One Year (25 page)

P
J was slumped on the couch, watching one of those awful reality shows about lumberjacks or alligator hunters. Alexis was convinced that he wasn't really paying attention to what was on the screen. She was sure that his thoughts were with his beloved grandmother and Fitzgibbon Landscaping, the only two things that mattered to him.

Alexis placed her hands on the edge of the kitchen sink. Her stomach was in a knot. No one from the OWHA seemed to have noticed that it had been days since she had posted a picture on the website. But someone would notice, and the thought frightened her, though not enough to make her pick up the project again and explain away her absence as forgetfulness. No. She most certainly would not go crawling back to Mary Bernadette and her pathetic Hysterical Society.

“Dude, those are some righteous mud flaps!” These words were followed by the roar of a truck's engine and raucous male laughter.

Alexis flinched. What was she
doing
here in Oliver's Well? Just that morning Diane had sent her an e-mail in which she shared the latest news about their old college crowd. Sue was still in med school, determinedly working toward her goal of becoming a pediatrician. Her fiancé, Marc, was doing well in law school. Stacy was moving to Paris for a year. Diane had gotten a raise and was planning a two-week vacation in Hawaii. Alexis's parents had sent an e-mail, too. They had spent the weekend in New York City, where they had attended the opening night of a new opera at the Met. They were planning a trip to Italy next spring.

And what,
Alexis thought
, have I achieved lately
? Nothing. She had achieved nothing at all since marrying into the Fitzgibbon family. Alexis stared out through the kitchen window at Mary Bernadette and Paddy's house. It was entirely dark but for a dim light behind the curtains of their bedroom. Alexis had come to imagine the house as a sentinel, home to an all-seeing and all-knowing guard who took her duties very, very seriously. Mary Bernadette was like that mythical three-headed dog—Cerberus, was it?—whose job it was to guard the gates of Hell so that no one confined to its depths could escape. Well, maybe that was going a bit too far; Mary Bernadette wasn't
physically
terrifying. Still, Alexis believed that if she dared go out on her own one evening, Mary Bernadette, ever watching for misbehavior, would come stalking out of the house after her. And if she did manage to sneak out for a quick drink at The Angry Squire, the whole town would report the news to Mary Bernadette by morning. She still wasn't sure that PJ's grandmother hadn't followed her to Somerstown the other day.

She turned from the window. She wondered if she might talk to Maureen Kline about her discontent. She liked Maureen. But then she rejected the idea. Maureen herself had said that she considered the Fitzgibbon clan her family. She would choose Mary Bernadette and PJ over Alexis. She would have no choice. No, Alexis thought, she would have to be really desperate, even more than she felt now, to approach Maureen. There
was
Father Robert, of course. He would be bound to absolute confidentiality if she spoke to him in confession. But Father Robert was a friend of Mary Bernadette. Alexis doubted that even the threat of excommunication was enough to keep him from running to PJ's grandmother with tales of her marital woes.

But what was the use in talking to
anyone
? Nothing would change unless her
husband
changed. She would always be a stranger in Oliver's Well unless PJ actively fought on her behalf for an important, independent place in the Fitzgibbons' world.

Alexis walked through the kitchen. “I'm going to bed,” she said in the direction of the living room.

PJ didn't look away from the television screen. “Good night,” he said.

Alexis sighed and closed the bedroom door behind her.

M
ary Bernadette was sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of strong tea. She was alone in the house. PJ had asked Paddy to go with him to meet a potential client. There was no doubt that Wynston Meadows's behavior had caused her grandson's self-confidence to plummet. It angered Mary Bernadette. And it frustrated her that she could do nothing about it, much as it frustrated her that she had been unable to do anything about the disastrous meeting of the OWHA board the night before.

Wynston Meadows had once again wrenched the meeting out of her control as soon as the first new item of business was introduced. And that item of business was the annual Oliver's Well Independence Day festivities. Each year since its inception, the OWHA had played an important role in the celebrations. Together with the fire department they sponsored a hot dog stand with all profits going directly to the maintenance of the historic firehouse, now a museum, on Parker Street. Together with the local florist they sponsored the sale of corsages of red, white, and blue carnations. All floral profits went to the upkeep of Oliver's Grove, the town's one recreational park.

Still, most people in Oliver's Well would agree that the OWHA's most important contribution to the Independence Day celebrations was the organization of the parade. At some point in the life of almost every resident of Oliver's Well, he or she had marched in the July Fourth parade—as a Girl or Boy Scout; as a member of the high school marching band; dressed as the town's seventeenth-century founders; as employees of small businesses, riding floats that illustrated their services; as members of the local VFW.

