Passing Through Paradise Read Free Page B

way, partially obscuring a face that was both impatient and haunted. “The house dates back to 1886,” she said. “My great-grandfather, Harold Babcock, built it as a summer place. At one time, the family planned to re-store it.”
    This didn’t surprise Mike—the house was a diamond in the rough, and he saw what the place could be. In Newport, knowing how to treat historic houses had been the key to his success. He had a knack for peeling back the layers of time, for correcting misguided modernizations, for excavating the intent of the original builder.
    The house on Blue Moon Beach had an old home’s way of stirring a sense of nostalgia, the kind that pierced through cynicism and disappointment and the heaviness of years. Just for a moment, he imagined the Babcock house restored, handsome as a clipper ship, the garden in bloom, a rope swing suspended from the gnarled hickory tree, kids playing in the yard.
    Mike told himself he ought to view the house for what it was —run-down, neglected, blighted by rot, infested with bad karma by its cranky resident.
    And yet . . .
    “Well?” she asked.
    “Perfect candidate for restoration,” he said, his words true and unequivocal. “Even though it’s in lousy condition now, the structure and workmanship are outstanding.”
    She laughed again, that bitter note. “You have a wild imagination, Malloy.”
    “A good eye,” he said, annoyed by her sarcasm. “I won’t fool you—the place needs work, but I’m guessing it’s got strong bones. The roof itself might be okay, too, under all the plant life.”
    “Trust me, it’s not okay.” She led the way to the enclosed sunroom, which faced the endless water.
    Without thinking, he picked up an armload of split wood.
    “You don’t have to do that,” she said.
    “No charge,” he replied, then followed Victor’s widow. The Black Widow of Blue Moon Beach—wasn’t that what the local press called her?
    She stood at the door to her house and held it open. “‘Step into my parlor,’ ” she said, a touch of irony in her voice.
    “ ‘Said the Spider to the Fly,’ “he finished for her, entering the house.
    She flipped her hair out of her face. “Oh, you know that little rhyme?” She seemed surprised. People always were; they expected workmen to be illiterate, ignorant even of nonsense poems.
    “I sounded out the words,” he said.
    She pulled off her rubber boots and left them by the door. “You must have children, then.”
    He nodded. The fact that he had kids defined him entirely now. “A boy and a girl.”
    “That’s nice.” Her expression relaxed a little. It was the first hint of softness he’d seen in her. She really did seem to think it was nice that he had kids.
    Mike wondered why there weren’t any little Winslows running around. Victor had really liked children, he re-called. He’d been a swim instructor at the YMCA in Newport when they were in high school. Each summer, he’d given sailing lessons at First Beach.
    It was just as well there weren’t any children, Mike realized. What kind of kid needed to grow up hearing that his mother had killed his father?
    He set the wood in a stack by the door.
    She didn’t thank him, but pointed to a corner of the ceiling. “That’s what I meant about the roof,” she said.
    Streaks of mildew stained the ceiling and wall. “Fixable,” he said. “I’d have to take a closer look.”
    She folded her arms in front of her. “I never said— “
    “Neither did I,” he interrupted. “I’m just looking.”
    “You must have a lot of time on your hands.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s the slow season.” He strolled into the next room, a tall narrow kitchen with ancient linoleum rubbed bare in places, an old scrubbed pine table and a big cast-iron sink. Stuck to the window with a suction cup was a bird made of colored glass. The humming refrigerator bore a collection of cartoon-character magnets, scrawled notes and lists. The room smelled faintly of spices and