One Year (3 page)

“H
ow do I look?” Alexis twirled before her husband so that her red circle skirt flared out like a bell.

PJ smiled and held out his hands. “Lovely as always.”

Alexis went to him and allowed PJ to hold her close. She wished they didn't have to go to Mary Bernadette and Paddy's house, not just yet. As if he were reading her mind, PJ released her with a sigh.

“We'd better get a move on,” he said. “My parents and the twins should be pulling up any minute. Grandmother will be eager to put dinner on the table.”

“I just have to do my makeup,” Alexis told him. “I won't be long.”

“I'm going to check that I've set up everything correctly to record the games.”

“Why is your grandmother so strict about not watching TV when the family is together?” Alexis asked.

PJ smiled over his shoulder as he left the bedroom. “You know what she's like,” he said.

Alexis was certainly finding out what Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon was like, and more so every day. She went into the bathroom, where the light was best, and carefully began to apply her makeup. And while she smoothed on moisturizer and then foundation, she remembered a recent conversation with PJ. They had been at his grandparents' house, of course.

“Look,” she had whispered. “That's the third ornament Banshee's deliberately knocked off the Christmas tree!”

PJ had whispered in return. “And you'll notice she hasn't broken one of them.”

“Why does your grandmother get upset when Mercy accidentally knocks an ornament off the tree with her tail but looks the other way when Banshee does it on purpose?”

“Because Banshee is hers, and Mercy is not.”

“Oh. Has your grandmother always had a cat?”

“No. Not while my father and my aunt were growing up. Not while I was growing up, either. She has this superstition about cats sucking the breath out of small children while they sleep.”

Alexis had laughed. “How medieval! But wasn't she concerned with Banshee being around David and Danica when they were little?”

“I can't explain my grandmother, Ali,” PJ had said with a shrug. “I mean, to other people her ideas might seem odd or inconsistent, but to her they make perfect sense.”

Odd or inconsistent was right, but the last thing Alexis had a desire to do was to question or defy her husband's grandmother, the matriarch of the family. Still, there was the blanket of Angel Hair under that beautiful old crèche in Mary Bernadette's living room....

“Isn't that incongruous?” Alexis had whispered to her husband, not long after the Banshee exchange. “I don't think the ancient Middle East got much snow.”

PJ had grinned. “Grandmother likes to think otherwise.”

“Well, it does look pretty. I suppose it can't hurt to suspend our disbelief.”

“There's the spirit!”

Alexis Trenouth and PJ Fitzgibbon had married the previous March, after her graduation from college at the end of the fall term. Alexis was tall and willowy with large blue eyes and long blond hair. She had grown up in Philadelphia and loved the vibrancy of urban life, but she had fallen so very much in love with PJ that she had agreed to settle down with him in Oliver's Well. So far, living in the cottage on Mary Bernadette and Paddy's property, working as the office manager for Fitzgibbon Landscaping, and being PJ's wife was proving to be very satisfying indeed.

Alexis smiled as she heard PJ cry out, “Yes!” No doubt he was snatching a few minutes of a football game live while he could. PJ—Patrick Joseph—was a few inches over six feet, well built, with a classically handsome face. His eyes were even bluer than his wife's and were framed by long, dark lashes. His hair was almost black and naturally flopped over his left eye. He had a boyish, charismatic charm; a genuinely warm smile; and a sexiness that had nothing to do with pretense. He was, in the words of his beloved grandmother, “a real Irish charmer.”

A moment later Alexis joined him in the living room. “I'm ready,” she said.

PJ clicked off the TV and turned to her. “Thank you for being my wife,” he said.

Alexis smiled. “What brought that on?”

“The fact that I love and adore you.”

“Oh, is that all. . . .”

Hand in hand the pair made their way across the backyard to Mary Bernadette and Paddy's house.

“You're late,” Mary Bernadette pronounced as they came through the back door and into the kitchen. “I was hoping to see you here before now.”

