One Year (37 page)

“F
itzgibbon Landscaping. This is Alexis speaking. How may I help you?”

“Alexis, it's Morgan.”

Alexis put her hand to her heart. She was thankful that she was alone in the office.

“Hello.”

“I had to call. I heard about Mary Bernadette's stroke. I'm so sorry. If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

“Thank you. There's probably nothing. Her daughter's here now and she's pretty much got everything under control. And my mother-in-law is here most times, too.”

“Good. Alexis? Are you there alone?”

Alexis nodded and then, realizing the futility of the gesture, said, “Yes.”

“Look, Alexis,” Morgan went on, his tone urgent. “I really need to apologize for . . . for what almost happened the other day. It was wrong of me, but . . . The thing is, I'm falling in love with you. I know I shouldn't be, but I can't seem to help it.”

Alexis was shocked. She had been so concerned with her own troubling emotions she had never stopped to give real consideration to his. He had been falling in love with her, not just playing a game, not just killing time. Not that she had ever really suspected him of trifling with her emotions but . . . She felt herself blush with shame. “I . . .”

“Can you honestly say that you don't have feelings for me?”

“No,” she whispered. “But I'm married.”

Morgan laughed unhappily. “I'm aware.”

Alexis didn't know what she could say to him. She was determined to stick by her decision not to see him again, even as a friend. She didn't entirely trust herself, and she all too clearly recalled Maureen's cautions about the gossip mill in Oliver's Well. And, most important, she loved her husband and was soon to bear his child.

“You deserve better than me, Morgan,” she said finally. “I'm a bit of a wreck right now. Aside from being married, I mean.” Not exactly the most eloquent way to put things, but it was all she could manage.

“Alexis—”

“No. Morgan, listen to me. Nothing can happen between us. I can't see you again. I mean, not deliberately. If we run into each other in town . . .”

“I should nod politely and walk the other way?”

Alexis swallowed hard. “Yes,” she said. “That's the way it has to be.”

“I'm not happy about this, Alexis,” Morgan said, his tone mournful. “But I'll abide by your decision.”

“I'm sorry for hurting you, Morgan. I'm sorry for leading you on. I promise I didn't do it purposely.”

“I believe you.”

“I should go now. Someone might come in. . . .”

“All right,” Morgan said. “Good luck, Alexis. I hope life is good to you.”

She couldn't bring herself to reply. She quietly hung up the receiver. She had not told him that PJ refused to see a therapist. She had not told him that she was pregnant. Those things were private. She had no right to share them, and he had no right to know them.

This, she thought, was what life was really about. There were constantly difficult choices to be made and challenging promises to be kept. There were sacrifices to be offered for others. There was unhappiness and sorrow to bear. There were consequences to be paid. How naïve she had been when she married PJ Fitzgibbon, how airy her ideals, how false her notions of marriage. In spite of all evidence to the contrary she had thought, no, she had
expected
it all to be so easy.

With a supreme effort Alexis forced herself to return to the work of helping to run her family's business. And at the end of the workday, she would drive to Oliver's Well Memorial Hospital and pay PJ's grandmother a visit.

M
ary Bernadette was restless. She kicked at the thin sheet covering her legs. It still wasn't settling right. She leaned forward and straightened it with her hands. The sheet felt scratchy. She sat back against the pillows and sighed. She was sure that she would mend more quickly in her own home than in this place of sickness and death. If only she was allowed to
do
something productive instead of lying like an invalid!

There was no use in pretending that she wasn't worried about the health of the OWHA, especially after that disgraceful and utterly false bit of “news” had aired the previous Saturday. She had demanded that the family keep her fully up to date, but so far not one of them had even brought her a newspaper, supposedly on doctor's orders. Her own husband and grandson had lied to her on the day of Father Robert's visit. Something had happened and they were keeping it from her. She was annoyed and insulted. Everyone was being condescending to her, treating her like a child. Just last evening she had called Neal Hyatt in the hopes that he might tell her if Wynston Meadows had made any further incursions on the good reputation of the OWHA. But Neal, as charming as always, had managed to tell her exactly nothing. And just that morning when the doctor had been in to see her, he had reminded Grace that her mother was in a delicate condition and needed complete rest. “
You
try telling her that, Doctor,” Grace had replied. They had been talking about her as if she weren't even in the room!

There was a knock at the door, and in came Grace and the twins.

“I was just thinking about you, dear,” Mary Bernadette said with a smile.

Grace raised an eyebrow. “What did I do wrong?”

Mary Bernadette ignored her daughter's question.

