One Year (24 page)

M
egan had been surfing through Netflix when Pat came into the living room and with a dramatic sigh tossed himself onto the couch. The springs groaned.

Megan turned off the television. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Pat.”

“Did your parents ever keep secrets from you and your brother?” he asked.

“I'm sure they did. All parents do.”

Pat shifted, and the couch springs squeaked. “I mean, big secrets. Like a dead sibling.”

“What makes you ask such a question now?” Megan asked. “Have you been talking to your mother?”

“No. Just thinking. Well, actually,” he said, sitting up and sending a series of metal squeals into the room. “I was reading a short story in the
New Yorker
the other day about a guy whose parents never told him that his paternal grandfather had been incarcerated for murder, and a pretty grisly one at that.”

“Can you blame them?” Megan asked. “I'd want to keep a disturbing secret like that from my child.”

Pat shrugged. “It got me thinking about my own family. You know, almost from the beginning I knew there was some deep, dark family secret. I knew it in the way kids just
know
things. Eventually, Grace caught on, too. When I was about sixteen—that would make Grace about eight—I decided to ask Dad what he and Mom were hiding.”

Megan had heard this story many times before, but if telling it again was helpful to her husband, she would listen patiently. “Did you actually come right out and ask your father what they were
hiding
?” she asked, as if the story were new to her.

“I've never been subtle, Meg.”

“Obviously.”

“So my father told me about William. It cost him; even a dumb teenager like me could see that. But I was grateful for his honesty.”

“And he asked you never to mention William to your mother.”

“Right. You know, and I'm sure I've told you this before, that when my father told me that my mother had had a baby before me, it really wasn't a surprise. It was as if I had always known someone else had come first. That someone had precedence over me.”

“Still, better the mystery be a lost sibling than a heinous crime.”

Pat frowned. “I haven't always been sure about that.”

“Pat. You're being melodramatic.”

“I was thinking about this, too,” he went on. “There was something my mother used to say to Grace and me when we were growing up. We'd fall and cut our knees, or someone at school would be picking on one of us, or we'd be going through one of those trials that seem insurmountable to a child. Instead of being sympathetic or comforting, my mother would say, ‘Offer it up to God.' Offer your pain or your sorrow as a sacrifice to God. I mean, that's the equivalent of saying, ‘Tough luck, kid' or ‘Shut up and deal with it.'”

“Yes,” Megan said. “It
is
a pretty harsh concept for a child to grasp. Trauma as a sacrifice.”

“I remember once, I guess I was about twelve or thirteen, I'd been in a fight after school and she told me to ‘offer it up to God,' and I came back with something like, ‘Why would God want my bloody nose?' ”

Megan laughed. “Oh, Pat, you didn't!”

“I most certainly did.”

“And were you punished?”

“With extreme prejudice. No playing with my friends for two weeks, and I had to go to confession, and let me tell you, Father Murphy was not a guy to let you off lightly. I was kneeling at the altar saying Our Father's and Hail Mary's for hours.”

Megan grimaced on his behalf. She recalled another story her husband had told her. He had been about six years old and had learned that his mother had thrown out his favorite stuffed animal. Mary Bernadette had made no excuses for it. She hadn't pretended that the rabbit had gone to Heaven or that he had fallen in love with a lady rabbit and run off to be married. “It was filthy,” she told him. “It was trash.”

So the devastated child had run off and hidden, just before the family was to leave for church. When he was finally found, crying and crouched at the back of the linen closet, his mother had dragged him out and drawn back her hand to strike him. His father had managed to grab her arm before she made contact, but according to Pat, the result had been the same as if she had left a welt on his cheek. He remembered making a solemn vow—as intelligent, sensitive children often do—never to trust his mother again. It was a horrible story, and every time she thought of it Megan felt pity for the poor little boy her husband had been.

“She was never as harsh with Grace, my mother,” Pat went on. “Unless Grace has been keeping secrets from me. It's odd, but I always thought that Mom was more lenient with Grace, or at least not as relentless with her criticism, because Grace didn't really care what Mary Bernadette thought of her. Let's put it this way. I was always trying to please my mother and failing. I don't think that Grace even bothered to try. Smart woman, my sister.”

“Yes,” Megan agreed. “She is. Look, why don't you try to get your mind off the family. Why don't you watch a movie with me.”

“Sure,” he said. “Okay.” Pat flopped back down on the couch at full length. The springs screamed.

