One Year

by Mary McDonough

  Mary Bernadette smiled to herself. She would never admit to Katie that she had been thinking the exact same thing. It would seem self-important, as if she had too great an idea of herself. Modesty at all costs, her mother had often counseled.

  “Well, Katie, that might be true,” she replied, “but I think it best we wait for Mr. Meadows to settle in before any plans are laid.”

  “Oh, yes,” Katie said. “Of course. You know best, Mary Bernadette. You always do.”

  A half hour later, it was Jeannette’s turn to phone. She, too, had heard of Wynston Meadow’s arrival—or imminent arrival; no one seemed to know for sure where he was at this exact moment, hovering over Oliver’s Well in a private helicopter or having lunch at The Angry Squire.

  “I read somewhere,” Jeannette told her friend, “that he plans to run for political office. What office I don’t exactly remember. But I’m sure it will be something important. A man like that wouldn’t be content being just mayor of a tiny town!”

  “As long as he focuses enough of his attention on Oliver’s Well,” Mary Bernadette replied, “he can run for president of the United States for all it matters to me.” Imagine, she thought, being on a first-name basis with a future president of the greatest country on the face of the earth.

  “What do you think he’ll be like?” Jeannette asked. “I’ve never met someone as rich and influential as Wynston Meadows.”

  Although her interest in the man was intensifying by the moment, Mary Bernadette still thought it best to feign nonchalance. “I have absolutely no idea,” she said lightly.

  “Can you imagine having all that money?”

  “Character is more important than wealth, Jeannette.”

  “Oh, I know. Still, it’s all very exciting.”

  Other members of the Oliver’s Well Historical Association called after Jeannette. Wallace also wondered if they (not necessarily Mary Bernadette) should approach Mr. Meadows or wait until he approached them with an interest in becoming a benefactor. Leonard, former keeper of the peace that he was, wondered if Meadows’s residence in Oliver’s Well would mean more work for the tiny police department. “A man like that has enemies,” he said. “And a lot of valuable items to steal.” Mary Bernadette pointed out that a man like Mr. Meadows was sure to install a state-of-the-art alarm system and hire private guards. Leonard still wasn’t convinced. Anne hoped that Wynston Meadows might prove a bright, new light in the community. Neal had done a Google search for him that morning and had learned he was the money behind the restoration of a WWII memorial column in Amherstville, Georgia, giving further credence to the rumor of his interest in the OWHA. Joyce had babbled on for a full six minutes about the possibility of the town’s organizing a good old-fashioned welcoming committee to call on Wynston Meadows once he was settled. “A big basket of homemade jams and muffins,” she said. “And a tea towel embroidered with ‘Oliver’s Well.’ ” Mary Bernadette thought it a ridiculous idea but held her tongue. The only member of the board who hadn’t called was Norma. Well, Norma rarely had anything to contribute to a discussion. Why should things be any different now?

  Mary Bernadette took no small satisfaction in the fact that she had been the one the other members of the OWHA had called to discuss the advent of Wynston Meadows, as if, chairman or not, she possessed some knowledge of their new neighbor or some sure sense of the role he was to play in the life of Oliver’s Well.

  Well, there was one thing about which Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon did have a strong sense. In the months to come her career with the Oliver’s Well Historical Association just might become even more illustrious and illuminating than it already had proved to be.

  CHAPTER 26

  “What the hell does Wynston Meadows want with little

  Oliver’s Well?”

  Pat and Megan Fitzgibbon were having a drink before dinner. Pat, fairly well connected in D.C. power circles, had heard from a colleague earlier that day that Wynston Meadows was about to descend upon the Fitzgibbons’ hometown and that he had been going on about the “impressive little historical society” they had. This information did not sit well with Pat.

  Megan shrugged. “Maybe he just wants some peace and quiet, a place where he can retreat when things get too crazy.”

  “Meg, a guy like Wynston Meadows doesn’t know what the word retreat means, let alone peace or quiet. He thrives in the thick of the fray. Trust me, he’s got some ulterior motive in moving to Oliver’s Well. I just wish I knew what it was.”

