One Year (18 page)

A
lexis was making a savory version of a sweet breakfast dish called a “pannekoeken.” No doubt Mary Bernadette would be appalled by the notion of what was essentially a pancake for dinner. Alexis had heard her say that the idea of cold pizza for breakfast was an abomination. Thankfully, PJ hadn't inherited his grandmother's ridiculously narrow culinary prejudices.

PJ was at the kitchen table reviewing plans for a garden he was helping to design with a guy from the landscaping department at the Home Depot over in Westminster.

“Who's William?” she asked, turning from the stove.

“What?” PJ's head shot up from his work.

“Who's William?”

PJ's expression became suspicious. “How do you know about him?” he asked.

Alexis laughed. “I don't! That's why I'm asking. I was in the Billet Doux today, and the woman behind the counter was chatting with a customer and I heard one of them say ‘Mary Bernadette' and then something else I couldn't make out, and then something like, ‘It was all because of William.' Then they saw me and stopped talking. I figured they had been talking about your grandmother because how many other women named Mary Bernadette do you know? And they clearly didn't want me to hear what they were saying.”

PJ sighed and pushed aside the drawings. “I guess I'll have to tell you,” he said. “Before my father was born my grandmother had a son. His name was William. He died when he was eighteen months old.”

Alexis put her hand over her heart. “Oh, how sad!”

“It was pneumonia.”

“The poor little thing!”

“Poor Grandmother.”

“Of course. And poor Paddy, too.” Alexis went to the table and sat next to her husband. “But why didn't you tell me before now?”

“It wasn't my secret to tell.”

Alexis felt a bit stung. She didn't like being excluded from the knowledge of something that was obviously an important event in the family's history. “I don't understand,” she said finally. “William isn't really a secret if those women in town know about him.”

“They shouldn't have been talking about something that happened over fifty years ago.”

Alexis didn't agree. She thought that the death of a child was significant enough to be talked about for one hundred years, but what she said was, “Who else knows?”

PJ shrugged. “Anyone who lived in Oliver's Well when William died, I guess. The Klines, for one. And my dad and my aunt found out from my grandfather at some point. Don't ask me how, because I don't know.”

“So, is Mary Bernadette aware that Pat and Grace know about William?”

“I have no idea. Grandmother never talks about William, Alexis. Not even to my grandfather, at least according to my father. You have to promise never, ever to mention the baby to her. Or to anyone else, for that matter.”

Alexis thought about this bit of information. It was as if Mary Bernadette was pretending to the world that the death—and the life?—had never happened. It didn't seem a very healthy thing to do. It seemed rather a very good way to keep alive and raw a grief that might by now have been alleviated.
If
that was what Mary Bernadette was doing, and of course Alexis couldn't be sure.

“Ali?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking. Of course I won't say anything. It must be so painful for her though, suffering alone all these years.”

“My grandmother wants it that way. She knows what's best for her.”

“So, how did
you
find out then?”

PJ frowned. “My father told me when I was in high school. I don't know why, really. I can't believe my grandmother would want me to know.”

“So she's never mentioned William to
you,
either?”

“No. I told you, she doesn't talk about him to anyone.”

“But why all the—mystery?”

“It's the way Grandmother wanted it. The way she still wants it.”

“PJ?” Alexis put her hand over her husband's. “Why didn't you tell me? I mean, I'm your wife. Don't you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you, Ali. But like I said before, it's not my secret to tell.”

“But you told me now.”

“Only so that you wouldn't go around asking other people about William. If word got back to Grandmother that someone in her own family was talking about . . . well, she'd be devastated.”

Alexis took her hand away from PJ's. “Do you really think I'm the sort of person to do something so—so callous?”

“No. Of course not. Sorry, this has taken me by surprise.”

“Do your brother and sister know?”

PJ sighed. “Probably. Dad can't seem to keep his mouth shut about it.”

“Maybe he wants his children to know so that they can—” Alexis cut herself off. She had been about to say “so that they can understand why she is the way she is.”

PJ abruptly got up from the table. “Ali, can we drop this please? I don't feel right discussing Grandmother like this.”

“Yes,” she said. “All right.”

“Thanks. I'll be right back. I want to check something in the garage.”

When he had gone, Alexis went back to preparing dinner, but her mind was not on her task. Instead, she was now haunted by the idea of the poor dead child his own mother would not acknowledge to the world.

M
ary Bernadette glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes to three in the afternoon. Neal had called her earlier, asking if he could stop by that afternoon. He had sounded upset but wouldn't give her a hint as to what was on his mind. Mary Bernadette, however, had a very good idea as to the nature of what was bothering her friend and fellow board member.