“I'm sorry, Mary Bernadette,” Alexis said automatically.

PJ hugged his grandmother and kissed her cheek. “Everything smells fantastic,” he said. “I can't wait for dinner.”

“Well,” she said, disengaging herself, “you'll have to wait a bit longer. I slowed everything down when your father wasn't here by three as he promised.”

PJ smiled at Alexis over his grandmother's head and then, taking his wife's hand, they went into the living room to greet the others. There was the usual chaos of hellos and how-are-yous, accented by Mercy's excited barking, and all followed by a warm hug for both PJ and Alexis from Megan. Alexis thought her in-laws were pretty wonderful people; they had made her feel welcome in the family right from the start, even before she and PJ had become engaged.

“Look at my cool new bracelet,” Danica demanded, yanking on her sister-in-law's arm. “I made it myself from this kit I got for Christmas.”

“It's awesome,” Alexis said, which seemed exactly what Danica wanted to hear. The girl grinned and loped off toward a bowl of candy.

“Hey.” David looked up at Alexis. “Do you want to hear this cool new song I downloaded?” He handed her his iPhone and earbuds, and Alexis pretended to like the cacophony screaming into her ears.

“That's . . . cool,” she said, handing it all back to David. He, too, seemed to be satisfied, because he went off in the direction his sister had taken, toward the coffee table.

In spite of having known David for several years, Alexis still occasionally had to resist an impulse to “help” him. It was remarkable how well he managed for himself. She was impressed by his abilities as much as by his personality, but she had decided that it would probably sound condescending if she told him as much. No one else in the family made a big deal—or any deal at all—of David's having CP, so Alexis had learned to treat it matter-of-factly as well.

Mary Bernadette emerged from the kitchen and asked PJ to sharpen the carving knife. “And be sure to put the sharpening steel back in the drawer when you're done,” she instructed, ushering him into the kitchen.

Paddy handed Megan and Alexis a glass of wine and gave his son a beer. “You both look lovely,” Paddy said.

“What about me, Dad?”

Paddy pretended to grimace. “Now, Pat. Lovely isn't the word.”

“David,” Megan called to her son. “How many chocolates have you had?”

David chewed vigorously, swallowed, and assumed a look of complete innocence. “Two?” he called back.

Megan raised an eyebrow. “Just be sure you save room for dinner, please.” And then she turned to Alexis. “What a ridiculous thing to say to a twelve-year-old. They always have room for more food.”

Alexis laughed.

“It's time for dinner,” Danica called from the door of the dining room. “Grandma says to come quickly so it won't get cold.”

The Fitzgibbon family took their usual places at the table—Mary Bernadette at one end and her husband at the other—and Paddy led them in a traditional grace: “Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

“So, what's your New Year's resolution, Grandpa?” PJ asked, taking a roll and passing the basket to his wife.

“I'm afraid I haven't decided on one yet,” Paddy admitted.

“You need to make a resolution to make a resolution,” David suggested. “Pass the gravy, please.”

“I think that one should make a resolution every single day of the year, not just on the first of January. And keep it, of course,” Mary Bernadette said.

“What sort of resolution, Grandma?” Danica asked, dropping a large pat of butter onto her mashed potatoes.

“To be productive,” Mary Bernadette told her. “To avoid physical as well as spiritual laziness. Sloth is a sin.”

Pat grinned. “I thought a sloth was a four-legged tree-dwelling animal from South America.”

His mother gave him a look that Alexis thought could wither a freshly bloomed rose on its stalk. “Sin is nothing to joke about, Pat,” Mary Bernadette said.

Pat looked like he was about to utter a retort, when David unwittingly—or not, Alexis wondered—intervened. “My New Year's resolution is to eat an entire gallon of ice cream at one time.”

“Just don't come to me when you've got a stomachache afterward,” Megan told her son.

When the pie, cookies, and coffee had been brought to the table with some fanfare, Mary Bernadette took her seat again. “I think,” she said, “that it's time for a toast to the year ahead.”