  “Are you sure you’re not being overly suspicious?”

  “Very sure. That guy thinks the sun rises and sets on his whim. I just hope Mom and her cronies aren’t in for trouble if he decides to meddle with the OWHA. Maybe I should warn her, give her a heads-up or something.”

  “Is he really all that bad? I can’t seem to recall reading much about him. What trouble could he possibly make for a small-town historical society?”

  “He’s that bad, Megan. And frankly, the thought of my mother charging into his line of sight makes me shudder. Those two would not be a good combination, trust me.”

  “Even so, the last thing you should do is try to warn her to watch out for him,” Megan argued. “She’ll be insulted. She’ll think you’re criticizing her abilities.”

  “Especially if the advice is coming from me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Pat smiled grimly. “You didn’t need to. But you’re right. She’ll think I’m questioning her ability to make her own judgment of the man.”

  “Well, she is often right, Pat. You have to give her that.”

  “Yeah. My mother is not a stupid woman. Still, maybe you could mention something about this guy the next time you talk to her. She’s never had any experience with someone so powerful. It’s like a baby in diapers facing a rabid raccoon.”

  Megan laughed. “She won’t take any more kindly to advice coming from me!”

  “Maybe. Still . . .”

  Megan kissed her husband on the cheek. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. “And if we’re lucky, maybe the infamous Wynston Meadows really is moving to Oliver’s Well for its beauty and charm, not to stage some evil coup d’état at the OWHA.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

  “Pat. You’re quoting your mother again.”

  “Darn. That woman is everywhere.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Megan had been placing calls to and taking calls from her mother-in-law for decades and still she felt wary each time she picked up the phone. You never knew what to expect with Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon. You never knew what bit of your life she would feel it necessary to critique or comment on.

  The phone rang five times before Mary Bernadette picked up. Aside from the phone in the kitchen, there was only one extension in the house, and that was on the second-floor landing. Pat had talked to his mother about getting an additional extension somewhere between the two existing ones, but time and again his suggestion had been met with resistance ranging from polite refusal to angry dismissal.

  “I hope nothing is wrong with the children,” Mary Bernadette said as soon as Megan had identified herself.

  “Everyone is in perfect health. I’m just calling to say hello, see how you and Paddy are doing.”

  “We’re just fine, dear. Why wouldn’t we be?”

  Megan glanced at the Prayer of St. Francis posted above her desk. “No reason,” she said. “And how is PJ? I haven’t heard from him in over a week.”

  “Oh, he’s got so much responsibility now and he’s such a hard worker, I’m sure he just hasn’t been able to find the time to call.”

  “Yes,” Megan said. “That must be it. So, I heard a rumor that the big financial dealer Wynston Meadows is taking up residence in Oliver’s Well.”

  “It’s true,” Mary Bernadette said. “I have it on good authority.”

  The Oliver’s Well rumor mill. “Pat says that Wynston Meadows can be quite the shark in his business de
alings.”

  “That’s probably what makes him so successful.”

  “Yes. Still, Pat’s a bit concerned that if Meadows decides to get involved with the OWHA he could be, well, disruptive.”

  Mary Bernadette laughed her distinctive, bell-like laugh. “First of all, Megan, the man has already expressed great interest in joining the OWHA, so yes, he will be involved. And second, I assure you I’m quite capable of handling myself in most any situation. I’ve dealt with a fair share of important people in my career as chairman and official spokesperson.”

  “Oh, I know that, of course,” Megan said, “but some of the others on the board might be, well, overwhelmed.”

  “I’ve got the others well in hand,” her mother-in-law replied tersely. “Megan, I’m sure it was Pat who put you up to this call of concern, but it’s quite unnecessary, I promise you.”

  Megan knew when she had hit a wall with the inestimable Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon. “Well,” she said, “I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure Wynston Meadows will be wonderful to work with, assuming he is interested in the OWHA.”

  “As I said, I have it on good authority that he is very interested. Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, Megan, but I’m due at the hairdresser in half an hour. And you know how I hate to be late.”

