“We got it!” he cried.
Though she was as excited as her grandson, Mary Bernadette smiled serenely. “Yes,” she said. “I know. And fix your hair.”
PJ pushed his hair back from his face. “Oh,” he said. “Of course you know! Anyway, Leonard DeWitt called me at the office about an hour ago.”
“The vote was unanimous.”
“Really?” PJ laughed. “I have to admit that when it came down to just us and that Blue Sound Landscaping Design, I panicked. Talk about bells and whistles! Remember that video walk-through simulation and that whole presentation about some kind of computer project management software they use to make sure it’s all on time and on budget? When Richard asked me how I keep a project on schedule and on budget, all I could say was that I commit to a schedule and a budget and I just make sure it happens ! I was sure we were doomed.”
“Well, I was never in doubt. There’s no need for fuss when you’ve got quality, is what I’ve always said. I’m proud of you, PJ.”
“Thanks, Grandmother. I’m going home. I can’t wait to tell Alexis the good news.”
“But the two of you will come back for dinner,” Mary Bernadette said. “We’ll celebrate.”
“Sure. Around six?”
“Five-thirty would be better, but six if you must. And don’t be late.”
PJ grinned and hurried out through the back door. With pride, Mary Bernadette watched him go. There was no doubt in her mind that the Fitzgibbon family was blessed. The business her husband had worked so hard to establish was flourishing under the leadership of her grandson. Paddy and Mary Bernadette held positions of preeminence in Oliver’s Well. The Oliver’s Well Historical Association was continuing to excel under her own guidance. And of course, her son and his wife were successful in their own way. No matter that Pat had ungratefully turned his back on his father’s legacy.
Mary Bernadette made the sign of the cross and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. Thank you, dear Lord, for the gifts you have bestowed upon us. May the Fitzgibbon family continue to be worthy of your favor. Amen.
CHAPTER 7
Alexis was preparing a marinade for a Chinese beef dish. On the counter before her was a bottle of soy sauce, a small bowl of chopped garlic, a bottle of hoisin sauce, a jar of black bean paste, a bottle of sherry, a shaker of sugar, and a tin of five-spice powder. If Mary Bernadette walked in right now and saw what I was making, Alexis thought, she would keel right over. A “foodie” she was not.
Alexis and PJ had been living in the cottage behind Mary Bernadette’s house for almost a year. It was a single-story structure with a crawl space in lieu of a proper attic, a kitchen that flowed into a living room, a small full bathroom, and a bedroom. There was a flower garden out front, and behind the cottage stretched two acres of land, at the edge of which stood three massive American beech trees. Alexis would have been glad to help with the maintenance of the property, but she wasn’t much of a gardener. Well, she wasn’t a gardener at all ; she had even managed to kill innocent houseplants left in her care. For obvious reasons, she kept this bit of information from the clients of Fitzgibbon Landscaping.
There wasn’t much she could productively do on the inside of the cottage, either, other than to keep it clean and bring her own small touches to a décor that Mary Bernadette had chosen long ago. But it wasn’t as if they would be living in the cottage forever. Someday in the not too distant future she and PJ would buy a home of their own and then they could decorate as they pleased.
Alexis put the piece of flank steak into the marinade and the dish into the fridge. She got the rice cooker out from its cupboard. The kitchen was small but well stocked with appliances Alexis had received at her wedding shower and the flatware, dishes, and glassware Mary Bernadette had so generously provided. On the whole Alexis felt lucky to be living there. Really, the only thing that bothered her was the relative lack of privacy. She frequently came home from work to find things rearranged. It could only be Mary Bernadette, of course, and the image of her husband’s imposing grandmother sneaking into the cottage to shuffle trinkets from one shelf to the next amused her. What could possibly be the point in such tiny, meaningless manipulations?