Everyone raised his or her glass.

“To the Fitzgibbons,” Mary Bernadette said, with her famously dazzling smile. “May the new year bring us peace and prosperity.”

“To the Fitzgibbons!”

Alexis saw Pat lean into his wife and whisper something.

“Do you have something you want to share with us all, Pat?” Mary Bernadette asked, eyebrows raised and glass still in the air.

Alexis bit her lip. Next to her PJ could barely hide a grin. Megan, too, looked ready to laugh.

“No, Mom,” Pat replied. “Nothing at all.”

J
eannette and Danny Kline were at the Fitzgibbon house for their weekly dinner of pot roast, glazed carrots, and roasted potatoes, followed by a game of Monopoly. Banshee watched the proceedings from atop the fridge. Every so often Mercy would trot into the kitchen and with a swish of her tail knock any unattended game tokens or silverware off the table. Then Paddy would bring her into the living room with strict instructions for her to stay there. And before long she was back in the kitchen, tongue lolling. “That dog,” Mary Bernadette would say. To which Paddy would murmur, “Now, Mary.” The Fitzgibbons and the Klines had met at the Church of the Immaculate Conception more than fifty years before, when Father Murphy was in charge of the parish. The Klines had three daughters. The two older girls, Margaret and Kathleen, had long since moved out of state and married. Between them they had five children whom, unfortunately, Jeannette and Danny rarely got to see. Mary Bernadette might have felt pity for her friends if it were not for the fact that the Kline's youngest daughter, Maureen, still lived in Oliver's Well—she was a senior agent at Wharton Insurance on Main Street—and spent a good deal of time with her parents.

“It was a wonderful meal, Mary,” Jeannette said, folding her napkin next to her empty plate. “Your pot roast is always a treat.”

Jeanette was a pretty woman, with eyes that were remarkably green. She was almost as tall as Mary Bernadette, but a case of scoliosis that hadn't been diagnosed until she was fifty had left her slightly hunched and crooked. Though Jeannette never complained, Mary Bernadette knew her friend well enough to know that she was in constant pain. You could see the evidence in the lines of tension in her face, particularly when she had been sitting or standing for any length of time. Although in some ways the women were quite different, in this way they were alike. Each suffered quietly and with dignity.

“Excellent whiskey, Paddy,” Danny said, after a first appreciative sip. “It almost makes a man feel young again.” Years of physical labor in the contracting business in all sorts of weather conditions had finally caught up with Danny. He had lost weight over the past year, and his walk was missing some of its usual bounce. Mary Bernadette didn't like to notice signs of aging in her friends; they reminded her of her own process of decline, a process she was determined to ignore.

“I see, Mary, that there's a new Lenox curio box on the coffee table,” Jeannette said, as she helped bring the dinner plates to the sink for rinsing.

“Yes, I found it at the thrift shop when I was dropping off a few of Paddy's old shirts. It's a fine piece, isn't it? I can't imagine why anyone would have let it go.”

In spite of her frugality, Mary Bernadette was not a believer in the “less is more” aesthetic, and the thought of downsizing appalled her. She owned a complete set of Waterford crystal glasses in a pattern long since discontinued. There wasn't so much as a chip in one of them. Her Belleek tea set had pride of place on the credenza in the dining room. She had amassed no fewer than thirty-three Byers' collectibles figurines, which she kept entirely dust free, no easy task what with the intricate folds of cloth and the finely spun hair. Antique embroidered samplers, some stitched by her mother and her mother before her. Lacy doilies and fine linen table runners. Capodimonte porcelain flowers. There seemed no end to Mary Bernadette's “items of interest.”

She was most proud, however, of the large collection of family photographs taken over the long years of her marriage. The entire Fitzgibbon family was represented, with the notable exception of William Patrick Fitzgibbon. Mary Bernadette and Paddy's first child had died at the tender age of eighteen months. Photographs of the little boy did exist, but Mary Bernadette kept them in a locked box to which she had the only key. Paddy had never protested this. He had never dared to interfere with his wife's mourning.