But the night before, Wynston Meadows had announced that he wanted to cancel the parade—“A rather pedestrian activity, pardon the pun”—in favor of a fancy dress costume ball, to which the majority of the town would not be invited. And those who would be invited would be asked to make a donation of what Mary Bernadette thought was a prohibitive sum to the OWHA. She might have her standards, but she did not favor exclusionary measures. She believed that the town's celebrations were for everyone to enjoy.

She hadn't been alone in her protest. “But the traditions are so important,” Anne had pointed out. “Everyone looks forward to the parade, especially the children.”

To which Wynston Meadows had replied, “Children don't make financial gifts.”

“And what's more American than a parade?” Leonard had added. “Marching bands and floats and the veterans in their old uniforms.”

“The veterans,” Meadows had said, “would be smarter to stay in the comfort of their nursing homes. One of these days the paramedics will be peeling their dehydrated bodies off the pavement.”

“It'll be a deeply unpopular decision, mark my words,” Neal had pronounced. “I don't think losing the support of the majority of Oliver's Well is something the OWHA wants to risk.”

To which Wynston Meadows had argued that the support of the majority of Oliver's Well was no longer necessary, now that he was on hand to back it up financially. No one had pointed out that the OWHA had yet to see a penny of his money. In the end, the matter had been tabled until the next meeting, to give those members of the board who hadn't voiced an opinion time to muster the courage to voice it.

Mary Bernadette had passed Wynston Meadows in the foyer on the way out of the Wilson House. He was on his cell phone and she had heard him say, “The most pathetic of the bunch is that Leonard DeWittless.” She had left the building feeling slightly sick to her stomach.

She still felt unwell and uneasy. No one on the board was standing up to their “benefactor” for fear of losing his promised millions. Were they all so cowardly and disloyal? Except for Neal, who so gallantly had defended her intellectual abilities to Wynston Meadows and who had volunteered to resign from the board. But how could she blame her colleagues for what really came down to cautious, responsible behavior? Like every other person involved with the OWHA, Mary Bernadette was acutely aware of the importance of Meadows's promised money to the town. If he decided to withdraw his pledge, other donors both big and small, disappointed in the board's failure to keep the gift they had been given, might follow suit, leading to the disintegration of the OWHA. The unhappy fact of the matter was that the OWHA needed Wynston Meadows.

Mary Bernadette sighed. She truly had the town's best interest at heart, yet her pride would not allow her to resign as chairman, a position she was sure Wynston Meadows coveted. She had already recused herself from the upcoming vote regarding the contract for the restoration of the landscaping of the Stoker property. Wasn't that sacrifice enough?

If only the others would see what Mary Bernadette now saw so clearly, that Wynston Meadows was a genuine threat to the goals of the OWHA! Then they might act together to form the unanimous vote the bylaws required to remove him from the board. And lose the promised millions as a result. Of course, there was no guarantee that while Meadows remained on the board he would use those millions for the good of Oliver's Well, as he had promised. His word was not to be trusted.

Mary Bernadette took a sip of the now-cooled tea. Only that morning Paddy had attempted to talk to her about the disastrous situation, but she had silenced him immediately. Now she wasn't sure why she had, not when she felt so in need of support.
Poor man,
she thought now.
He is so good to me. And am I so good to him in return?

She had never given even a passing thought to committing an infidelity. For more than fifty years she had made his every meal, washed and ironed and mended his clothes. She had managed the household budget and raised his children to be respectable, hardworking, moral people of whom he could be proud. She had nursed him through the flu and colds and a hip replacement.

But had she ever taken his hand, just to let him know that she loved him? Had she ever gently touched his cheek for no other reason than to see him smile? Maybe she had, a very long time ago, during the eighteen months of William's life when the days had been filled with joy and wonder and laughter. And then, it was all over. With William gone, gone too was the warm and happy woman she had been so briefly.

Banshee, in the way that cats have when their human companions were troubled, appeared at Mary Bernadette's side and wound her long, sleek body around her legs. Absentmindedly, Mary Bernadette reached down to stroke her.

It had been years and years since she had had to reflect on matters in the way she was being forced to now. For so long her life had been firmly under her control. Or so she had thought. Now Mary Bernadette suspected that she might have been assuming mastery over events that were essentially out of her realm.
Overweening pride
.