  “Lord,” Megan murmured to her office when the call was over, “make me an instrument of your peace.” She hoped that she hadn’t done more harm than good by calling her mother-in-law. Mary Bernadette had pretty quickly adopted that imperious tone she reserved for when she suspected she was being second-guessed or insulted. The proud could be so sensitive to slights and so perverse, flying into the face of the very trouble they had been warned against, just to show that they could.

  Megan next opened her e-mail to find an obviously bogus alert from her bank, a reminder from the library that a book was due back in three days, and a forwarded joke from Maureen Kline. Megan read the joke and shrugged; clearly she and Maureen didn’t share a sense of humor. She wondered if Mary Bernadette would find the joke amusing. It was no secret that she had hoped Pat would marry the Klines’ youngest daughter. But Pat had had other ideas. “I’m ashamed to admit this,” he had told Megan years later, “but I think I asked Maureen out in the first place just to make my mother happy. And that’s always a mistake.”

  “Trying to make someone else happy?” Megan had asked disingenuously.

  “No,” her husband had replied. “Trying to make Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon happy.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Mary Bernadette was sitting behind the desk in her small office at the Wilson House. She was dressed impeccably. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. Her back was straight.

  The day before, Wynston Meadows had called and asked to meet with her. He was interested in learning more about the Oliver’s Well Historical Association. Mary Bernadette had suggested he come to her office at ten that morning. It was five minutes to the hour. She had been at her desk since nine. She felt more excited than she ever had in her long career with the OWHA. She was sure that she and her beloved Oliver’s Well were on the brink of greatness.

  At exactly ten o’clock there was a knock on her door.

  “Come in,” she said.

  A smiling Anne Tribble opened the door and showed in their visitor. Wynston Meadows stepped firmly into the office, hand outstretched. He walked directly to Mary Bernadette’s desk. “Please, Mrs. Fitzgibbon,” he said, “don’t rise.”

  Mary Bernadette sat back and accepted his hand. “Mr. Meadows. Please, have a seat.”

  Mary Bernadette made a rapid assessment of the man’s appearance. He was a little over six foot, with broad shoulders and slim hips—executives all went to the gym these days she had read. His hair was short but not too short, and still naturally brown; Mary Bernadette could always tell if a man dyed his hair. He was clean-shaven. He wore a gold watch that might have been a Rolex—she wasn’t an expert on watches—and no other jewelry. Though it was still months until summer he sported a tan, leading Mary Bernadette to guess he had recently spent time vacationing at some exclusive resort, perhaps a place like Saint-Tropez. His navy suit fit him perfectly.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice,” he said, opening one button of his jacket and sitting in the nineteenth-century guest chair facing the desk. “I must confess that I’m eager to establish myself in Oliver’s Well.” He smiled disarmingly. “I might never exactly blend into the woodwork, but I’d like to be regarded as a true member of the community.”

  “An admirable goal. Now, how exactly can I help you?” Mary Bernadette folded her hands on the desk and gave Wynston Meadows her dazzling smile.

  “Tell me about the OWHA, its history, some of the highlights of its career. Tell me about its goals.”

  And so Mary Bernadette told him that the OWHA had been founded shortly after the end of the Second World War. Its first purchase was the Wilson House, which, after some initial restoration, became the association’s headquarters as well as its central museum. More purchases of properties large and small followed. Awards had been won. Newspaper articles had been written. Programs had been instituted. And in 1979, Mary Bernadette had joined the board. When the chairman at the time, a very elderly man named Thomas Beckinridge, felt that he could no longer handle the duties of official spokesperson, he asked Mary Bernadette to take his place. She did, and to great acclaim. Eventually, she was chosen as chairman. “I’ve held the post for the past eleven years,” she told Wynston Meadows. “We here at the OWHA go on much as we always have. There has been no need for any great change.”

  “All very impressive,” Wynston Meadows said. “Do I dare hope there is a chance I might become a member of the OWHA’s board?”

