Chapter 1 : Part 2

Passing Through Paradise
by Susan Wiggs

(Page 2 of 3)

She picked up the notebook again, flipped the page and read over her notes for the story she was working on. Her editor had already granted a sixty-day extension, and she was coming to the end of the second deadline. If she didn't turn in the manuscript soon, she'd have to repay the money they'd advanced her to write the novel in the first place.

The money-modest sum that it was-had been spent long ago on luxuries such as groceries and legal fees. Even though she'd never been charged with a crime, she had incurred an amazing sum of attorneys' fees. Now, at last, she would be entitled to the life insurance settlement.

The idea of profiting from Victor's death made her feel queasy. But she had to do something, had to pick up her life and figure out a way to go on. It was torture for her to live in Paradise, among the people who had adored her husband. Sometimes she even went up the road to Wakefield to run errands simply because she didn't want to encounter anyone who had known Victor.

The trouble was, everyone knew Victor. Thanks to his family name and the swift incandescence of his political career, followed by his spectacular demise, the whole state knew him now. Sandra would have to go somewhere far away to escape his shadow.

And now, finally, she had a chance to do that. Something unexpected was happening inside her. She was free, unattached. She had nothing to hold her now - not Victor's political calendar, certainly not any social obligations. A soaring sense of freedom rose like a raft of birds from a marsh.

Now that the death investigation was finally over, she edged toward a decision that had been hovering in her mind for months. She could fix up the place, sell it, hit the road. Her destination didn't seem to matter as much as the urge to run.

She picked up a flyer she'd found on a community bulletin board outside the post office. "Paradise Construction- Restoration and Remodeling. Bonded and Insured. References." Grabbing the phone before she could change her mind, she dialed the number and got-not surprisingly - a voice-mail message.

Sandra hesitated, not sure what to say. Her house was in a state of extreme disrepair. She needed a specialist. She settled for leaving the address and phone number.

Outside, gale-force winds tore at the wild sea roses under the window. Thorns scratched across the wavy, sleet-smeared glass pane. No wonder ships lost their way in these waters; she could barely detect the slow blink of the Point Judith lighthouse in the distance.

The bone-deep, icy cold of the winter storm reached invisible fingers through the cracks and chinks in the old house. Shivering, she picked up a log for the woodstove. It was the last one in the bin. The stove door opened with a rusty yawn, and she laid the log on the embers. Aiming the bellows, she pumped away until the glowing heart of the coals reddened and then burst into little tongues of flame licking along the underside of the log. Not so long ago, she hadn't known the first thing about heating with a wood-stove. Now it was as routine as brushing her teeth.

As the blaze took hold, she adjusted the vents and picked up her journal again.

Ten Advantages to Being Poor

1. You learn to build fires for warmth.

2. You can tell phone solicitors to -

Who was she kidding? She'd never come up with ten. Setting aside the messy notebook, she glared at the small, furious fire.

She felt like the Little Match Girl, burning up her whole supply of matches. Hans Christian Andersen's heroine had been at her wits' end, her survival in question. Sandra imagined herself with no heat, the last bit of firewood gone, curled into a fetal position in front of the stove. Who would find her there? She imagined weathered bones being discovered years in the future, when her memory was no more than a scandalous blot on the history of the town and some developer hired a wrecking crew to demolish the ancient house and replace it with a high-rise of oceanfront condos.

She wondered if other people had these thoughts when they ran out of firewood.

Some of the local teenagers earned money by splitting and stacking wood for the summer people, who liked to build bonfires on the beach for clam bakes. But despite the new ruling, Sandra was pretty certain she wouldn't find anyone willing to split wood for her, not in this town.

The icy wind crescendoed, howling under the eaves of the old beach house, entering through the cracks, making a mockery of the tepid heat from the last stick of wood in the stove.

Copyright © 2002 by Susan Wiggs

About the Author

Susan Wiggs is the author of the bestselling historical romance novels The Mistress, The Hostage, and The Horsemaster's Daughter. She won the Romantic Times career achievement award and the Romance Writers of America's RITA Award for best historical romance. A dramatic departure from her critically acclaimed and highly popular previous novels, THE YOU I NEVER KNEW is her first full-length work of contemporary fiction. A Harvard graduate and former schoolteacher, she lives on an island in Puget Sound with her husband and daughter.