“The Angry Squire. Mary Bernadette knows the owner from the board of the OWHA.”
“You’re in for a treat,” Maureen told her. “The food is very good and the atmosphere is charming. Richard Armstrong went to a lot of trouble to bring over most of the interior directly from England. And I’m sure you and PJ will find some time alone for a celebration. Young love always finds a way. At least, I vaguely remember that it does.”
Again, Alexis detected that note of wistfulness.
Maureen suddenly looked at her watch and exclaimed, “Oops, I’m going to be late if I don’t run. It was nice to see you, Alexis.”
“You too,” Alexis said, watching as Maureen dashed out the door and down the sidewalk. She was not a very attractive woman, Alexis thought, not physically anyway, and her skirt suit looked totally out of date. But she was friendly, and Alexis found that she liked Maureen, though she doubted they had much in common. Maureen was probably in her forties, more Megan’s age than hers. More Alexis’s own mother’s age, at that. And imagine, she had lived her entire life in little Oliver’s Well! Of course, that was PJ’s intention, to live out the rest of his life in Oliver’s Well. And as PJ’s wife, Alexis would be spending the remainder of her days right here alongside him.
Wow, she thought, as she walked up to the counter to place her order for a corn muffin toasted with butter. That was a bit of a scary thought—the remainder of her days, as if her life was already mostly in the past. She would grow old and eventually die in a charming but insular little Virginia town. Talk about mellowing. If things continued in the way they were, her friends back home in Philadelphia would hardly recognize her in a few years, and not only because she would have gained twenty pounds from eating too many corn muffins and too much of Mary Bernadette’s mashed potatoes!
Alexis paid for her muffin and took a seat at one of the little tables in the bakery. At that moment, she was not in the least concerned about becoming unrecognizable, not even to herself. She was concerned with eating her muffin before it got cold.
CHAPTER 11
The moment she entered The Angry Squire, Alexis was charmed. She had never been to England, but she had watched enough period dramas and browsed enough art and history books to know that Richard Armstrong had gotten the atmosphere just right. The lighting was low enough to be flattering but not interfere with the reading of a menu. Everywhere one looked there was burnished brass and dark, gleaming leather. The walls were decorated with oil paintings of horses and men and women in powdered wigs. Alexis wondered why she had never been to the restaurant before now and realized with a bit of a shock that she and PJ hadn’t gone out for as much as a drink or a movie in weeks. Or was it months? Only a year into their marriage and already they were acting like a couple that had been together for sixty, content to sit side by side for an evening until one or both nodded off!
The menu was suitably conservative, and Alexis could see at a glance why The Angry Squire was Mary Bernadette’s favorite restaurant. There was only one fish dish on the menu; the other main course offerings were lamb, roast beef, and chicken. There was nothing even vaguely exotic on offer—no bok choy or couscous and certainly no escargot. The daily pasta special was spaghetti with meat sauce. The desserts were apple pie, chocolate cake, and chocolate and vanilla ice cream.
The waiter (a young man Mary Bernadette knew by name) had poured water and brought a basket of bread and butter to the table when PJ turned to Alexis and presented her with a small box wrapped in shiny red foil.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, leaning over and kissing her cheek.
Alexis blushed. She felt embarrassed opening the present in front of her husband’s grandparents. But PJ urged her on. While her husband, Mary Bernadette, and Paddy watched, Alexis tore off the wrapping paper.
“Waste not, want not, as my mother used to say, God rest her soul.” Mary Bernadette reached across the table for the discarded paper. “Some of this can be salvaged.”
Alexis laughed. “Maybe a one-inch square!”
“Go ahead, Ali,” PJ urged again. “Open it.”
Alexis did, to find a small silver cross settled against a blue velvet background. It was not what she had hoped for.
“Oh,” she said, looking up at the expectant faces around her. “It’s very nice. Thank you. But I already have a cross.”
“But not this one,” Mary Bernadette explained. “This is Saint Brigid of Ireland’s reed cross. You can look her up in my book of saints if you like. She’s quite as famous as St. Patrick.”
PJ laid a hand gently on Alexis’s arm. “It was Grandmother’s idea,” he said.
Alexis felt chastened and determined to hide her disappointment. “It’s very pretty,” she said, with a smile for her husband. “Thank you, PJ.”
“It doesn’t matter that it’s pretty,” Mary Bernadette pointed out. “What matters is that it symbolizes our faith.”
PJ took his hand away from Alexis’s arm. She smiled and closed the box. “Of course.”
“Aren’t you going to put it on?” PJ asked.
“Well, I would, but I’m already wearing a necklace.” It was a small black pearl on a white gold chain, a gift from her parents.
A beat of silence followed this remark, and Alexis felt that she had committed a further crime of insensitivity. “But I’ll take it off,” she said, turning her back to PJ. “Can you help me with the clasp?”
“I’d highly recommend the steak,” Mary Bernadette said now. “It’s by far my favorite.”
Alexis, now wearing the cross of St. Brigid, turned back to the others. “Actually,” she said, “I was considering the lamb.”