Only recently had Alexis begun to feel a hint of annoyance when she came home to find a vase moved from one end of a table to the other or the tablespoons stacked in the slot that had formerly held the teaspoons. Still, she had only become seriously upset when one afternoon the week before she walked in to the bedroom to find PJ’s Christmas gift to her gone from the wall over her dresser. It had taken her almost ten minutes of frantic searching to find it tucked away in the bottom drawer of the small desk that sat in a corner of the living room.
The object that Mary Bernadette had found offensive was a black-and-white photo of a nude woman, the work of a critically acclaimed contemporary photographer named Adrienne Jonas. Alexis loved the photograph. She knew that the piece must have cost PJ an awful lot of money. It was a thoughtful gift, and it meant so much to her. The fact that Mary Bernadette had ventured into the bedroom of a husband and wife—a sacrosanct place, if you considered marriage holy, which as a Catholic Mary Bernadette was supposed to do!—and had in effect hidden a personal item of great sentimental value was just too much.
Still, after some reflection Alexis had decided not to mention the incident to PJ. If found out, Mary Bernadette might be embarrassed—though how she could think she wouldn’t be found out was beyond Alexis’s comprehension—and Alexis had no desire to cause trouble for any member of her new family. If she found the picture gone a second time, then she would tell PJ. Maybe.
Alexis looked at her watch. PJ would be home soon. She so looked forward to seeing him at the end of the workday, even though most days he was able to dash into the office for a quick hello. I am lucky in more ways than one, Alexis thought, smiling to herself. I just hope I continue to deserve the happiness.
CHAPTER 8
“Congratulate your husband!” PJ was standing in the doorway of the cottage, a grin on his face.
“Congratulations!” Alexis said. “Um, what for?”
“We got the contract. The one for the Joseph J. Stoker House!”
“Oh, PJ, that’s fantastic!” Alexis threw her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him.
“I still can’t believe we beat out Blue Sound Landscaping Design. It’s like a miracle.”
“Or maybe you’re just supertalented,” Alexis said. “Did you ever think of that?”
“If anyone is the talent, it’s Grandpa. I’m just following in his footsteps.”
He’s too modest, Alexis thought. Then again, it was one of the things she loved about her husband, that and his devotion to the family’s continuing legacy. She knew it hadn’t been easy for PJ when he had decided to move to Oliver’s Well to accept his grandfather’s offer of an official role in the family business. For one, his father hadn’t been pleased. Pat had told his son that he would be wasting his education, to which PJ, by his own account, had replied that no education was ever wasted, and that he had majored in American History. To PJ, the decision to build a life in a town founded in the seventeenth century made perfect sense. Who better to appreciate old architectural styles and indigenous landscaping? Who better to take over the family business than the grandson of Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon, scion of the well-regarded Oliver’s Well Historical Association?
“Why didn’t your father join the family business?” Alexis asked now. “You never told me.”
PJ shrugged. “It’s no big secret. He just wasn’t interested. I don’t think he ever liked living in Oliver’s Well. I’ve heard him say that before he was out of middle school he was dreaming of moving away.”
“Interesting,” Alexis said. “Growing up in Philadelphia I never dreamed about moving away from home. I thought that I’d stay in Philly forever.”
“And now, here you are in little Oliver’s Well.”
“Yes. Here I am.” For better or worse, Alexis
added to herself. And that was yet to be seen, although so far, life in Oliver’s Well was turning out to be pretty good, and that was all because of her wonderful husband.
“Oh,” PJ said, “Grandmother wants us for dinner. I told her we’d be there no later than six.”
Alexis frowned. “But I’ve already started prepping that Chinese beef dish you like. The meat is marinating in the fridge.”
“I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow. After all, this is a celebration ! You know, I couldn’t have done it—gotten the job—without your support.”
Alexis smiled. “Thank you. And you’re right, it is a celebration. I’m so proud of you, PJ.”
“Remember, it’s really Grandpa we should be proud of. He’s the one who built the business into what it is now. He’s the one who made its good reputation. And I’m the one under the pressure not to let him down!”
“You can do it, PJ. I believe in you.”
