One Year

by Mary McDonough

  “Then I’ll be on my way and let you get started. Good-bye, Mary.”

  “Good-bye, Jeannette.”

  CHAPTER 40

  The light was perfect, and Alexis had already spent a very pleasant hour taking pictures of some of the more interesting old buildings along Main Street. At the moment she was standing in front of a lovely old building, on the ground floor of which a storefront bore a sign that read THE SHELBY GALLERY. (She had seen the sign before, of course, but had never ventured inside.) Alexis raised her camera to her eye and adjusted the focus. Suddenly the door opened and a man emerged from the gallery. Alexis lowered the camera.

  “Hi,” he said, coming forward and extending a hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Morgan Shelby. This is my gallery. And my building, in fact.”

  “I’m Alexis,” she replied, shaking his hand. “I’m sorry. Do you object to my taking a picture? It’s just for me, not publication.”

  “Not at all. It’s a beautiful bit of midnineteenth-century architecture, isn’t it? I live on the top floor. I’ve got a great view of nothing. No ugly factories or high-rise apartment buildings. It’s one good reason to live here and not in some suburban development.”

  Alexis took quick stock of Morgan Shelby. He was not terribly tall, certainly shorter than PJ, and slender, with longish dark blond hair tucked behind his ears. His eyes were brown. He was dressed in dark blue jeans and a white button-down shirt, open at the collar with the sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows. He’s very nice looking, Alexis thought.

  “So, did you grow up in Oliver’s Well?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” Morgan said. “I came here about five years ago from Baltimore, partly to get away from my Important Old Maryland Family. I love them, it’s just that . . . well, let’s leave it at that. Anyway, it was a risk, opening a gallery at the tender age of thirty, and on borrowed money. But I had—I still have—a real love of what I do, and to be honest, I’ve had a lot of luck.”

  Alexis smiled. “So you’re here to stay.”

  “As long as people keep wanting to buy up the past. So, what brings you to town?”

  “I’m married to PJ Fitzgibbon. You know, of Fitzgibbon Landscaping.”

  “Of course. They do fantastic work. A mom-and-pop organization, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. PJ’s grandparents own it, though someday PJ will inherit the business. He’s running it now.”

  Morgan smiled. “All in the family.”

  That was putting it mildly, Alexis thought. “Kind of, yes,” she said. “You weren’t at Norma Campbell’s party for Wynston Meadows, were you?”

  “No. I was invited—all the shop owners were—but I have an aversion to anything even remotely political. Inevitably, at a shindig like that, someone is going to ask your opinion on a town matter and you’ll be in trouble no matter what you say, even ‘I have no opinion at all.’ Well, especially if you say that.”

  “No one asked me my opinion about anything to do with Oliver’s Well,” Alexis admitted. “No one asked me anything at all, come to think of it. Oh, except, how happy was I to be working for Fitzgibbon Landscaping.”

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “Oh, I said that I was very happy. That was the expected answer.”

  “Was it the honest answer?” Morgan asked.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said quickly.

  Morgan pointed to her camera. “Is that a Nikon D90?”

  “Yes, it is. You know cameras?”

  “A little. I’m always taking photos of interesting items I find in my travels—old furniture, artwork, that sort of thing. They give me a reference for research and that helps me decide whether I want to offer for the pieces.”

  “Do you travel a lot hunting out things for the gallery?” Alexis asked. She thought it sounded like fun, poking through people’s attics for old lace dresses, or sifting through a collector’s accumulation of antique salt and pepper shakers.

  “A fair amount,” Morgan said. “At the moment I’m pretty much fully stocked, so I really should sell some big items before I go out and spend more money.”

  “Oh,” Alexis said. “Right.”

  “You know,” Morgan said now, “there’s a guy over in Westminster who restores and sells old cameras and equipment. His name is Bud Humphries, and his shop is called Shutterbug. Mention my name if you go in,” Morgan said. “I can’t promise he’ll give you a discount, but he’ll definitely give you his full attention.”

  “Thanks,” Alexis said. “I appreciate the lead.”

  “No problem. Well, I should get back inside. There’s always an armoire to polish.”

  Alexis laughed. “I guess I should get going, too. It was nice meeting you.”

  Morgan nodded. “I’m sure I’ll see you around town.”

  He went back inside his shop and Alexis continued on along Main Street. That was fun, she thought. What a nice guy.

