One Year (36 page)

M
egan Fitzgibbon pulled into one of the parking spaces reserved for visitors to the Wilson House. She was wearing one of her best and most conservative suits. She was armed with knowledge of Meadows's dubious prior real estate dealings and his shameful romantic past. She was filled with a sense of righteousness. And she was going to crash a meeting of the board of the OWHA. Asking for an interview would have allowed time for prevarication or downright refusal. It was much more difficult to turn away someone right in front of you than it was to fire off a dismissive e-mail. As predicted, Pat thought she was crazy but he knew better than to try to stop her.

Here goes,
Megan thought, stepping into the front hall of the old building. The others had already gathered in the former dining room, and Megan joined them. And there, leaning casually against the mantel of the fireplace, was the Great Man himself. Megan could feel his energy across the room; there was something brutal in it. She experienced a moment of panic.
No wonder everyone is so intimidated by the man,
she thought. But the panic was followed by the return of her resolve. She walked resolutely toward him and put out her hand.

“Mr. Meadows,” she said. “How do you do? My name is Megan Fitzgibbon. I'm married to Mary Bernadette's son. I've heard so much about you and your—work—in Oliver's Well.”

Meadows shook her hand briefly. “Another Mrs. Fitzgibbon,” he said, with barely concealed—was it amusement? “I'm afraid I didn't even know that you existed.”

Megan laughed.
Fine,
she thought
. If that's the way you want to play it.
“Well,” she said, “I can't claim to be as popular as you are, but in my own little sphere I'm not without influence.”

“As you say, in your own little sphere. Well, it looks as if the meeting is about to start. You'll be on your way then.”

“Oh, no,” Megan replied. “I have a matter I would like to present to the board. Leonard assured me I was welcome to attend the meeting.”

Leonard had done no such thing, but Meadows didn't need to know that.

Meadows raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Well, then, I suggest you take a seat at the table. We do have a temporary vacancy, as you know.”

Thanks to you,
Megan thought, as she joined the others. In answer to their surprised expressions she simply smiled.

Neal had been selected as temporary chairman in Mary Bernadette's place. Why, Megan wondered, hadn't Meadows commandeered that honor? No doubt he had his reasons. Neal opened the meeting and read the minutes from the last meeting, as was his duty as secretary. When old business had been discussed—rather summarily, Megan thought, disturbed by the general timidity and silence of the board; it did not bode well for her mission—Wynston Meadows took over.

“As you can see, we have a Mrs. Fitzgibbon in our midst today. To what do we owe this—this honor?”

“I'd like,” Megan said, folding her hands on the table before her, “to put myself up as temporary replacement for Mary Bernadette. Not, of course, as chairman.” Megan smiled at Neal, who nodded his acknowledgment. “But as a representative of a family whose lives have been deeply involved with the life of Oliver's Well for over fifty years. As a representative of a woman whose passion for historical accuracy and integrity is undeniable.”

Meadows sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “And what qualifies you for membership on the board?” he asked, showing his teeth.

Megan looked from one board member to the next. Joyce frowned. Wallace looked away. Norma's face was expressionless. Jeannette smiled feebly. “As many of you know,” she went on, “even though I make my home in Annapolis, I've been what I like to think of as an honorary member of the Oliver's Well community for over twenty-five years. And during that time I've made it my business to keep up with everything that's happening locally, from the debate about the new high school gymnasium to the mayor's proposed ban on plastic grocery bags. My mother-in-law is an excellent source of information.”

This last remark was met with appreciative laughter from Richard and Leonard. Neal and Anne and Jeannette smiled.

“And as cofounder and copresident of the Cerebral Palsy Education Effort I'm well acquainted with the workings of boards and committees. I'm also a practicing lawyer with a professional knowledge of contracts and negotiation. Finally, I have a vested interest in keeping the Fitzgibbon family in the service of Oliver's Well. The town has been good to us, and we feel it our duty to be good to it in return. My son and his wife plan to raise a family here in Oliver's Well, and my husband and I want our grandchildren to have the same wonderful experience of the town as my mother- and father-in-law and my husband and his sister have had.”