“Banshee,” she said, looking down at her feline companion, for whom life was so blessedly simple. “Would you like a wee bit of milk?”

Banshee replied in the affirmative.

P
J was alone in the cottage. He didn't know where Alexis had gone. She hadn't left a note, and he couldn't remember if she had mentioned that she had a doctor's appointment after work or if she had needed to run to the bank or even, he thought, if she had planned to see Maureen Kline. She had mentioned once that she liked Maureen. Maybe they had become friends. PJ just didn't know.

He sat at the kitchen table, nervously drumming his fingers against it. Something was badly wrong. He could feel it. At the gas station earlier that day he had waved to Jim Toth, someone he had known since childhood. Jim, filling up his car two pumps down the line, had not waved back. On the way back to the office he got a text from a new client, canceling the job. And later, when PJ stopped in Cookies 'n Crumpets for a cup of coffee, he could have sworn that the other customers in the bakery had looked at him with suspicion and hostility.

It was only on the way home that the awful thought occurred to him. Wynston Meadows might be a creep, but he was a smart man. Could he be right, after all, in implying that Mary Bernadette had behaved unethically during her tenure at the OWHA, resulting in Fitzgibbon Landscaping being awarded so many lucrative contracts?

And there was something else. If Mary Bernadette were indeed guilty of professional misconduct, Paddy would have to know about it. How could a husband and wife keep such a thing a secret from one another, especially a pair like his grandparents, their lives so harmoniously intertwined for so many years?

PJ jumped from his seat and stalked over to the window from where he had a clear view of his grandparents' house. No. It was a ridiculous thought. But Paddy
was
the owner of Fitzgibbon Landscaping, and he
had
been its leader for forty years. How could he
not
know if something underhanded had been going on? And if he truly hadn't known, why hadn't he? What did that say about his abilities as a leader?

Or,
PJ thought,
maybe I've fallen victim to the power of rumor
. He remembered what he had predicted back when Wynston Meadows had demanded a reconsideration of Fitzgibbon Landscaping having been awarded the Stoker job. Even the hint of a scandal, however false, might ruin a good reputation. If he could doubt the honesty of his own beloved grandparents, then no wonder a stranger might, too.

PJ rubbed his eyes. He wished there were someone with whom he could share his doubts. He certainly couldn't talk to Alexis. These days he felt as if he barely knew the woman he had married.
He
hadn't changed—he had given it a lot of thought and he was sure of that—but she certainly had. He just didn't feel—he didn't feel
safe
with her like he once had. Protected. Back when they had first started dating and all throughout their courtship and the first months of their marriage, Alexis had been the most patient listener, the most supportive person he had ever known, other than his grandmother and his mother. He had been so certain that Alexis would prove to be the perfect wife for him, that she would so easily become one of the family. He had been so certain that she would
understand
. But now, she had grown troublingly disloyal to the Fitzgibbon cause. To him. Who was to say that just for the spite of it she wouldn't tell someone of his suspicions—Leonard DeWitt or even Wynston Meadows?

And he certainly couldn't turn to his father for advice or consolation. They had never been close, and the passing years seemed to be pulling them even further apart. For some reason, just plain stubbornness or something more twisted, Pat Fitzgibbon couldn't appreciate—let alone accept—his son's decision to work for the family business. Sometimes PJ wondered if the reason his father wouldn't support him was because of the glaringly obvious animosity between Pat and his own mother. At times PJ had thought that his father actually hated her.

PJ sighed. He had never felt so alone in his entire life. Not even in the weeks just after the twins were born when everyone seemed to forget his existence. Not even when his high school girlfriend had dumped him on the eve of the junior prom for someone he had thought to be his friend. Not even when Alexis had spent that one summer during college traveling abroad on her own, leaving him behind in Oliver's Well living with and working for his grandparents. To this day he still didn't understand why she had felt the need to be apart from him for two entire months.

Yes, PJ thought now, turning angrily away from the window. That was it. His own scandalously disloyal thoughts
had
to be the result of his wife's influence. She had never really fit into the world of the Fitzgibbons, and she had never really tried to. Her dislike of his family was infecting him with the disease of false and unsupported suspicion. And to think that his wife wore his great aunt Catherine's wedding ring as her own. It was a travesty.

Suddenly, PJ couldn't stand being in the cottage for one moment longer. He grabbed his keys, went out to the truck, and pointed it in the direction of The Angry Squire.

He did not leave a note for his wife.