It would be difficult for a visitor to miss the fact that every photograph had been taken on an official occasion—at a wedding, a christening, on Christmas or Thanksgiving—so that every family member was in his or her Sunday best. This, too, was Mary Bernadette's doing. She was not the sort of woman to commemorate or celebrate sloppiness. She never left the house without applying powder and lipstick. She saw the habit of people wearing shorts or flip-flops to church as a sign of a larger breakdown of society. What had become of the virtues of modesty and propriety? If it wouldn't be calling too much attention to herself—and it would be—she would still wear white gloves and a veil to church, as she had been taught to do by her mother.

“Shall we begin?” Mary Bernadette said, taking her seat again at the table.

Paddy had set up the board, stacked the Chance and the Community Chest cards, and distributed the game tokens. Mary Bernadette was always the thimble. Jeannette was always the top hat. Danny was the old boot, and Paddy the Scottie. This evening, it was Danny's turn to be the bank. With a roll of the pair of dice, the game began.

“I ran into Leonard at the grocery store today,” Jeannette said as she waited her turn. “He said he was passing the Kennington House early this morning and thought he saw a tramp asleep on the front steps.”

“Nonsense,” Mary Bernadette said, taking a small sip of her sherry. “We don't have tramps in Oliver's Well.”

Jeannette laughed. “You're right, we don't. Leonard got out of his car to investigate and found that what he thought was a pile of clothing with a human being inside it was just a big, black garbage bag escaped from someone's lawn, no doubt in that windstorm we had the other night.”

“Once an officer of the law, always an officer of the law. I've always said that attention to detail and an eye for trouble is what makes Leonard a fine CEO.”

Leonard DeWitt was the Chief Operating Officer of the Oliver's Well Historical Association, of which both Mary Bernadette and Jeannette were long-standing members. Over the years Mary Bernadette had advanced to the position of chairman, an honorary post with the exception of the job of official spokesperson. And no one on the board would debate the fact that she was also the heart and soul of the organization. The latest successful project the OWHA had undertaken, under Mary Bernadette's guidance, was the salvation of the Joseph J. Stoker House. The house, barn, and what few outhouses remained intact had been privately held for generations until the OWHA had been able to buy the property three years earlier. The structures were in a sorry state and had required complete renovation including urgent structural repair. The most important parts of the work were done, though there were still a few interior finishes Mary Bernadette hoped to make in the years to come. Now the OWHA was ready to award the job for restoration of the twelve acres on which the structures stood, including a kitchen garden, flower garden, and small apple orchard. Five landscaping design firms, including Fitzgibbon Landscaping, had submitted bids and were scheduled to give presentations in the following weeks.

“Come to think of it,” Jeannette said, “I haven't gotten an e-mail from Neal about the next meeting. He's never late sending it out.”

Mary Bernadette frowned. “Machines. There's probably something wrong with his computer. In the old days we sent a notice through the mail.”

“Which cost more of the board's money and took more of the secretary's time.”

“Still,” Mary Bernadette said. “Things got done.”

“Speaking of things getting done, I do wish we had the money to buy the Branley Estate. I drove past earlier today and the main house has lost another window frame. The place will decay entirely if we don't get busy saving it.”

“We'll find the money in time,” Mary Bernadette said. “God willing.”

