Read Online Passing Through Paradise by Susan Wiggs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Wiggs
Tags: Contemporary
Ads: Link
a few moments, the Winslows’ van turned into the rear lot and glided into the spot reserved for the pastor. They didn’t appear to see her at first as they went through the routine of disembarking from the van.
After thirty years of living as a paraplegic, Ronald Winslow managed with easy grace. His wife neither pitied nor babied him; to Sandra’s knowledge, she never had. They always looked completely natural together, as dignified as any blue-blooded New England couple of a certain age. The bond of their love was a subtle but tangible thing—he effortlessly adjusted the electric glide of his chair to her pace as they crossed the parking lot. The sight of them had a special poignance for Sandra now. The thought that her parents would never be together like that again burned her like a brand.
The knot in her stomach tightened, but she forced her-self to walk toward the access ramp leading to the office.
“What are you doing here?” Her father-in-law’s blunt question stopped her.
With the chill wind lashing at her cheeks, she faced him squarely.
Ten Really Bad Ideas for a Sunday Morning . . .
Her notion of coming here, which had filled her with hope an hour ago, now seemed the height of foolishness.
“Hello, Ronald,” she said, feeling their stares like chisels. “Hello, Winifred.”
Victor’s mother didn’t even look at her. The outline of her turned-away face spoke more eloquently than any words. Her small, delicate nostrils emitted twin puffs of frozen air. Winifred, who had taught her how to plan a benefit dinner and give a speech to the League of Women Voters, acted like a stranger now.
Sandra heard the faint whine of a ship’s whistle in the harbor, the plaintive cry of a winter curlew overhead. No other sound intruded. Somehow, she found her voice. “I’m here because I want this to be over,” she said. “It was an accident. You were there for the ruling. You heard.”
It had been torture, sitting across the aisle from them, their sadness a dead weight, their censure pure poison.
“We heard the ruling.” Ronald moved the chair slightly in front of his wife as if to protect her. “That doesn’t mean we heard the truth. You were in the driver’s seat. You survived, and Victor died.”
Grief had ravaged this man’s noble face, so like the face of his only son. Shadows of sleeplessness were carved beneath his eyes; his cheeks looked ruddy, the way they did when he ate too much on Thanksgiving during the football games. A vital piece of this man was missing, and Sandra knew there was no way he’d ever get it back.
Victor had been their miracle baby, their only child— prayed for, desperately wanted, born against all medical odds to a man whose disability should have prevented conception at all. They raised him as their ultimate work-in-progress, mapping out a perfect life for their golden boy. He measured up in all ways but one—the woman he’d chosen to marry.
When Victor introduced her to his parents just three weeks after their first date—if you could call it a date—the Winslows had been gracious and unfailingly polite, but couldn’t quite mask the disappointment in their eyes. The words they would never, ever speak aloud hung like a fog in the air:
Why her? She’s a nobody, and so young. We had such hopes for you. . . .
Later, Victor confessed that they’d spent years pushing him toward the daughter of their closest friends, a woman who was beautiful, ambitious, pedigreed and well connected. A woman who had carried a torch for Victor ever since they’d met at a church picnic as teenagers. Her name was Courtney Procter.
After watching the WRIQ reports, Sandra knew for certain that Courtney had never forgiven her.
“You know I ‘d never harm Victor.” Thrusting her hand in her pocket, she closed her fist around the check. “You know me, Ronald,” she went on, struggling to keep her tone even, her voice free of hesitation. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No one
After thirty years of living as a paraplegic, Ronald Winslow managed with easy grace. His wife neither pitied nor babied him; to Sandra’s knowledge, she never had. They always looked completely natural together, as dignified as any blue-blooded New England couple of a certain age. The bond of their love was a subtle but tangible thing—he effortlessly adjusted the electric glide of his chair to her pace as they crossed the parking lot. The sight of them had a special poignance for Sandra now. The thought that her parents would never be together like that again burned her like a brand.
The knot in her stomach tightened, but she forced her-self to walk toward the access ramp leading to the office.
“What are you doing here?” Her father-in-law’s blunt question stopped her.
With the chill wind lashing at her cheeks, she faced him squarely.
Ten Really Bad Ideas for a Sunday Morning . . .
Her notion of coming here, which had filled her with hope an hour ago, now seemed the height of foolishness.
“Hello, Ronald,” she said, feeling their stares like chisels. “Hello, Winifred.”
Victor’s mother didn’t even look at her. The outline of her turned-away face spoke more eloquently than any words. Her small, delicate nostrils emitted twin puffs of frozen air. Winifred, who had taught her how to plan a benefit dinner and give a speech to the League of Women Voters, acted like a stranger now.
Sandra heard the faint whine of a ship’s whistle in the harbor, the plaintive cry of a winter curlew overhead. No other sound intruded. Somehow, she found her voice. “I’m here because I want this to be over,” she said. “It was an accident. You were there for the ruling. You heard.”
It had been torture, sitting across the aisle from them, their sadness a dead weight, their censure pure poison.
“We heard the ruling.” Ronald moved the chair slightly in front of his wife as if to protect her. “That doesn’t mean we heard the truth. You were in the driver’s seat. You survived, and Victor died.”
Grief had ravaged this man’s noble face, so like the face of his only son. Shadows of sleeplessness were carved beneath his eyes; his cheeks looked ruddy, the way they did when he ate too much on Thanksgiving during the football games. A vital piece of this man was missing, and Sandra knew there was no way he’d ever get it back.
Victor had been their miracle baby, their only child— prayed for, desperately wanted, born against all medical odds to a man whose disability should have prevented conception at all. They raised him as their ultimate work-in-progress, mapping out a perfect life for their golden boy. He measured up in all ways but one—the woman he’d chosen to marry.
When Victor introduced her to his parents just three weeks after their first date—if you could call it a date—the Winslows had been gracious and unfailingly polite, but couldn’t quite mask the disappointment in their eyes. The words they would never, ever speak aloud hung like a fog in the air:
Why her? She’s a nobody, and so young. We had such hopes for you. . . .
Later, Victor confessed that they’d spent years pushing him toward the daughter of their closest friends, a woman who was beautiful, ambitious, pedigreed and well connected. A woman who had carried a torch for Victor ever since they’d met at a church picnic as teenagers. Her name was Courtney Procter.
After watching the WRIQ reports, Sandra knew for certain that Courtney had never forgiven her.
“You know I ‘d never harm Victor.” Thrusting her hand in her pocket, she closed her fist around the check. “You know me, Ronald,” she went on, struggling to keep her tone even, her voice free of hesitation. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No one
Similar Books