  CHAPTER 41

  Mary Bernadette was on her way to a meeting of the board of the OWHA. She had dressed with more than her usual care and attention to detail, even fastening an elaborate, rarely worn gold brooch to her dress. She would not allow anyone to see that she had been shaken by what had happened.

  And what had happened was this. The Oliver’s Well Gazette had run a story that morning about the OWHA’s decision to revisit the selection of Fitzgibbon Landscaping for the Joseph J. Stoker House project. The writer of the article had speculated on the “interesting coincidence” of Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon, the most senior member of the board, being in fact co-owner of the very landscaping firm that had been awarded this most recent and lucrative project. “While some are calling foul,” she had written, “not everyone would agree that there is indeed a problem.” The reporter had approached members of the board as well as other “respected citizens” for their opinions on the matter. Those interviewed had wished to remain anonymous.

  “Everyone knows everything that goes on in this town,” a man had told the reporter. “So I can guarantee that if there was a stink, we would have smelled it before now. The fact is that Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon is the heart and soul of the OWHA. Nobody’s done more to further that organization, and the Fitzgibbon outfit does outstanding work. Why shouldn’t the OWHA hire them? What’s the board supposed to do, hire someone from out of town who nobody knows?”

  Indeed, Mary Bernadette had thought.

  A woman went on record as saying, “When local people aren’t allowed to work for our own historical society, then something’s badly wrong. I say the Fitzgibbons have never been anything but good for this town.”

  Then why, Mary Bernadette had wondered, had this woman not wanted her name mentioned?

  Another helpful resident of Oliver’s Well had this to say: “Oh, the Fitzgibbon family has had things all tied up now for I don’t know how long. It really is remarkable how they always get the most important contracts in Oliver’s Well. Luck, I guess. Some people have all of it.”

  Luck, Mary Bernadette had thought, has nothing to do with our success.

  Finally, yet another “worthy of the community” had commented : “They’re a fine family and it’s a fine landscaping business. Why would I lie?” Implying, Mary Bernadette had thought, that lying about the Fitzgibbons’ collective character was indeed a possibility.

  The reporter had concluded her piece with this line. “Further review of the OWHA contracts and board decisions is expected.”

  “They’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” Paddy had stated, tossing the paper onto the table and almost upsetting the sugar bowl. “It’s wrong.”

  The mere hint of a scandal can blacken a good name.... Mary Bernadette pulled into her parking space at the Wilson House and gathered her dignity along with her handbag. But it was no use in pretending to herself that she was in full possession of her usual strong sense of purpose.

  Mary Bernadette took her seat at the oval table. Wallace wouldn’t meet her eye. Joyce displayed an almost manic
friendliness, asking after Paddy and his “adorable puppy” as if she could possibly care. Leonard whispered in her ear, “I’d like to teach some people a lesson about loyalty and respect.” Anne gently put her hand on Mary Bernadette’s arm as she walked to her seat. Norma’s expression was blank. Neal’s expression was grim. Richard looked supremely uncomfortable, and Jeannette looked close to tears.

  Finally, Wynston Meadows joined them. He took a seat and, without a greeting, he said, “I’m assuming we all read the article in this morning’s paper.”

  There were murmurs of assent from around the table, but no one voiced a remark.

  He turned to Mary Bernadette. “I know this might be unpleasant for you, Mrs. Fitzgibbon, but I assume that with all of your experience with the media as well as your many years on this board you’re quite able to separate personal from professional concerns.” Wynston Meadows looked carefully now at each member in turn. “As anyone on this board should be capable of doing.”

  Mary Bernadette gave a slight bow of her head. “Of course. And to that end—assuming this reconsideration of the Stoker project is going ahead—I hereby recuse myself from participation in the process and final vote.”

  “A wise move, Mrs. Fitzgibbon, as the reconsideration is most definitely going ahead. Leonard, Neal, whoever, can you get me a copy of the original request for bids? I’ll need to study it and make corrections to the job description. If we’re not clear up-front, the bids won’t mean a thing.”

  The meeting continued with Mary Bernadette barely aware of the proceedings that Wynston Meadows was directing. Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, he called the meeting to an end. The other board members began to rise. Wallace stood up and knocked over his chair in the process. With much apologizing and flustering, he set it upright.

  “No harm done,” he said too loudly.

  No one else seemed to pay attention to Wallace’s mishap, but Mary Bernadette’s heart constricted. It was an Irish superstition that a chair falling over when someone rose from it was an unlucky omen. Her own aunt Catherine had passed away only days after a neighbor had knocked over her chair after having come by for tea. Mary Bernadette hadn’t thought of the incident in years, but now it sent a shiver through her.

