Free Passing Through Paradise by Susan Wiggs

ever knew you, Sandra,” Winifred said, finally speaking out in a cold lash of anger. “You never let them.”
    Sandra thrust the check at Ronald. “This is the first part of the life insurance settlement. I ‘m donating it to the church.” The pale green slip of paper dropped into his lap.
    He brushed it away as though it were a live coal, and it fluttered to the bare pavement. “You can’t buy absolution with your profits from Victor’s death.”
    “I’m not trying to buy anything. I don’t need to, because I didn’t do anything wrong—except, as you said, survive.” She held his gaze, and recognized the hurt buried in his eyes. “I miss him, too. I miss him every day, just as you do. That’s what this is about.”
    “You’re trying to buy your way out of trouble, and it won’t work.”
    “Stop.” Winifred put a hand on her husband’s arm. “We don’t have to listen to anymore of this.” With that, she turned, making her way up the ramp. Stone-faced, Reverend Winslow angled his electric-powered chair and followed his wife.
    The Winslows were beyond comfort and apparently, beyond reason.
    Sandra gripped the railing, started after them, then stopped. She stared down at the check, tumbling like a leaf along the pavement. A slow burn of anger swept through her. Her hand slipped down the iron railing as she stepped backward once, twice. Then, with shoulders squared and chin held high, she retrieved the check, turned away from the church and hurried toward her car.
    The front doors of the sandy brick church now stood open to the day. She could see the glow of candles within, and the spice of fresh flower arrangements wafted from the sanctuary. The subtle, murmuring notes of the organist warming up for the processional rode the morning breeze.
    But it was a false welcome, she knew that now. She wanted to kick herself for her own stupidity. She should have listened to Milton. Of course they wouldn’t change their minds simply because of the ruling.
    Enough, then, she told herself, slamming the car door on the belly-deep sound of the church bells tolling. It would never be over. Especially not now. Everything was just starting now. Her hand closed around the check in her coat pocket. By declining her money, they were making her decision about the house much easier.
    Yet it didn’t feel easy. These people wanted her humiliated, banished, ruined. They probably wanted her to burn in hell. A hundred times, she had been tempted to reveal the whole truth about that night, but she always fought the impulse. The truth would only add bitterness to their grief, and no explanation would bring Victor back to life.
    Despite their anger at her, Sandra felt protective of Victor’s grieving parents. They’d been so proud of Victor. They missed him so much. Ever since his death, she’d shielded them from something only she knew. She told herself it was because she respected their grief—but maybe in her heart she was also engaged in a silent bargain: I’ll spare you the truth about your son if you’ll forgive me for my role in his death.
    She tried to decide if she felt differently now. They’d drawn the lines of battle, and a dark urge stirred inside her. She was tempted with every nerve in her body to blurt out how wrong they were about everything, how they never really knew their own son. But she didn’t want to be the one to end their dreams, to turn cherished memories to bitter disillusionment.
    She wasn’t being a martyr, wasn’t being noble, keeping her silence. She was simply being pragmatic. To end her silence at this point would do more harm than good. Because the truth was, during his last moments on earth, her husband had given her a reason to want him dead.

Chapter
7
    F or lapsed Catholics and divorced dads, there was nothing as lonely as a Sunday. Mike drove through the streets where he’d spent his boyhood, a dull ache pressing at his chest. You don’t get any second chances in life, he