Megan's final remarks were followed by a silence that was distinctly anxious. Covertly or quite openly, everyone at the table looked to Wynston Meadows. Megan found his expression inscrutable. Clearly, the next move would be his and his alone.
Jesus,
she thought.
What was I thinking?

“Well,” he said heartily after a long moment of letting them hang, “let's put it to a vote, shall we?”

Megan was surprised that he hadn't shut her down with one swipe. She sat patiently while paper ballots were passed around and then collected by Neal Hyatt. He unfolded and read each ballot, and separated them into two unequal piles. When he was done he looked first at Wynston Meadows and then to her. “Welcome to the board, Mrs. Fitzgibbon,” he said, with an unmistakable note of relief in his voice.

“Megan, please. And thank you, Neal.”

Megan looked at Wynston Meadows and once again couldn't quite read the expression on his face. She thought it might be surprise, heavily masked by annoyance.

“Just until the good lady returns,” he said to Megan. “If, indeed, she does return.”

What a creep,
Megan thought. But what did it matter? She was on the board. Step one was accomplished.

After the meeting—conducted by Meadows and at which nothing of significance was decided or rejected—Richard Armstrong walked to the parking lot with Megan. “I'm so glad you're doing this,” he told her. “I've been so worried about Mary Bernadette for the past months. Most of us have. She was trying to be so strong.”

“Yes.”

“And we were all letting her down. Not one of us ever stood up to Wynston Meadows. We valued money over the well-being of our friend and colleague.”

“It's a complicated situation, Richard,” Megan said soothingly.

Richard glanced around, as if to be sure there was no one to overhear, but by now the parking lot was empty. “I was one of the people they quoted in that article,” he said softly. “I was the one who said, ‘Why would I lie' about the Fitzgibbons. It came across all wrong. I was appalled when the article was published, but I've been too embarrassed to say anything. Please, Mary Bernadette must know that I'm her staunch friend.”

Megan put her hand on Richard's arm. “I'm sure she does. And the others? Do you know who else gave a quote to the
Gazette
?”

“Not for sure, but I can make a pretty good guess.”

“Joyce or Wallace?”

Richard nodded. “Yes.”

“You know I can't promise any miracles. I'm not even sure of my game plan yet. But you can help me impress upon every member of the board the need for complete secrecy as far as my membership goes. I mean, it must be kept from Mary Bernadette for as long as possible. Honestly, I'm not sure how she'd feel about my butting in. I don't want to cause her more anxiety.”

“Leave it to me. I'll have a talk with each one privately. I can be persuasive when I need to be.”

Megan smiled. “What about Wynston Meadows?”

“I suspect that if he's asked not to do a particular thing he goes right out and does it. I think we're just going to have to hope he turns his attention to you and away from Mary Bernadette. Lord, that sounded awful. I'm sorry, Megan.”

“It's okay,” Megan assured him. “I'm here to draw his fire away from the original target. And to find out what he's really up to in dear little Oliver's Well.”

“R
emember,” Pat said, as he and Megan stood in the hall outside Mary Bernadette's private room, “the doctor suggested we keep all stressful topics from her. And that means Wynston Meadows and the OWHA and your—your
crusade
on my mother's behalf.”

“Of course.” Megan laid a hand on her husband's arm. “Pat? Are you sure you don't want to go in alone for a bit?”

He frowned. “I'm sure.”

Those of us who are about to die salute you
. Megan didn't know why those words had come to her just then. Or maybe she did know. In they went. Pat's manner instantly became stiff and distant.

“Mom,” he said. “You're looking well.”

Mary Bernadette raised an eyebrow. “Am I? I suppose I should be grateful for small favors.”

Pat nodded. “Right.”

Megan resisted a sigh. The emotional distance between Pat and his mother saddened her. Her husband was not a cold man. Megan didn't believe that he hated his mother, no matter what he said about her. Someday soon he would have to face the fact of her mortality and make peace with the woman who had given him life.

