Free Passing Through Paradise by Susan Wiggs Page B

to his truck. He led the way to the drive-through donut stand, and she waited in her car while he ordered the coffee and two donuts. No big deal, he told himself. He’d give her a cup of coffee, then find the Winslows when church let out.
    At the end of the road, he pulled over and got out. A dock jutted from the seawall where a little fleet of quohog skiffs bobbed. To the side of the wall, a sandy slope led down to the water. Zeke exploded from the truck as if shot from a cannon. The dog raced flat-out over the sand, kicking up a spray before disappearing over a tumble of wave-gouged rocks.
    Carrying the coffee in a cardboard tray, Mike motioned for Sandra to join him. She followed him through the empty breezeway of the abandoned concession stand. In summer, the place swarmed with families and students on vacation, but now the wind howled through the shadowy passageway, spitting them out on the other side, where there was nothing but ocean, sand and sky.
    He set the tray on a concrete picnic table. “There’s cream and sugar in the bag with the donuts.”
    Sandra sent him a funny little look. “Thanks,” she said, prying the lid off the coffee. She added cream, then poured in at least three packets of sugar. She seemed a little steadier now, he observed. A decent guy would probably ask her what was wrong, why she’d been in such a hurry to leave the church . . . but Mike didn’t want to know. He’d spent his entire marriage trying to figure out a woman, and he’d failed. He wasn’t about to try to understand Sandra. Though he barely knew her, he suspected she was a hell of a lot more complex than his ex-wife could ever be. But his mind kept coming back to the idea. With Angela, no matter what he did, he hadn’t been able to fill the empty spaces inside her. Whereas with Sandra, that could be his key role—he’d known it instinctively the first time he’d met her, and the feeling only grew stronger with each passing moment. It was a strange and unwelcome notion, and he hoped it would go away.
    Stooping, he picked up a length of driftwood and flung it for Zeke, who sped off in pursuit.
    She blew gently on her coffee, then took a sip. “Is he any particular breed of dog?”
    “Poodle, but don’t tell him that.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Zeke.”
    “Of course. What else would you name a poodle?” Her smile was genuine, reaching her eyes this time. Big brown eyes, long lashes. It was a hell of a smile, even better than he’d pictured it. “I bet your kids love him.”
    “Yeah.” He was glad he had Zeke, though the dog was ridiculous even without the haircut. He missed his kids so bad that he almost said something to Sandra Winslow.
    The separation and divorce had stripped him bare by layers. He’d looked around one day and realized he had nothing but his boat, his truck, tools and equipment he couldn’t stand to part with and a cell phone with an overdue bill. He was slowly crawling out of the hole, rebuilding his business, but some days he felt as though he were standing still.
    Zeke had nosed his way into Mike’s life through a back door Mike hadn’t yet barricaded against sentiment. He’d been at the quarry up in Waverley, picking out flagstones for a patio he was building in Point Judith. In the office, he’d encountered a foreman glaring down into a dilapidated cardboard box. The guy explained that his wife’s French poodle had whelped, all the pups had been sold and for the life of him he couldn’t give away the runt of the litter. Conformation problems, coloration problems, a whole litany of complaints. This one was for the pound.
    Mike had peered into the box at the little white ball of fluff, and that back door had cracked open just enough to let in the furball, worms and all. He was in denial about the breed, even though it was printed clearly on the AKC papers. He figured if he never clipped Zeke’s hair, he’d eventually forget he was a poodle.
    “I’m glad I ran into you,”