorating the first Winslows of Rhode Island.
Now she was alone, still reeling from the shock of her mother’s announcement and from Milton’s warning about a lawsuit.
She had the sensation of hovering on a precipice, about to plunge over the edge. She’d been a recluse for far too long, keeping to herself while the locals gossiped. Although Sandra had never been a fighter, some small, insistent voice inside kept nagging, nudging, telling her to barge unafraid into the life she wanted. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing but lose her husband under tragic circumstances, yet she kept feeling as though she owed the world an apology.
Ye are cursed with a curse: for ye have robbed me, even this whole nation.
No more, she thought, suddenly awash with the cleansing heat of defiance. It was time to quit acting guilty.
Cursed is the one who perverts the justice due the stranger, the fatherless and widow.
She paced up and down as the decision firmed in her mind. She had to stop torturing herself with uncertainties. She had to get out, do something.
Picking up the insurance check, she firmly endorsed it to Old Somerset Church. As she did, a lightness swept through her, as if someone had lifted a rock off her chest. Then, filled with defiant energy, she tried on and discarded several outfits, finally choosing a navy knit suit with matching shoes — subdued but stylish. Winifred Winslow, whose friends from boarding school still called her “Winky,” had approved it for a DAR luncheon, one of many lessons on being the wife of a politician.
Sandra did her makeup and hair with anxious attention, wishing she could find a way to mask the pallor in her cheeks and the hollow look of having lost too much weight too quickly.
The drive to town should have calmed her nerves, but with each mile, tension knotted tighter in her stomach. The road formed a brittle ridge of shale and granite along the coast, curving around to the main part of town. Winter-bare trees etched the stark landscape, as thin and straight as gouges made with a knife against a canvas of amber meadow grass. Frost hid in shadowed pockets of the fields and clung to the undersides of tumbled boulders at the shoulder of the road. Out on the water, fishing boats plowed through the gunstock-gray ocean, and scavenging gulls circled over the skeletal arms of the raised nets.
Sandra flexed her gloved hands on the steering wheel. For weeks after the accident, she’d been afraid to drive. Panic would gather in her chest, squeezing her lungs until she could hardly breathe. She forced herself to get in the car, go through the motions, focus on her destination. But the nightmare endured.
Fragments of
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