by Susan Wiggs
As she stepped out onto the front porch, Sandra wavered between admiration and aversion. She appreciated the woman’s decisive demeanor even as she was put off by her brusque nosiness. “Hi,” she said. “You must be Miss Witkowski.”
“Sparky,” the woman said, her gaze making a swift arc of the porch. “Call me Sparky. And you’re Sandra Winslow.”
“Please come in.” Sandra wondered why on earth a grown woman would want to be called Sparky.
“My real name’s Gertrude,” she explained, reading Sandra’s mind.
Milton Banks had recommended Miss Witkowski, who specialized in waterfront property. According to Milton, she had years of experience handling high-dollar estates. An aggressive deal maker, Sparky had far more interest in earning a commission than she did in the notoriety of the seller. Which made her a perfect match for Sandra.
But today, she discovered that she didn’t want to think about the real estate agent. She wanted to think about Mike Malloy, kissing her. Giving herself a mental shake, she asked, “Can I get you a cup of tea? I have coffee, too, and soft drinks — “
“I’m fine.” Sparky did a full turn around the foyer. “Trust me, I don’t need coffee.” She scarcely looked at Sandra, but continued her tour of the house, her darting eyes never at rest. “Here’s the way I work. Let’s do a quick walk-through so I can get a feel for the place. Then I’ll put together a pricing scheme and marketing plan, and we’ll go from there.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Sandra gestured around the foyer. The noise of pounding hammers and power tools echoed through the old house. “As you can see, I’m having some work done before I list it.”
“Good. I was going to insist on it.” Sparky scribbled something on her notepad. “How much work?”
“Quite a bit. The contractor says it’s basically sound, but it’s been neglected. It’s listed as a historic building.”
“That’s a huge plus. Huge. Just make sure you run every alteration by me.”
Sandra laughed briefly, but fell silent when she realized Sparky wasn’t kidding. The historical society could dictate window sizes and paint color, but Sparky clearly knew what would sell a house. As the agent walked through the downstairs, she rattled off marching orders and opinions about color schemes and room arrangements, the strategic placement of potted plants, the hideousness of the cabbage rose drapes in the dining room, and the absolute, unadulterated perfection of the beach view to the east of the house. She tromped down to the basement, talked briefly and with startling authority to Phil about electrical matters, and then forged upstairs.
On the second floor, they encountered Mike Malloy repairing a wall. The plaster was torn away to reveal ancient, dark wood lathes, aligned like the ribs of a fossil. With the sleeves of his work shirt rolled back, a dust mask covering his nose and mouth, and a hammer and chisel in his hands, he resembled a crude surgeon. When he saw them coming, he removed the mask, letting it dangle around his neck.
Sparky stopped in her tracks. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you in ages, Mike.”
Wiping his hand on a red bandanna, he held it out. “Hey, Sparky. Long time no see.”
“So you’re the one restoring this house,” she said. “I think I’ll increase the asking price by another forty grand.”
“Don’t get carried away.”
“I always get carried away by you, Mike.” She laughed and touched his arm with an easy familiarity.
Watching them, Sandra felt a taut chill in her stomach. She envied their ease with one another, and found their acquaintance oddly threatening.
Sparky turned to her and said, “He’s won national awards for his restoration work, you know. He’s been featured in Architectural Digest.” She touched his arm again, her red-lacquered nails a bright contrast against his dusty skin. “You have a great reputation in Newport, my friend.” “Let’s hope it holds up with the permits department.” He disengaged his arm, glanced at his paint-spattered watch. “I’ve got to take some paperwork over there this afternoon, “ he said to Sandra, all business. “I’ll be back in the morning, early.”
As tongue-tied as a blind date, she managed to nod and say, “All right.”
“See you around, Mike,” Sparky said, her stare lingering on him. “Give me a call sometime.”
“Will do.” He headed down the stairs.
“You won’t, but a girl can try,” Sparky called after him, then turned to Sandra. “In Newport, people pay top dollar for a house that’s been renovated by Malloy & Meola Restoration.”