Her statement was met with a silence Alexis could only call expectant. “But I think I’ll change my mind and go with the steak,” she said.
The Fitzgibbon family smiled at her. “You won’t regret it,” Mary Bernadette said.
CHAPTER 12
Megan slit open the pale blue envelope. Inside she found a note of thanks from a woman who had attended a recent talk sponsored by the Cerebral Palsy Education Effort. Megan greatly appreciated such notes of thanks; they helped remind her that she was making a positive difference for the CP community.
Eight years earlier, Megan had met a man named Alec Clare at a legal conference, and during the course of a conversation she had learned that Alec had lost his brother, Ted, to suicide. The poor young man had been driven to take his own life as a result of all the teasing and bullying he had been subjected to by adults and kids alike who hadn’t understood that his CP was not an illness or something shameful. Alec, who was only eleven when his brother died, was still haunted by the tragedy. Since graduating from law school he had been an advocate for tolerance and understanding of those with the condition.
Not long after meeting at the conference, it had occurred to Megan and Alec that they might establish an organization of their own to address a need for education and care among those families without the benefits of the financial security they themselves enjoyed. Thus the CPEE was born. In its current manifestation it had three functions. First, the education of the broader community about cerebral palsy, what it was, how it occurred, how it could be managed. This aspect included a schedule of lectures and presentations to schools and community organizations. David had given a talk only last year at the public middle school in a neighboring town. It had been fun, he said, and the prolonged applause at the end hadn’t hurt his already substantial ego. Second, the CPEE offered support for the cerebral palsy community. This aspect included a website, a community blog and forum, and a call center where parents and caregivers could find information and resources. Finally, the CPEE had set up a separate foundation for research funding. Megan’s work with the CPEE occupied enough of her time for her to realize that it would never have seen the light of day if she had kept a full-time position at Klausen, Robben, and Hill after the twins were born.
Megan filed the thank-you note with the others she had received that month
. She was in the office she shared with Pat on the second floor of their home. Well, it was really Megan’s office. Pat hated to bring his work from Cruz, Fitzgibbon, and Dengler home with him and would rather stay at the firm until nine at night to avoid “infecting” (that was his term) his private life with other people’s woes.
It was interesting, Megan thought now. Though her husband was terribly protective of his wife and children, he had never seemed overly concerned with his parents’ health and well-being; at times he had seemed almost indifferent to their progress toward old age. So it had come as some surprise when a few nights ago Pat suggested that he and Megan might make an effort to visit his parents more often.
“I know it’s not exactly fun hanging out with Mary Bernadette and Paddy, but they are closing in on eighty,” he had pointed out. “They could get into all sorts of trouble. What if my father fell off a ladder? He’s always fixing something that doesn’t need fixing or tinkering with the wiring on some old appliance.”
“That’s true,” Megan had replied. “They could get into all sorts of trouble, and I’m glad to know that you’re concerned, but there’s a limit to what we can prevent. Even if we lived next door we couldn’t stop one of them from falling down the stairs in the middle of the night or taking ill behind the wheel of a car.”
“You’re right, but that doesn’t mean we can’t check in more often.”
“Maybe we should ask PJ to keep an eye on his grandparents.”
Pat had frowned. “PJ and Alexis are just kids. They probably wouldn’t even see a warning sign. Remember when my father had his hip replacement? PJ told me he hadn’t noticed the man had developed a limp.”
“True. The young never want to see indications of sickness or death. Well, not that any of us do, but the young seem particularly good at being blind to disaster.”
“So, you agree?”
“Yes,” Megan had said. “I agree that we should see your parents more often.”
Megan still wondered what had prompted this sudden filial concern. And it wasn’t lost on her that Pat’s concerns lay mostly with his father. But that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she wondered if he cared for his mother at all.
Well, Pat’s cool relationship with his mother hadn’t inhibited his ability to express his love for his wife. For Valentine’s Day he had given her a gorgeous ring, a round brilliant cut, bezel-set diamond in a yellow and white gold band. She had been secretly coveting it for months, and somehow Pat had divined her secret. He had presented the ring with a bouquet of her favorite flowers, pink peonies, and a box of very good chocolates. If she hadn’t long ago forgiven him for wearing that disgusting red blazer (and for being polluted) the night they met, she would have forgiven him now.
Megan looked up at the copy of a popular English translation of The Prayer of St. Francis pinned to an old-fashioned corkboard over her desk.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.
Oh Divine Master, grant that
I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born
To Eternal Life, Amen.
The prayer summed up Megan’s religious and moral philosophy. She wasn’t at all certain about an Eternal Life, but she believed that the benefits of good behavior here on earth were enough to make the effort worthwhile. Not, of course, that her own behavior always met the high standards of St. Francis, but she did try to give rather than to receive. Take, for example, her wedding. Though she and Pat would have been perfectly content to get married at city hall, for the sake of family—or, as her mother would say, “for the look of it”—they had tied the knot at the Church of the Immaculate Conception in Oliver’s Well. Even so, Mary Bernadette had made it known that she wasn’t thrilled with her son and his new wife being only “cafeteria Catholics,” picking and choosing what rules to follow and what rituals to perform. Even having their first child baptized in the church (with Jeannette and Danny Kline as godparents) and later, confirmed (PJ had taken his father’s middle name, Christopher), had not entirely appeased Mary Bernadette.