  Mary Bernadette smiled. “I think there is a very good chance indeed, Mr. Meadows. In fact, I can’t wait to present you to the board at our next meeting. Our secretary, Mr. Hyatt, will be in touch with the time and date.”

  Mary Bernadette came around her desk and accompanied Wynston Meadows to the front door, where they shook hands again. She watched as he got into his car—a new-model Mercedes—and drove off. Then she turned and walked purposefully back to her office. She would phone Neal immediately and tell him to send an e-mail calling a special meeting of the board a few days from now. On the list of new business he was to put the official introduction of Wynston Meadows. After all, Mr. Meadows had expressed his desire to become embedded in the life of Oliver’s Well sooner rather than later. In an important matter such as this, delay would be wasteful.

  CHAPTER 29

  “This is so exciting,” Jeannette whispered. She was wearing her best dress and had taken extra care with her hair.

  “He’s just a person like every one of us,” Mary Bernadette whispered back. She was wearing a small diamond stickpin in the lapel of her jacket. “He was perfectly charming at our meeting.”

  The two women had been the first to arrive at the Wilson House. Finally, every member of the board was in attendance, even Anne, who had had to close her shop in order to attend the quickly organized meeting, and Joyce, who must have called in sick. Her students must be relieved, Mary Bernadette thought, and she wasn’t sorry for the sentiment.

  “Ah,” Mary Bernadette said, “here he is.”

  Wynston Meadows came into the room with a smile and a nod of greeting. Mary Bernadette introduced him to each member of the board in turn. He had a kind or flattering word for each. When everyone had taken seats around the oval table, Mary Bernadette began the meeting.

  “As you all know by now,” she intoned, “Mr. Wynston Meadows, Oliver’s Well’s latest resident, has expressed an interest in becoming a member of the board of the Oliver’s Well Historical Association. In your own words, Mr. Meadows, will you share the reasons behind your interest in becoming one of us?”

  Wynston Meadows nodded. “I would be delighted,” he said. “Most of you probably don’t know that for many years my grandfather managed the county histor
ical society museum in Smithstown. In fact, he lived on the second floor of the museum. When I was a boy I spent many an hour alone there when it was closed to the public, and I developed a love for the history of the region. Grandpa was a history buff, of course, and he’d often take me to visit old houses and historical sites—battlefields and whatnot. I’ve always looked back on those days as heaven. Now that I have the resources, and now that I’m a local, I feel a duty to help the Oliver’s Well Historical Association with its important work.”

  Wallace began to clap, and the others joined in. “Commendable,” Neal said. “What a wonderful story,” Anne commented. Mary Bernadette nodded. Her expectations had been fulfilled. Here was a man who honored the important work of his grandfather, much as PJ was honoring the work of his own grandfather.

  “Now, lest you think I’m getting in over my head”—and here, Wynston Meadows paused for the expected chuckles—“I’m a donor to several other historically minded missions, and I hold a spot on the D.C. Landmarks Commission. I think I can be of some service to you here in charming Oliver’s Well.”

  Mary Bernadette looked to Leonard. He nodded. She looked to Neal and to Richard. They, too, were in agreement. A formal vote would not be necessary.

  Mary Bernadette cleared her throat. “I speak for every member of the board then when I say welcome, Mr. Meadows, to the Oliver’s Well Historical Association. We look forward to many a year of benefiting from your knowledge and experience.”

  Wynston Meadows bowed his head in acknowledgment, and there was more applause. When it had died down, he rose from his seat. “I’m very pleased that you have accepted my plea. But now, I’m afraid I have to be off. Relocating is hell, as I’m sure everyone here knows. The moving company damaged my grand piano, and I’ve got an angry phone call to make.”

  “You’ll receive an e-mail regarding the time and date of the next meeting,” Neal told him.

  “Until then.” Wynston Meadows left the room, which immediately erupted in excited chatter. Wallace thought that the OWHA might now be able to enter one of the nationwide competitions for best restoration and beautification of a historical property. “Meadows’s money,” he said, “will finally help us go up against those other bigger and hitherto better funded historical societies.”