Sandra followed her into the master bedroom. Mike hadn’t told her that. Not that he’d been obliged to, she reminded herself.
She had been avoiding him all day, but couldn’t manage to keep her mind off him. She had forced herself to keep busy, phoning her agent, then her friend Barbara, who always knew the latest publishing gossip. She phoned her father, too, checking to see how he was getting along without her mother. Fine, he’d told her.
Liar, she’d thought.
And then she’d thought about Mike yet again—the strength in his arms, the lock of dark hair falling over his brow, the way his jeans were faded in all the right places, the startling softness of his mouth when he kissed her. A wet, messy kiss that made her melt inside. The swift heat of her reaction had taken her by surprise, and she wondered where all that passion had come from, how long it had been bottled up, waiting for escape. She’d been embarrassingly responsive to him. After their encounter the night before, she didn’t know how to act around him. Should she go on as before, pretending nothing had happened? Or should she act like—so how did a woman act in front of a man who kissed her the way Mike had? How did she act when every single part of her wanted to say yes to him, except the part that knew it wasn’t right?
“You’re lucky to get him,” Sparky said over her shoulder as they went up the creaky wooden stairs to the third floor. The attic was dim and chill, thick with the smell of old timber and dust.
“What?” Sandra felt a dull red stain creep into her cheeks. Was she that obvious?
Of course she was. When he’d kissed her, the whole world had shifted on its axis, and she couldn’t blame the wine alone. Even now, latent spasms of yearning kept bringing her back to that moment.
Standing at one of the newly replaced windows, she and Sparky looked down into the yard. His old pickup truck pulled away, and despite the temperature, he drove off with one elbow sticking out the open window.
“Used to be a two-year waiting list for him when he was working in Newport,” Sparky said. “He had a multi-million-dollar business.”
Sandra let out a long, thin breath of relief. The real estate agent was talking about getting him as a contractor.
“That all ended when his wife divorced him.” Sparky lowered her voice. “The settlement took just about everything he had. His father-in-law held the paper on the business, and called in everything when Mike and Angela split up.” Sparky inspected the handrail where it had been fixed with new brass bolts, and nodded her approval. “So he’s starting over. One good thing, though. At least he’s single now.”
“And that’s a good thing?” Sandra dared to ask. She led the way past a tower of boxes.
“Are you kidding? You’ve seen him. The man is a living, breathing love god.”
So it isn’t just me, thought Sandra, ducking her head to hide a smile. The conversation reminded her of college dorm talk, when girlfriends bonded by comparing notes about guys. Sandra had never joined in, of course, but she could still remember the sometimes hilarious, sometimes brutal assessments women made about the men they met.
“I’m not surprised he came back to Paradise,” Sparky said, checking out the new dormer windows.
Sandra frowned. “Back to Paradise? You mean he lived here in the past?”
“He grew up here. Didn’t he tell you? Attic looks fine.” Sparky turned on her heel and headed downstairs again for a closer inspection of the kitchen. She rattled off he
r opinion about the cabinetry and sunroom, completed her tour of the property, made a list of landscaping chores and promised to get back with Sandra soon.
Sandra didn’t pay as close attention as she probably should have. She was too busy thinking about Sparky’s re-mark that Mike Malloy had grown up here, in Paradise. He wasn’t obligated to tell her that, of course, but the fact that he hadn’t bothered her. A lot.
As she walked Sparky out to her car, the real estate agent turned to her. “There’s a question I like to ask all my clients,” she said. “You might think it’s silly, but it’s important.”
“We’re both on the same team here,” Sandra said. “What can I do for you?”
“I need you to do something for me. I need you to visualize your ideal buyer. Not someone who can come up with the money, but someone you’d like to see living in this place that has been your home. I’m not exactly sure why this works—and of course, it doesn’t always—but when the seller feels good about the buyer, the deal goes much more smoothly.”