PJ put his arms around his wife’s waist and pulled her close. “You know, we don’t have to be at Grandmother’s until six. . . .”
CHAPTER 9
Pat and Megan Fitzgibbon lived at 23 Garrison Terrace, Annapolis, in a modest two-story house built in the 1980s. There was a two-car garage and a backyard big enough for kicking around a soccer ball. There was also a paved area large enough for a picnic table and a charcoal grill and, when Pat was feeling particularly lazy on a hot summer Saturday, a chaise on which he liked to stretch out and read. Until he fell asleep, which usually happened about ten pages into the book.
They had bought the house shortly after PJ was born. When the twins came along twelve years later, the house had proved a bit snug for the five of them, but they had made do. Then PJ had gone off to college and the remaining Fitzgibbons had settled in more comfortably. They could afford a bigger house, one with a backyard large enough for a pool or a fanciful gazebo, but neither Pat nor Megan, who were both very busy people, really wanted the responsibilities that went with more real estate.
Megan was sitting in the living room in her favorite chair, a cup of her favorite tea by her side, and a novel by one of her favorite authors on her lap. All the elements were in place for a pleasant hour of reading, but her thoughts kept turning to her family. She had gotten a call from PJ earlier to say that Fitzgibbon Landscaping had been awarded the job of restoring the grounds of the Joseph J. Stoker House, one of the properties owned by the OWHA. Megan was proud of her son for having followed his heart. Pat, however, had been disappointed with PJ’s decision to settle in Oliver’s Well. If his oldest child didn’t want to go to law school, at least, Pat thought, he could move to a big city where there were opportunities for good jobs with good futures. But PJ had very different ambitions. He had been working for Fitzgibbon Landscaping since the summer after freshman year of high school and already knew more about the business than his father had ever known or wanted to know. He had plans, he had told his parents, for future expansion and diversification. And of course, Paddy and Mary Bernadette were there to supervise and give counsel. One only had to hope that Mary Bernadette wouldn’t smother her grandson in the process.
Megan took a sip of her tea. She knew all too well that in some ways PJ was closer to his grandparents than to his parents. She felt sad about that and still occasionally wondered what she and Pat might have done differently after the birth of the twins to keep their oldest child closer. But PJ didn’t seem to feel any resentment toward his parents, and if he did, he wasn’t showing it. At least, he wasn’t showing it as far as she was concerned.
The truth of the matter was that PJ and his father always seemed to be annoyed with each other. In some respects they were very different people, and that alone might go far to explain why they simply didn’t get along. Still, Megan suspected that the disconnect between her husband and his older son had something to do with Pat’s unhappy childhood—and the obvious fact that Mary Bernadette preferred her grandson over her son.
Well, she thought now, finishing her tea, a past could never be erased, but it could be exorcised. Certainly Grace didn’t seem to be suffering the ill effects of a troubled childhood, but then again she was in tight with God. And Megan was sure that when the formidable Grace Marie Fitzgibbon opened her mouth, God took heed.
“Am I interrupting?” It was her husband, leaning against the doorway.
“Hey,” she said. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You were? I hope you were thinking about the good stuff.”
“Of course,” Megan said with mock seriousness.
He came into the room, leaned down, and kissed her on the lips. “You’re as beautiful as the day I met you.”
Megan smiled. “Thanks. And you’re as handsome. But frankly I’m surprised you remember anything about our first meeting.”
“Here we go again . . .” Pat adopted a wide-eyed look of innocence. “Why, what do you mean, my dearest? How could I not remember the night I met the one and only love of my life?”
“Well, you were kind of drunk.”
“I was not!” Pat protested. “Well, maybe just a little tipsy, but not too tipsy to ignore your shining beauty.”
“You’d been out celebrating some baseball win with Charlie Howard. The guy who used to chew on a straw all the time.”
“He was trying to quit smoking.”
“I remember. And I never asked—did it work? The straw method?”