“How are you feeling, Grandma?” Danica asked. The poor girl looked frightened. She was twisting the end of her braid and her eyes were wide, as if she were trying not to cry. It might be the sight of the ugly machines and the hanging bags full of God knew what sort of fluids that upset her, Mary Bernadette thought. She hoped it was that, rather than her own appearance. She knew she wasn't looking her best, but she
had
applied the powder and lipstick Grace had brought her and her hair was freshly brushed.

“Just fine,” she told her granddaughter. “Don't play with your hair.”

Danica took her hand away from her braid.

“When will you be getting out of here?” David asked.

Grace chuckled. “You make it sound like she's a prisoner in a jail.”

David turned to his aunt. “For someone like my grandmother,” he said quite earnestly, “this is a jail.”

Mary Bernadette was touched. How acute the boy was! “As soon as the doctors say I may leave,” she told him.

“I hate hospitals,” Danica said fiercely.

“I don't think anyone really likes them,” Grace said, putting her arm around her niece's shoulders.

“The people who get better in them don't mind hospitals so much,” David pointed out. “I mean, I know that my surgery isn't going to be fun or anything, but at least when I get back home I'll be able to walk better.”

This child must not die,
Mary Bernadette thought.
There must be no more loss
. David was smart and self-possessed. He would take the Fitzgibbon name far.

“Well, I'm never going to the hospital,” Danica declared. “Ever.”

Mary Bernadette smiled. She admired her granddaughter's determination.

“Let's not think about that,” Grace said briskly. “Let's focus on making this visit a pleasant one for your grandmother.”

“Danica, tell me about school,” Mary Bernadette asked. “Are you getting good grades?”

“Yes, but I'd rather tell you about soccer, Grandma, if that's okay.”

“Of course.” Mary Bernadette had no interest in sports of any sort, but if they were important to her granddaughter, she would do her best to pay attention.

“Once she starts,” David warned, “she never stops.”

Grace laughed and Danica managed a smile before launching into a story about a game and one of her teammates and a gross injury and an awesome goal. Mary Bernadette listened and nodded and smiled in what she hoped were appropriate moments.

At least, she thought, the children weren't treating her like some sick old lady. She could take a good deal of comfort in that.

M
egan was at home in her office, urgent paperwork relating to the CPEE to her right, several e-mails from her colleagues at the law firm waiting to be answered, and a form from the hospital where David would be having his surgery to be filled out and mailed. But first, there was OWHA business to which she had to attend. She still felt a bit anxious about the task she had taken on, but to the other members of the board she would have to be worthy of Mary Bernadette—in other words, she would have to show only strength and determination.

Let the games begin,
she thought, as she placed a call to Leonard DeWitt.

“I was half-expecting to hear from you,” he admitted, when she had identified herself. “What are you really up to, Megan, joining the board of the OWHA? It's not only to keep Mary Bernadette's voice being heard, is it?”

“In a way, Leonard, it is,” she told him. “See, I want to get rid of Wynston Meadows as much as you do. I'm not entirely sure how I'm going to go about doing that, but it seemed to me the first step was to get on the board. The next is to know on whom I might count for help. And that's why I'm calling you.”

Leonard laughed. “Are you sure you and Mary Bernadette aren't related by blood?”

“Quite sure.”

“All right then, you can forget about Joyce,” he said. “She'll slavishly follow Meadows's every command, no matter its unsavory nature. I think she's half in love with the man. And Wallace is too concerned with gaining Meadows's favor to entertain a sensible opinion about him.”

“Then what about Norma? Can she be made to see that Meadows is poisonous for Oliver's Well?”

“Possibly,” Leonard told her. “She's not an unintelligent woman, but she isn't known for her firm views and strong opinions. Frankly, I've no idea what she thinks about Meadows and his high-handed ways.”

“Which leaves you and me and Richard and Neal and Anne and Jeannette. A majority of the board. We're all staunchly pro–Mary Bernadette and just as staunchly pro–Oliver's Well. Can't we just put it to a vote and push Meadows out the door?”

Leonard cleared his throat. “It's not as easy as all that. If it were, Meadows would have been long gone. See, we need a unanimous vote, not just a majority, to dismiss anyone from the board. Well, unanimous expect for the person being voted off.”

“What? That's ridiculously restricting! Who came up with that idea?”
And please don't say Mary Bernadette
. . . .

“I don't know,” Leonard admitted, “but it's been in the bylaws of the OWHA forever.”

“Well, this puts a new spin on things. No wonder you're all feeling so stymied.”

“Not all of us. Joyce and Wallace seem content to put up with any sort of bad behavior for the sake of the money. Which so far has been just a phantom.”

“Maybe,” Megan said, “we can concentrate on the character angle. Convince the others that Meadows's history suggests he can't be trusted.” She told Leonard about the shady development deal and the charges of domestic violence.