He arrived promptly at three (Mary Bernadette had always admired his strict punctuality). He wore a pained expression. She invited him in and offered him tea, but he declined any refreshments.

“I'm sorry, Mary Bernadette,” Neal said, when they were seated in the living room. “I have something rather upsetting to tell you. I debated telling you at all, but Gregory convinced me that it was better you knew.”

Mary Bernadette folded her hands in her lap. “Go ahead, Neal.”

Neal sighed. “All right. Wynston Meadows came to the gallery yesterday, just as I was closing up. I assumed he was there to browse, so I let him in. Imagine my surprise when he informed me that his real reason for stopping by was to talk to me about the OWHA—and the next thing I knew he was complaining about the fact that you hadn't gone to college!”

Just as I suspected,
Mary Bernadette said to her self.
Wynston Meadows
. “I fail to see his point,” she said calmly, though her heart had begun to beat heavily.

“So did I! I
still
do. Anyway, he . . . God, this is awful, Mary Bernadette. But he said he thought your lack of a formal education rendered you unable to fully grasp the nuances of the business aspects of the OWHA.”

Mary Bernadette sat very still. It was a rare thing for her to be at a loss for words, but at a loss she was.

“I defended you, Mary Bernadette,” Neal told her. “I told him that what he was saying was poppycock. I enumerated your many victories on behalf of the OWHA. I told him that we had never had a better guiding spirit. I told him that you were an excellent public spokesperson, and we had the clippings file to prove it. But he seemed entirely—well, entirely unconcerned. As if he'd already convinced himself of a truth and that was that. No evidence to the contrary was going to sway him. When I had finished speaking he just—he just
grinned
and left. I have to say it was a very disconcerting experience.”

“Yes,” Mary Bernadette said now, rousing herself with some effort. “It must have been disquieting.”

Neal leaned forward. “I'm going to quit the board, Mary Bernadette,” he said. “In protest against his behavior toward you and also for my own sanity. I know he was responsible for the way that article in the Oliver's Well
Gazette
was written. It's hard not to think he paid someone on the editorial staff to give it such a nasty, insinuating slant. And I know he means to award the Stoker job to his friend. No, I don't like being in the same room with that man. And I'm not at all sure that
you
should stay where you are, for the sake of your own peace of mind.”

Mary Bernadette swallowed against a lump that had come to her throat. She was touched that a fellow board member was willing to make a sacrifice for her sake. It was gratifying to know that she was appreciated. But at the same time, she felt badly about the fact that she was—however unintentionally—the cause of Neal's distress.

“I am going nowhere,” she said finally, “and neither, I think, should you, Neal—certainly not on my behalf. The OWHA needs a man of your intelligence and integrity. I can't force you not to resign, but I can ask you quite seriously to reconsider.”

Neal sighed and leaned back in his chair. “All right. If you're brave enough to stay, then I'll stay as well. I just wish that man would go back to where he came from. Though I can't imagine anyone wanting him
there,
either. Well, I've taken up enough of your time, Mary Bernadette.”

Neal took his leave then, with a warm handshake and an encouraging smile. When he had gone, Mary Bernadette sat on the couch and allowed herself to lean against its back. She felt humiliated by this completely unnecessary delving into her personal past. She had never lied about not having gone to college, and of course she wasn't the least bit ashamed about it. Still, her lack of a degree was not something she had ever chosen to mention.

And why should she have? She felt certain that she was better read than most people in Oliver's Well. She believed that her opinions were generally well informed, and if at the same time as she viewed the world in a rational manner she also maintained a certain belief in the more mystical or fantastical aspects of her Catholicism, she did not find the two incompatible. Greater minds than hers had found truth in this paradox.

Besides, she wasn't the only other member of the board not to have graduated college. Jeannette had never attended; Richard Armstrong had quit halfway through (“too lazy,” he had told Mary Bernadette with a shrug); and as for Norma, Mary was vague on all aspects of her past. For all anyone knew she could be a high school dropout.

But for a reason Mary Bernadette simply could not fathom, Wynston Meadows cared only about
her,
Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon of Honeysuckle Lane. Only
her
qualifications, or lack thereof, seemed to matter to him. What
was
his game? Why had he gone to Neal with his complaint—if not because he knew that Neal, her friend, would come to her with the tale? Was the man really so eager to hurt and abuse her? But to what
end
? It was all intensely frustrating.

Mary Bernadette got up from the couch and went into the kitchen. She was not looking forward to telling Paddy about this further humiliation—Paddy hadn't gone to college, either, and it certainly hadn't held him back!—but she was not in the habit of keeping secrets from her husband.