“No. Poor guy was back to the Camels about a week later. I wonder what ever happened to ol’ Charlie. I haven’t seen him since just after our wedding.”
“You could Google him.”
Pat grimaced. “I’m afraid of what I might find out.”
“Do you remember what you were wearing?” Megan asked with a grin. “The night we met?”
“No,” Pat said, again with the wide eyes of a person who enjoyed being a player in a well-practiced game. “At least, nothing’s coming to mind.”
Megan laughed. “You were wearing a bright red blazer with the sleeves pushed up to the elbow and shoulder pads that made you about seven feet wide.”
“Darn the eighties! Anyway, I’m going to show you my gratitude for your being my wife yet again, so get ready to adore me. I’ve got a special treat for Valentine’s Day.”
“A special treat? Are you going to give me a clue?”
“Nope. But I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
Megan laughed. “I believe you. Oh, Pat, have you called PJ to congratulate him on getting that big job he was after?”
Her husband pulled his iPhone from his pocket. “I’ll send him a text,” he said, wandering out of the living room. Well, Megan thought, a text is better than nothing. With a sigh, she finally opened her book.
CHAPTER 10
Alexis had walked into the heart of town from Honeysuckle Lane, about a fifteen-minute amble along pleasant streets lined with willow oaks and an occasional American beech tree. The weather was fine. Traditionally, February was the driest month in this part of the state, with an afternoon high of forty degrees. But this year, temperatures had climbed into the upper forties on several occasions and there had been enough rain to nourish land that might otherwise have suffered, and that made PJ’s job a little bit easier.
Alexis stopped at the post office to purchase stamps for the office, and then walked on to the bakery. She was craving one of Cookies ’n Crumpets’ famous corn muffins. My secret vice, Alexis thought. Corn muffins. Life in the fast lane!
Well, she deserved a treat, didn’t she? The night before, PJ had announced that they would be celebrating Valentine’s Day with his grandparents. Alexis hadn’t protested, but she had been disappointed. After all, this was their first Valentine’s Day as a married couple, and though in the past Alexis would have laughed at such sentimentality, since meeting, falling in love with, and marrying PJ she put a lot of stock in romantic holidays, like the date they had first kissed. Sure, Valentine’s Day was mostly just an excuse for candy and jewelry companies to go whole ho
g on marketing, but still, Alexis saw no harm in celebrating the holiday alone with her lovely husband.
Alexis pushed open the door to Cookies ’n Crumpets. There was a woman just inside by the display of wrapped sandwich breads, and Alexis knew immediately that she had met her before but the where, the when—and the name!—had entirely escaped her. Before a flush of embarrassment could invade her face, the woman put out her hand and said, “Maureen Kline.”
“Oh,” Alexis said, smiling now. “Of course. I’m sorry. I can be bad with faces. And with names, to be honest.”
“No worries,” Maureen said. “I don’t think we’ve actually seen each other except in passing since your wedding.”
“Right. Do you work in town?”
“Just down the block, at Wharton Insurance.” Maureen laughed. “I’ve spent my entire life in Oliver’s Well.”
“So far, anyway.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Someone’s got to be around for the parents.”
“Oh. But they’re not ill, are they? Jeannette and Danny. I saw them just the other day . . .”
“No, they’re not ill,” Maureen said. “Just getting older, as are we all.”
Alexis thought she detected a note of wistfulness in Maureen’s voice, and she realized she didn’t quite know what to say next.
“So, what do you and PJ have planned for your first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife?” Maureen asked briskly.
Alexis was glad for the change of subject. “Actually,” she said, “we’ll be going out to dinner with PJ’s grandparents.”
Maureen smiled. “The Fitzgibbons live in each other’s pockets. They’re old-fashioned that way.”
“I didn’t mean to sound like I was complaining,” Alexis added quickly.
“Of course not. And I didn’t mean to sound critical. The Fitzgibbon family is like an extension of my own family, and sometimes when I’m talking about them I take liberties I suppose I shouldn’t. So, where are you going for dinner?”
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