“How are you feeling, Mary Bernadette?” Megan asked, noting that her mother-in-law wouldn't quite meet her eye. “Are they keeping you comfortable?”

“As well as can be expected,” Mary Bernadette replied.

“That's good.”

Megan looked to her husband, who seemed to be out of conversation. He just stood by his mother's bedside—not close enough so that he could touch her or she him—his arms at his side, his expression set. Megan repressed a strain of annoyance. Couldn't he at least make an effort? “All's well at the house,” she told her mother-in-law. “The animals are being looked after. We're keeping things tidy.”

“Thank you.”

“We should be going,” Pat suddenly blurted.

“It was good of you to come,” Mary Bernadette said, her dignity intact as always. “I'm feeling rather tired now, anyway.”

Megan went over to Pat and took his arm. “Good-bye, Mary Bernadette,” she said. “Sleep well.” And then she led her stone-faced husband out of the room.

T
he room was crowded, what with Mary Bernadette's bed and equipment, the three men, and the profusion of cards and flowers that were still pouring in, days after Mary Bernadette's admittance to Oliver's Well Memorial Hospital.

Every surface but the floor was covered with vases; Grace had begun stuffing two or three bouquets into one vase in order to make room for those still coming. There were forty get-well cards—PJ had counted them—and three Mylar balloons. Mary Bernadette had suggested that PJ bring the balloons home for Banshee and Mercy to play with.

PJ had smiled. “You mean, to deflate.”

“I won't deny that I don't really care for balloons,” his grandmother had acknowledged. “I don't find them appropriate for people over the age of eight.”

This afternoon, Father Robert had come by to pray with Mary Bernadette. He informed PJ and his grandfather that he would be reading Psalm 103.

Paddy and PJ each bowed his head and folded his hands before him. Mary Bernadette, sitting up in the bed, did the same.

“Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt.” A nurse stood at the door to the room, an apologetic smile on her face. She beckoned to PJ with her forefinger, and he followed her out to the hall. He returned to his grandmother's room a few minutes later. He knew he was scowling, but he couldn't help it.

“What's wrong?” his grandfather asked in a low voice, as the priest read on.

“A massive bouquet of flowers,” PJ replied. “That's what's wrong. From Wynston Meadows.”

“Where is it?” Paddy asked.

“I threw it in the trash where it belongs.”

“You might have offered it to the nurses to give to someone who has no flowers from a loved one.”

PJ shook his head. “I didn't even think of that, I was so mad. Can you believe the nerve of that man, sending flowers to the woman he's trying to destroy? The hypocrite
wants
her dead and out of the way.”

“Name calling won't help matters.”

“But that's what he is, Grandpa, a hypocrite.”

“Who is that you're talking about?” Mary Bernadette's voice rose over Father Robert's, causing him to stop midsentence.

Paddy took a step closer to his wife's bed. “Now, don't trouble yourself, Mary.”

“It's nothing Grandmother,” PJ added. “Sorry, Father Robert.”

Father Robert nodded and continued with the prayer.

PJ leaned in to his grandfather. “Couldn't he have chosen something less grim?”

“The psalm was your grandmother's wish,” Paddy explained.

We are but dust
. PJ had never imagined what his life would be like without his grandmother. He knew, of course, that she would die. Everybody died. But it had never occurred to him that most likely
he
would go on living after her. He would
have
to go on living, especially when his wife was pregnant with his child. The thought was daunting and filled him with equal measures of fear and determination.

Father Robert finished reading the psalm and offered a final blessing. “I'll leave you with your family, Mary Bernadette,” he said then.

“Wynston Meadows,” Mary Bernadette said when he was gone.

“Excuse me, Grandmother?” PJ said.

“That's who you were talking about earlier. Wynston Meadows. What is he up to now?” she demanded. “I have a right to know.”

PJ looked helplessly to his grandfather. Paddy cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and closed it again. He went over to the bed and took his grandmother's hand. “It was nothing,” he said firmly. “I was just letting off steam.”

Mary Bernadette searched his face with her bright, keen eyes and PJ knew she knew that he was lying.

“You're right,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his. “The man is a hypocrite.”