But Megan had long ago realized that there never would be any appeasing her mother-in-law. At best one might succeed in placating her. In a perfect world, one might succeed in flying completely under her radar. But this was not a perfect world. For as long as Mary Bernadette lived and breathed she would probably never forgive her daughter-in-law for not joining the Oliver’s Well Historical Association. Of course it had been entirely unrealistic of her to assume that Megan—who didn’t even live in Oliver’s Well—would have the time, let alone the inclination, to join. But Mary Bernadette wasn’t a woman given to introspection. That’s not fair, Megan thought now. Who knew what deep and searching thoughts plagued her mother-in-law in the middle of the night? All that anyone could tell for certain was that by day Mary Bernadette was a woman of action, a woman who at times might benefit from taking a moment to reflect before speaking her mind.
Megan sighed and tapped her pen smartly against her desk. The CPEE. The twins and their after-school activities. The law firm. The house. The grandparents. Lord knew she was busy enough, too busy by most people’s standards. Still, lately she found herself wanting some new project she could sink her teeth into. Lately, she found herself ever so slightly bored. Maybe she was what Mary Bernadette called “a glutton for punishment.” Except that Megan didn’t find work a punishment at all. And she thought that if Mary Bernadette took the trouble to consider the idea, she might realize that she and her daughter-in-law were not so terribly different after all. They were both devoted to their family and to their causes. It was as simple as that.
“Mom?”
Megan turned away from her desk. Danica was leaning against the doorframe wearing what amounted to her uniform—a hoodie, a pair of skinny jeans, and UGG brand boots no matter how hot the day.
“What’s up, honey?” she asked her daughter.
“Grandma called,” Danica told her.
“Again? That’s twice today.”
“I know. I told her you were working.”
Megan restrained a smile. “And what did she say to that?”
Danica shrugged. “What she always says. ‘Oh, your mother spends too much time at work.’ How come she never says that Dad spends too much time at work?”
“I guess your grandmother is just old-fashioned. She comes from a place where men work out in the big, wide world and women stay at home. Or, at least, a mental state if not an actual place.”
“I don’t get it. You work but you’re at home! That should be okay, right?”
Megan laughed. “Well, I guess I can’t really explain it after all.”
Danica wrinkled her nose. “I like Grandma, I mean, I love her and all, but she has some weird ideas.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Danica promised. “That would be rude.”
“Well, did she say what she wanted?”
Danica shrugged again. “Not really. I think she just wanted to talk.”
“And did you? Talk, I mean?”
“She asked me about school. That’s what she always asks me about, never my friends or soccer or debate team.”
“Well, she knows the value of an education.”
“I guess.”
“Where’s your brother?” Megan asked.
“He’s in his room.”
“I wonder if he’s doing his homework or fooling around with a video game.”
“It helps his dexterity, Mom.
”
“Which is all well and good, as long as he doesn’t neglect his homework.” Megan sighed. “I guess I should call Mary Bernadette back before it’s time to start dinner.”
Danica grinned. “I bet I know what she’ll say.”
Megan pitched her voice a bit lower than usual in an attempt to mimic her mother-in-law’s commanding voice. “ ‘So, you’re finally done with that work of yours for the day?’ ”
“Or: ‘Oh, you didn’t have to call me back. It was nothing.’ And then she’ll keep you on the phone for, like, an hour!”
Megan laughed. It was wrong to mock anyone—St. Francis would tell you that—let alone an older person, and behind her back to boot, but sometimes it just couldn’t be helped.
CHAPTER 13
It was another unseasonably warm day, and Alexis was taking advantage of the weather to stretch out on a chaise lounge behind the cottage. She wasn’t sure how the untiringly energetic Mary Bernadette would feel about her putting her feet up in the middle of the day—though it was a Saturday—but thought she was probably safe here, with only the beech trees as witnesses.
Mary Bernadette! It had been like being with a celebrity the other night at The Angry Squire. People kept stopping by the table to pay their respects to PJ’s grandmother, and Richard Armstrong had delivered their desserts on the house. An elderly, very dapper man named Mr. Levitt had congratulated PJ on winning the Joseph J. Stoker House job and said he remembered the place from when he was very small. Would PJ like to borrow some photographs of the gardens before they had entirely gone to weed? PJ had thanked the man profusely, as had Mary Bernadette. “I’ve known him since I first came to Oliver’s Well,” she explained when Mr. Levitt had moved off. “And he was ancient even then.”
And Mary Bernadette had been right about the steak. It was fantastic. Still, next time they went to The Angry Squire, Alexis was going to have the lamb come hell or high water, as she had heard Mary Bernadette say often enough. It was probably an expression she had come across in the bible, maybe something to do with Noah.
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