“I’ll feel good about anyone who makes me a decent offer.”
“Just give it a try, okay?”
“I’ll think about it, but don’t hold your breath. I’m sure you understand why I want to get this place sold. I don’t expect to be picky about who decides to buy my house.”
“You might be surprised. At the very least, your vision will help me with my marketing strategy. If I know you’re picturing an older retired couple, I’ll gear my marketing toward that. If you envision a thriving young family living here, that might slant the marketing in a different direction. See what I mean?”
“I’ll give it some thought.” Ten Potential Buyers for My Home . . . Sandra hated the idea. She was trying to detach herself from this place, yet now she was supposed to visualize who might live in the restored house. The idea of other people —strangers—moving in here created a heartache she hadn’t expected.
She stood on the driveway as Sparky roared away in the Lexus, and watched until the car disappeared around a bend in the coastal road. But she didn’t think about the task Sparky had assigned to her.
She thought about Malloy.
So he was a local boy. She already knew he was the same age Victor would have been, had he lived. Filled with apprehension, she hurried inside and went back up to the attic. She hadn’t looked through her boxes of belongings since she’d flung everything together and moved out of the home she shared with Victor. There weren’t a lot of crates to search through. She and Victor hadn’t collected much in the way of personal history together.
Clicking on the overhead light, she inspected the stacked boxes containing the archives of her life with Victor. Just out of college, she’d owned a trunkload of clothes unbecoming to a congressman’s wife, crates of books and manuscripts collected over the years, stacks of spiral-bound journals, a file crammed with rejection letters from magazines and book publishers. Until meeting Victor, she had led an undistinguished life, one that fit neatly into a few good-sized moving boxes.
Ten years her senior, Victor had far more to show for himself—and far more to hide. He’d been an overachiever, larger than life, probably since the day of his birth. How could he not be, with his war-hero father now a wheelchair-bound preacher, his mother a socialite whose fortune rivaled that of the Bouviers?
In a box labeled “1966 to 1982,” he kept things from his childhood, lovingly collected by his mother and presented to him on the occasion of his marriage. His proud parents had marked each milestone with an appropriate gesture: his first lost tooth was enshrined in a sterling silver pillbox and engraved with the date of the blessed event. For each school year, they’d had his picture made at a professional portrait studio, eschewing the flat, cookie-cutter poses of the school photographer. There were mementos of his triumphs in swimming, wrestling, track, tennis and golf. Certificates honoring his achievements in scholarship. His Eagle Scout pin hanging from a faded ribbon. There was even a framed photo of him at sixteen, shaking hands with President Jimmy Carter at a Rose Garden ceremony honoring outstanding high school students.
The whole box was about Victor, she realized. No friends or schoolmates, only Victor and his achievements. Victor and his public life. The things now rightfully belonged to her in-laws, Sandra thought. She hadn’t even known him then. She’d have to ask Milton about handing it over to the Winslows.
Their trophy child. He had meant the world to them.
As she dusted off and uncovered the past, bringing old things into the light, she was seized by a strange sense of apprehension. Something was about to be unveiled, revealed. A terrible tension strained inside her. She felt a slow boil of emotion but tried to ignore it. Moving methodically through the labeled boxes, she forced herself to focus on her purpose—to find out if Mike Malloy had ever crossed paths with Victor. She didn’t let herself think about anything else. It was too hard, even now. When she came across the box hastily scrawled with “Old linens, etc.,” she thrust it out of the way, noticing a rip in the cardboard but hoping it would hold.
Finally she came to the one she sought, labeled in Victor’s neat lettering: “Sports trophies, college & hs annuals.”
Opening the cardboard box, she took out a variety of odd-shaped trophies in velour shrouds and then sorted through the books. Like all privileged New England boys, Victor had been expected to attend boarding school. She vaguely recalled something he’d once told her. He had, in fact, enrolled at the prestigious Brice Hall School in 1978, but withdrew after only a few weeks, returning home to attend the local high school. He never talked about the incident after that.