“But nothing ever came to court, you say?”

“No.”

“Then it remains speculation. Suspicion isn't proof.”

“But sometimes it can be enough reason for walking away from a deal that seems too good to be true.”

“That is a point, but when there's so much money at stake . . . Honestly, Megan, I don't like the man one bit, but if there is a possibility of his coming through with the millions, the last thing I want to do is alienate him. And I'm not alone in that. I think even Mary Bernadette feels the same way.”

“I understand. Well, thanks, Leonard, for your honesty.”

“What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” she admitted. “But you'll be the first to know.”

Megan remained at her desk when the call was over. It occurred to her again that she might have taken on a losing cause, especially given that insane rule about the need for a unanimous vote to get someone kicked off the board. But there was no way she could walk away from the OWHA now, not without embarrassing herself and bringing further shame on the Fitzgibbon name. There had to be a way to eliminate Wynston Meadows without eliminating the money.

It all came down to the money. But why did the money have to be Wynston Meadows's money? “Of course!” Megan said to her office. It was so simple! If everyone was so afraid of losing Wynston Meadows's promised millions, then she would simply have to find the money elsewhere. And then she would have to convince the board members that the new financial backers were a better bet for the OWHA than the illustrious Mr. Meadows.

Now,
Megan thought, her excitement suddenly dampened,
where do I find someone with twenty-five million dollars they're willing to give to little Oliver's Well?

“N
one of my family will tell me what's going on with the OWHA,” Mary Bernadette complained. “Jeannette, tell me what you know. What is Wynston Meadows saying about me now?”

Jeannette, who was sitting in the chair beside her friend's bed, sighed. “Honestly, Mary, I don't know anything. And I think everyone would agree that it would be in very bad taste for him to malign a sick woman.”

“Everyone but Mr. Meadows would agree,” Mary Bernadette retorted. She had dismissed her son and daughter-in-law's warnings about him as ridiculous and insulting. And now . . . Now she was paying for her pride.

“Please, Mary,” Jeannette said, “don't drive yourself mad with thinking about the man. Please just concentrate on getting better. We miss you back home, Mary.”

Did
anyone really miss her? Anyone other than Paddy, of course, and if he did miss her, Mary Bernadette wondered now if it was only because she was a habit for him, someone whose presence punctuated his days and gave them form. It was a terrible thought, but that didn't mean it wasn't the truth.

“I've had a bad shock, Jeannette.” The second the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could draw them back in.

Jeannette nodded gravely. “Indeed you have, Mary.”

“I never thought that something like this would happen.” There, again, were words she had never meant to speak.

Jeannette smiled. “What, that you would grow old like everyone else?”

“Don't mock,” Mary Bernadette scolded. “I'm serious. It was foolish of me, terribly foolish to expect I would escape—weakness. Foolish and sinful.”

Jeannette reached over and patted her friend's arm. “Now, don't be too hard on yourself, Mary. We all entertain fantasies of immortality from time to time. Sometimes we do it without even being aware that we're living in a dream.”

Fantasies of immortality
. “I don't know what to do,” she admitted, turning her face from Jeannette.

“There's nothing
to
do Mary, but to rest and get well.”

“Poor Paddy.”

“We're all looking after him, Mary, don't you worry.”

Mary Bernadette turned back to her friend. “Do you think he's been happy?” she asked. The need to speak seemed to be overwhelming. She realized that she desperately wanted to hear the truth, but if anyone knew the truth would they tell it to her?

Jeannette stood abruptly—Mary Bernadette saw her flinch and knew that her back was hurting her—and began to smooth the sheets. “Of course he has! Now, don't go troubling yourself with such silly thoughts.”

Mary Bernadette pushed Jeannette's hands away. “Stop fussing over me. I'm not entirely incapable. Not yet.”

Carefully, Jeannette sat back down. “The doctors say you're doing much better.”

“Then why are they still holding me prisoner?” Mary Bernadette demanded. “When can I get out of this place?”

“Patience, Mary. Patience is a fine virtue.”

Mary Bernadette frowned. “Yes, well, that's all very well for you to say when you're not the one eating substandard food. And I haven't had a decent night's sleep since I've been here, what with sick people coughing and buzzers buzzing and machines whirring and beeping. For so long I was—I was terrified of this place! Do you remember when Paddy had the hip replacement, how you sat with him for hours on end because my nerves wouldn't allow me to? Now I'm just sick of it!”

Jeannette sighed. “This too shall pass, Mary. Be thankful that you survived.”

Mary Bernadette suddenly reached for her friend's hand. “I
am
thankful, Jeannette,” she said fiercely. “More than anyone can ever know.”