Indeed, the Branley Estate represented the last major pie-in-the-sky piece of business for the OWHA to take on. The property had once belonged to a powerful robber baron of the late nineteenth century, a man named Septimus Hastings, who, unlike the majority of his class, had lived in relative simplicity in the original house that had been built in 1743 by one George Branley. Instead, he had used his vast wealth to purchase other buildings of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, move them fully intact from their original sites to his land, and fill them with furnishings and art from the period. In short, he had built a museum complex of no less than three houses, several barns (stocked with old farm implements and machines), a blacksmith's workshop, and a mill, complete with a water source and working waterwheel. After his death, several successive generations of the Hastings family proved to be without the financial acumen of their forebear and the estate had gradually fallen into ruin. Sometime in the 1940s it was sold to another family, whose finances had not fared much better than that of the Hastings. Sadly, at this point in time, the estate was almost entirely dilapidated. Much of the art had been sold off; some had been stolen. A fire in the 1950s had virtually destroyed one of the homes and most of the barns. Still, the Branley Estate represented a true prize of historical Oliver's Well just waiting to be brought back to life—whenever the OWHA could find the money to buy it.

“Have you seen today's
Lawrenceville Daily
?” Paddy asked, finishing his turn around the game board. “They interviewed Mary last week about her long tenure at the OWHA.”

Jeannette nodded. “It was a wonderful article, very thoughtful and well written,” she said. “And the photo is very flattering.”

Mary Bernadette waved her hand in dismissal. “If I had known they would be sending a photographer, I would have worn my blue dress. But the possibility never even crossed my mind.”

“It was what you said that was most impressive,” Danny noted. “I'd babble away if a reporter ever wanted my opinion on anything other than, oh, I don't know, my favorite television show.”

“I've always said that my Mary should have gone on the stage,” Paddy said. “She's that good.”

“Nonsense. I have no interest in acting and never have. I simply answer the questions the reporter puts to me as clearly as I am able. If I produce a quotable quote, then so be it.”

“She's too modest,” Paddy teased. “We all know her dazzling smile can light up a room.”

This time, Mary Bernadette didn't protest the compliment.

The doorbell rang then, and Paddy went to answer it. When he retuned, Maureen Kline was with him.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” Maureen said. “I just came by to drop off those brochures you asked for. They should explain the changes to your homeowner's policy Paddy said you're considering.”

“Thank you,” Mary Bernadette said. “You'll stay for a cup of tea.”

“No, I'm afraid I can't.” Maureen handed Mary Bernadette a manila envelope. “I'm meeting a friend to see a movie.”

“I haven't been to a movie in years,” Mary Bernadette said. “Too much sex and violence.”

Maureen grinned and was gone as quickly as she had come.

“I do wish she would meet a nice man and marry again.” Jeannette sighed. “But I don't think that's what Maureen wants.”

Mary Bernadette said only, “Hmm.” There was no need to rehearse aloud the tragedy of Maureen's brief marriage, or Mary Bernadette's disappointment that her son Pat had not married the girl. Mary Bernadette had known Barry Long was a bum from the first moment she met him at Maureen's engagement party. But no one had listened to her warnings, and a few years later Maureen was divorced, without even a child to show for her efforts at civilizing the man. Well, Mary Bernadette thought now, there was no use in crying over spilled milk.

“Shall we continue the game?” she said. “Danny, I believe it's your turn.”

As Danny moved the boot around the board, Mary Bernadette turned to Jeannette. “Did I tell you I finally managed to get Marilyn Windsor to donate her great-great-grandfather's diaries to the OWHA? It took almost three years, but I knew I'd succeed in the end.”

Jeannette laughed. “You'd have made a great enforcer for some crime syndicate, Mary. Give me your embroidered cushions or I'll—”

“Now, that's enough of that. You know it's all in the interest of the OWHA.”

“I do know, and I'm grateful. We all are. What made Marilyn change her mind?”

“I simply employed a good dose of flattery along with a sprinkling of guilt. I reminded her that the diaries are a vital and uniquely essential part of the history of Oliver's Well and that depriving the current and future generations of their study would be a travesty as well as an act of extreme selfishness on the part of the Windsor family.”

Jeannette put her hand to her mouth, and Paddy flinched. Danny shook his head. “What are we going to do with you, Mary?” he said.

Mary Bernadette assumed a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Why, congratulate me, of course. My thimble has landed on a piece of property not owned by anyone at this table, and I intend to purchase it.”