She found an annual from 1982, his senior year. A satin ribbon marked a page devoted to Victor and his achievements. Class president, Eagle Scout, varsity swimming, varsity wrestling, varsity everything . . . the list seemed endless. He’d led a varsity life.
Flipping back from the Ws to the Ms, she took only seconds to find a page for Malloy.
Shivers raced over her skin as she brought the annual to the window and sat down, with the late-afternoon light streaming onto the pages. Michael Patrick Malloy.
The simmering resentment inside her bubbled faster, higher. Why hadn’t he told her?
She stared at the full-color photograph on the page. What was it Sparky had called him? A living, breathing love god. It was true now, and had been true twenty years ago. He looked like a young Tom Cruise, square-jawed, clean-cut, but blessed with a smoldering sensuality that made the difference between boy next door and boy most likely to break your heart. He was grinning into the camera as if the photographer were the head cheerleader and he’d just won the state championship. He wore a letter jacket, lived-in jeans and a smile that made her heart beat faster even though she realized she was looking at a teenage boy.
His high school career had not been as auspicious as Victor’s, but then again, whose was? Still, Malloy posted an impressive roster of accomplishments: varsity football, swimming, membership in several clubs, community service for the Historical Preservation Society. His goals included becoming an architect.
She wracked her brain, trying to remember if Victor had ever mentioned Mike. He hadn’t. Victor had been highly selective in speaking of the past. He told her only what he thought she should know.
She read what Malloy had written at the bottom of the page in controlled, rectangular script. She recognized the penmanship from all the documents they’d pored over regarding the restoration: “Hey, Vic—I don’t know what to say—that won’t surprise you. You were the one who had a way with words, not me. Things to remember: Scarborough Beach, the blue Impala, sailing nationals, Linda Lipschitz, the old boathouse—violin music—You’re the best, you’ll always be the best . . . I wouldn’t even be going off to college if it weren’t for you, so stay cool and all that crap, man. Cowabunga, MM.”
She slammed the book shut on the grinning, too-handsome teenager.
She felt like a prize idiot. She’d let him break through her aching lon
eliness. She’d let herself feel attracted to him, and the sting of lust had heightened her emotions, rubbing her nerve endings raw in places.
She ought to be grateful to Sparky, really. The woman had given her a reason to push him away just as she was about to trust him.
Shoving the old books back into the dusty box, she stomped down the stairs. Malloy had left before she could confront him. He wouldn’t be back until morning.
The hell with that, she thought, hurrying to the bath-room to scrub the dust and cobwebs from her hands. This new information was burning a hole in her. She wasn’t about to wait until morning.
Chapter 20
So there was this talent show at the Y, right?” Kevin’s voice streamed loudly through the receiver.
“I hear you, sport.” Dripping from the shower, Mike slung a towel around his waist and ducked out of the minuscule bathroom. The phone had rung before he could dry himself off, and a chill crawled over his skin. He supposed he could have offered to call Kevin back, but the kid was talking a mile a minute.
“And most of the stuff was really lame, like Travis Gannon doing his duck calls, and Kandy Procter with this ballet dance that looked like a spazz attack. Then David Bates sits down at the piano on stage—one of those giant pianos with the curve in it.”
“That would be a grand piano.”
“Yeah, so he sits down, and he’s looking kind of nervous and then all of a sudden he pukes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope, he yarked all over the piano keys. It was way cool. Mrs. Primosic said they’d have to hire some special company to take the keyboard apart and clean it all up. It was rad.”
“I’ll bet.” Mike talked to his kids every night, and he never knew what he’d hear out of them. He didn’t like the idea that he was getting good at picturing their faces as they told him about their day. But the fact was, he could conjure up a dead-on mental image of Kevin describing his four lay-ups in a basketball game, or Mary Margaret’s dreamy expression as she told him about a field trip to the Breakers or the Gilbert Stuart birthplace.
