Passing Through Paradise by Susan Wiggs Page B

feel anything, and the effort was beginning to exhaust her. It’s just a stupid old falling-down house, she told herself. She should feel glad she was getting rid of it.
    “Ah, Victor,” she said to the searching wind. “I wish you could give me a sign. Tell me what to do.” One of the hardest things about being alone was that there was no one to toss things around with, no one to consult. She was on her own, rafting through unknown waters, and hadn’t a clue about whether or not she was choosing the right course.
    Heading to the shed to get more firewood, she glanced toward the road and stopped in her tracks. Then, with inborn caution, she walked to the side of the road.
    There, atop a square post next to the ditch, was a new mailbox of galvanized steel, with the address stuck on in reflective numbers.
    Malloy, she thought. When had he fixed this? He really was a drive-by handyman.
    Chilled by the night air, she hurried back inside and fed another log to the iron stove. Then she settled on the sofa to go through the mail. It was the usual assortment of junk solicitations and bills. NRA stuff again. Why were they always after her? She supposed because Victor had been so firmly in favor of gun control. Setting aside the mail, she picked up the phone to let her lawyer know the check had arrived. Although he’d not been her favorite person, Milton Banks had been her advocate through the entire investigation, and when the ruling had come down Thursday afternoon, he’d been ebullient.
    When his voice mail clicked on, she started speaking, only to be interrupted by Milton himself, live and inperson.
    “So you got it. Ha! Are we quick or what?” he demanded in a working-class Boston accent. “You can rest easy for now.”
    So can you, she thought, considering the size of the firm’s fee.
    “I won’t be resting,” she said. “I have plans.”
    He hesitated. “What kind of plans?”
    “I’m going to fix up this house, sell it and get the heck out of Dodge.”
    “Christ, Sandra, you ought to know better.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “If you take off now, it’ll look like you’re fleeing.”
    “I am.” She curled the phone cord around her index finger.
    He was quiet for a moment. “Look, I told you, the ruling’s only the first battle. Just because they didn’t find probable cause doesn’t mean you’re home free.”
    A chill touched the base of her spine. “But I am. Home. And free.”
    “Of course you are,” he said quickly. “But what’s your hurry? Stick around. Do it on your own, so the court doesn’t order you to.”
    “I’ve stuck around for a year, Milton.” The icy apprehension slid through her and tightened in her gut.
    “I warned you about this months ago. Regardless of what the ME found, there’s going to be a civil suit. The Winslows’ attorneys have been researching their case for months.”
    Irritation pushed through her fear. Milton had warned her to expect trouble, but she put it out of her mind. The idea that her in-laws would sue her shouldn’t come as a surprise—nothing should. The unbelievable had already happened. “How do you know it’ll even materialize?”
    She could hear the long pause of an inhale while Milton lit a cigarette, then exhaled into the receiver. “Because I’m a good lawyer. They’ve been in pre-suit prep forever, poking around for leads. Dollars to donuts they’re getting ready to file as we speak. Mark my words—they want somebody to go down, Sandra, and you’re the one. You were in the driver’s seat that night. Sorry to say, they’ve got options—negligent, careless, reckless—they might even try to pin ‘intentional’ on you. So brace yourself.”
    She pressed her teeth together until her jaw ached, holding in a scream. Unwinding the phone cord, she drummed her fingers on the receiver. The old affliction strangled her, and it took several seconds of breathing exercises before she could force her next words out. “The place needs a lot