“Oh, and Pat?” Megan said, reaching for the remote.

“Yeah?”

“I think we need a new couch.”

A
lexis and PJ were eating dinner. She was trying very earnestly to engage with her husband, to ask questions and to answer them in return, but all the while she was uncomfortably aware of a sort of emotional buzzing inside her, something that felt dangerous and destructive. She wanted PJ to finish his dinner and go away before she lost what little control she had of her emotions.

“That was a great meal, Alexis,” he said, crumpling his napkin onto his plate.

“Thank you,” she said. Her own meal was hardly touched. The buzzing inside her wouldn't allow her to eat.

“But I thought we were going to have chicken tonight. You said something about a recipe from that popular Israeli chef you're always going on about.”

Alexis felt the hot color rush to her face. “I am not ‘always going on about' anything or anyone,” she retorted.

PJ leaned back on the hind legs of his chair. “Sorry. Anyway, I just thought you said we were going to have chicken.”

“I changed my mind. Is that all right? Or should I have asked you for permission to have my very own thought? And don't sit like that. It drives me crazy.”

PJ let the chair tip forward so that once again it rested on all four legs. “That's not what I meant at all,” he protested.

“Then what did you mean?”

“Nothing. I was just making conversation. Really, Alexis, lately it seems that you've got a problem with everything I say and do!”

“That's not true!” she cried.

“Well, it sure feels like it. Am I really so objectionable? I'm not trying to be, really.”

Alexis bit back a nasty reply. She did not want another screaming match. She did not. “Of course not,” she said.

“You never used to criticize me the way you do now. Have I changed all that much since you met me?”

Alexis put her hands on her lap and clenched them into fists. “No.”

“Then what's wrong?” PJ leaned forward and put out his hand as if to touch her shoulder. But he didn't touch her.

“Nothing,” she said, looking down at her lap. “I'm sorry. I'm just tired.”

PJ sighed and abruptly rose from the table. “I am, too. I spent half the day trying to teach myself a computerized project management program so I don't look like a complete fool compared to Blue Sound and whoever else Meadows is bringing in. Assuming I get that far in the bidding process, which doesn't seem likely. I'm going to bed. Good night.”

Alexis sat alone at the table for some time, all energy dissipated. Her mind was blank, her body heavy. Eventually, she got up and loaded the dishwasher. She didn't have the energy to wash the pots and knives. They would keep until morning. Alexis sank wearily onto the couch. In the past weeks, PJ hadn't once asked about her work for the Day in the Life project. He hadn't once asked if she had seen more of Maureen Kline. He hadn't once suggested that they have dinner at The Angry Squire or that they take an evening walk, just the two of them. He was totally immersed in his own concerns. He probably hadn't even noticed the photo of her parents that was now on display in their bedroom. Why should he notice a photograph when he barely noticed his own wife right in front of him? God knows they hadn't had sex in an age.

Alexis rubbed her temples. She couldn't imagine a man like Morgan Shelby complaining that his wife hadn't served for dinner what she had promised to serve. She couldn't imagine a man like Morgan Shelby allowing his grandmother to break into his apartment and hide objects she found objectionable. She couldn't imagine a man like Morgan Shelby canceling an anniversary getaway just to please and placate that grandmother.

Alexis shook her head. What was she doing? It wasn't fair to compare PJ with Morgan. PJ was her husband, and she owed him a degree of respect. Besides, she really didn't
know
Morgan all that well. Comparisons were futile and childish. With a feeling akin to despair, Alexis turned off the lamp, wrapped a chenille throw around her shoulders, and lay down on the couch. It was the first time since they had been married that she and her husband slept apart.

A
t seven o'clock the next morning, Alexis was at her usual station on the corner of Main Street and Market Street. Her daily shot was set up, and at exactly three minutes after seven she would press the shutter button and take the photograph.

And then, at two minutes past seven, she stepped back from the camera.
No
, she thought.
No more
. She detached the camera from the tripod and hung it around her neck. She folded the tripod. She had had enough of Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon and of all she represented. She would no longer do the bidding of a domineering old woman who only had harsh words for her in return. Morgan, she thought, was right about the project, anyway. It was just busy work. Mary Bernadette had probably designed it specifically to keep Alexis out of trouble and within sight.