In an attempt to tear her mind from thoughts of the inscrutable Wynston Meadows, Mary Bernadette sorted through the day's mail. There was a bill from the electric company; that would be paid immediately. There was an announcement of a public meeting to discuss the possibility of expanding the high school's gymnasium. Mary Bernadette didn't know enough about the proposed expansion or about the existing state of the gymnasium to have an opinion on the project. She made a mental note to attend the meeting. And there was an envelope from the committee behind Oliver's Well Annual Private Summer Garden Contest. Mary Bernadette opened the envelope, knowing that inside she would find an entry form. She had participated in the contest for the past twenty years and had won first prize four times and had twice come in third. Now she stared down at the entry form and remembered Eve Hennessy's nasty suspicion that she had used her connection with her husband's landscaping business to cheat.

A wave of fear swept through Mary Bernadette. Bolstered by the smear campaign Wynston Meadows seemed to be mounting against the Fitzgibbon family, would Eve Hennessy find fresh reason to point a finger of accusation? Would she confront Mary Bernadette personally, or complain to the committee behind the contest that there was a cheater in their midst?
Am I to be the victim of yet another act of public and entirely undeserved humiliation?
Mary Bernadette asked herself.

Nonsense
. Mary Bernadette straightened her shoulders and forcibly dismissed those worries from her mind. And then she tore the entry form in half. The contest really was an awful lot of trouble—never mind the twenty-five dollar entry fee—and for what? A piece of paper in a cheap wooden frame. She would skip the contest this year. She would not miss it at all.

I
n the hearing of everyone seated at the bar at The Angry Squire, Wynston Meadows had told the bartender—“in all confidence”—that he had been shocked to learn that Mary Bernadette, the self-proclaimed face of the OWHA, had not gone to college. “As I was saying just the other day to Neal Hyatt,” he had gone on, “I just don't see how a woman with virtually no formal education can properly understand the workings of a complicated organization like the OWHA. No wonder the board has a history of making bad decisions.”

Within a matter of hours, word of the event had reached PJ Fitzgibbon, who had immediately gone to his grandmother. She told him that Neal had come to her after his encounter with Wynston Meadows; she told him that Neal had wanted to quit the board in support of his friend but that she had not allowed him to make the sacrifice. When Megan had called her son that morning, PJ had related all to her in turn.

And Megan had related all to her husband.

“Life in a small town.” Pat snorted. “Sickening. Don't people have anything better to do than pass along the nonsense they hear over a beer?”

“Not only small towns,” Megan said. “Any sort of community is prone to dissension. Infighting. Backstabbing. It's human nature, I'm afraid.”

“Now you sound like my mother. Doom and gloom.”

“Be that as it may,” Megan said, “it really was a low blow. College wasn't an option for your mother at the time. Or for your father, for that matter. And if she chose not to get a degree later on, that's her business. Besides, there are plenty of morons walking around with college degrees.”

“You don't need to defend my mother's intelligence to me, Meg. But you're right. Meadows's argument is ridiculous. Do you know how many billionaires never finished college? Too many to count.”

“Do you think that Meadows is persecuting the Fitzgibbons just for the heck of it? Could he find it a sport of sorts? Do you think he's mentally unbalanced?”

“I think he's a jerk. And who knows his real motivations. Maybe he does get a perverse kick out of harassing old ladies. But my money's still on some dubious business deal he's got cooking. Did I tell you what I found out the other day?”

“I don't think so. About Meadows?”

“Yeah. A buddy of mine was telling me that a few years back Meadows was involved in a nasty stink relating to a public taking of land later sold to a developer. And no coincidence, it was a developer with whom Meadows had a long and lucrative relationship. There were claims of bad faith dealing and corruption, but they never stuck and nothing ever came of it. No official charges were filed and no one made a court appearance, though you can be sure the lawyers for both sides were busy enough.”

“It's appalling, isn't it, how some people have so little sense of accountability.”

“And so little decency. Mark my words, Meadows's motives in stirring up the board of the OWHA are nefarious.”

“Nefarious?” Meg laughed. “You make him sound like a comic book villain.”

“Villains don't always wear masks and leggings. Most times they wear business suits. I just wish I knew what his motives were specifically. What's he after?”

“Power?”

“He's got plenty of that already. But I don't know, power is addictive. Maybe he can't get enough of it.”

“Money?”

“Same argument. Some people just can't stop, even when they have more than their share.”

“Did I tell you there was a claim of domestic abuse against him a few years back? A girlfriend barely out of her teens. Nothing came of that, either.”

Pat frowned. “Why am I not surprised? No, this guy means trouble, you can be sure of it. And I'm not happy about my family being in the thick of it.”