When her equipment was safely stowed in the trunk of her car, Alexis drove to the office where she set about making a pot of coffee as if the morning was just like any other, as if she hadn't just committed social suicide in terms of Oliver's Well, the OWHA, and most important the Fitzgibbon family. As she measured the ground coffee and filled the pot with water from the bathroom sink, as she took the carton of milk from the minifridge and took a plastic spoon from a drawer, she acknowledged that abandoning the project in the way that she had was an act of passive aggression. And she acknowledged that before long she would have to account for her action. But she would handle that inevitable confrontation when it came. After all, as Morgan had pointed out, Mary Bernadette wasn't as omnipotent as Alexis had made her out to be. She was just a bossy old woman.

When the coffee was brewed, Alexis, feeling oddly calm, poured a cup and sat at the computer. She logged on to the Internet and began a search for online jewelry stores. Maybe she would buy herself a new wedding ring, one that actually matched her engagement ring. One that had not been forced upon her by Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon.

“B
ats in the belfry, eh?”

Leonard frowned. “Bats nesting under the eaves of an old building are no joking matter, I assure you.”

Wynston Meadows waved his hand dismissively. “Then deal with it.”

“It was my intention,” Leonard replied, “to do just that.”

Mary Bernadette shot a glance at Neal, who frowned in response. Not one person in the room, not even Wallace or Joyce, she was sure, would argue the fact that the mood of the board meetings these days was drastically different from the mood before Wynston Meadows had joined the ranks. There had always been a sense of community and friendship, a sense that a wise solution to any problem was sure to be found, because every person at the table was dedicated to the same end—the good of their hometown. Now the meetings were a trial, the mood anxious and tense, with little laughter and even less open conversation. And what was the shared goal now? The appeasement of Wynston Meadows in the hopes of getting his promised millions.

“Mary B., what do you say about bats in the belfry?”

Mary Bernadette startled. Meadows was showing his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “My name,” she said, “is Mary Bernadette. Mrs. Fitzgibbon will do just fine.”

Meadows laughed. “That name of yours is quite a handful. Can't you cut us some slack?”

“No,” she replied. “I cannot.”

“Respectfully,” Leonard said, “the lady has a right to her name.”

With a little grin, Meadows bowed his head in assent.

“Has the call for bids on the Stoker job gone out?”

“Just about to. I'm a busy man, Leonard.”

“Of course. I would be more than happy to—”

“No need.”

“It is traditional for the CEO to handle—”

“What is this about new upholstery?” Meadows pointed to the day's agenda.

Anne cleared her throat. “The upholstery on several of the furnishings in the Kennington House is badly in need of repair or replacement.”

“And?”

“And I've located a design firm in Richmond that specializes in reproductions of old fabrics. The firm we've used in the past went out of business so—”

Meadows laughed. “No surprise there.”

“This new design firm,” Neal said, taking over from Anne, “is a bit more expensive than the last, but their work has been recognized as outstanding by several major museums across the country. I think it's worth having them take a look at the pieces in question and submit a bid for the job.”

“I don't agree. Why waste money on new cushion covers when no one is actually using the chairs and sofas?”

There was a stunned silence after Meadows's remark. Mary Bernadette doubted the evidence of her ears, but only for a moment. Wynston Meadows didn't care a fig for historical preservation. He had made that abundantly clear before.

Finally, Leonard said, “Wasting money? How is necessary maintenance wasting money? If our budget can sustain—”

But Meadows cut him off, again. “Let me assure you,” he said, “that I know far more about budgets than anyone in this room.”

“Of course you do,” Wallace said hurriedly. “I certainly don't doubt that.”

Mary Bernadette tightened her grip on her pen and looked to Richard, whose hands were pressed flat against the table as if to keep himself in check. Both Anne and Jeannette were pale. Neal's expression was grim. Norma was examining a large gold ring on her right hand. Joyce shifted in her chair and smiled at Wynston Meadows. “If Mr. Meadows thinks we shouldn't spend money on upholstery, then I say we should listen to him.”

The woman literally simpers in his presence
, Mary Bernadette thought with disgust. She wondered if Joyce's husband knew his wife was making eyes at another man. She had half a mind to speak to Martin. It would serve the woman right, and her husband a man of the cloth!

Abruptly, Meadows rose. “I've got an important meeting to attend,” he said. “We'll deal with decorating issues some other time.”

When he had gone, Richard slapped his hands against the table and turned to Joyce. “What would you suggest we do, Ms. Miller, invest in plastic slipcovers?”

Joyce's face turned a fierce shade of red, and Mary Bernadette repressed a smile.