  “Mary Bernadette?”

  She looked up to see Leonard standing by her side.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You looked a million miles away.”

  Mary Bernadette rose carefully from her own chair. “Perfectly fine, Leonard,” she said. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Mary Bernadette wondered what was taking the girl so long to answer the doorbell. She pressed it again. After what seemed like another inordinately long period of time, Alexis opened the door to the cottage.

  “Oh,” she said, rubbing her eyes with one hand. “Sorry. I was taking a nap.”

  In Mary Bernadette’s opinion, naps were only for the very young and the very old. A healthy young woman should not be wasting precious hours lolling about in bed.

  “Did you come by for a reason?” Alexis asked after she had closed the door. “I mean, can I help you with anything?”

  Mary Bernadette smiled. “No, dear. I just stopped in to see how you were doing.”

  “Oh,” Alexis said. “I’m fine.”

  Mary Bernadette glanced around the living room, and her eye fell on Alexis and PJ’s formal wedding portrait, sitting on the mantel of the small fireplace. She was very glad she had been able to persuade Alexis to wear something modest. Alexis had first chosen a gown that was absolutely inappropriate for church. For that matter, Mary Bernadette couldn’t imagine anyplace where it would be appropriate, although maybe there were nightclubs in Las Vegas where such a costume might be welcome. The neckline was so low as to be downright indecent, and the dress was cut so narrowly that it left very little to the imagination. Mary Bernadette shuddered at the memory of it.

  “It looks very nice in here,” she said now to her grandson’s wife.

  The girl is a good housekeeper, Mary Bernadette thought. I’ll give her that. (As for being a good cook, well, Mary Bernadette wished Alexis would give up all those foreign spices she was so fond of using. They couldn’t be good for anyone’s stomach.) The bathroom was always spotless, and in general the cottage always had the look of having been “picked up” recently. Mary Bernadette’s eye now roved toward the living room windows.

  “What do you plan to use for spring and summer curtains?” she asked.

  Alexis, who had been standing with her arms folded across her chest (rather defensively, Mary Bernadette thought), shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it,” she said.

  “Well, I think it’s time that you do.” Mary Bernadette walked over to one of the windows. “These are too heavy for the hot weather.” She peered closely at the curtains, ones she herself had chosen. “Besides, they need a good washing. Just think about all the dirt you’re breathing in. It’s a miracle the two of you haven’t been ill.”

  “Oh,” Alexis said, still standing where she had been. “I’ll take them to the dry cleaners as soon as I have the time.”

  “The dry cleaners! No, the dry cleaners are too expensive. You can wash these in my machine. See, the tag says machine washable.”

  “Fine.”

  “But then you’ll need to put up a lightweight set. Maybe a pale green linen.”

  “I didn’t change the curtains last year,” Alexis argued. “Why do I have to change them now?”

  Mary Bernadette sighed. Sometimes she thought she was the only one who cared about maintaining order in the Fitzgibbon family. “Well,” she said, fingering the curtains, “if I had known . . . It looks as if I’ll be the one providing the summer replacements since you don’t seem to care. I’m sure I can find something decent in my linen closet. Or maybe at the fabric store in Smithstown.”

  “Mary Bernadette, please!”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Look,” Alexis said, finally unfolding her arms. “I don’t want to use curtains at all. The blinds alone are fine.”

  “Blinds without curtains look cheap. Just look at the Burrows’ house across the street if you don’t believe me.”

  Alexis sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Have it your way. You always do in the end.” Then she retrieved her keys from a bowl on the kitchen counter and went to the door. “I’m going out for a while.”

  Mary Bernadette stood alone in the cottage, and for a strange, disconcerting moment she wondered what she had been doing there. She felt vaguely foolish. She had won her point with her grandson’s wife, but the victory didn’t feel at all like a victory should feel. She had won a ridiculous push-and-pull argument better suited for ten-year-olds than for adults.

  She left the cottage, locking it with her own key, and returned to her own home.

  CHAPTER 43

  “I’m afraid we let a viper into our nest, Mary.” Jeannette, sitting across the kitchen table from her friend, shook her head and sighed.

  We have made a deal with the Devil, Mary Bernadette thought. She was deeply ashamed of her weakness. She had fallen prey to Wynston Meadows’s charm. He had seduced her with flattery, and she had taken pride in his praise. He had tricked her into thinking that he considered her an equal when it was clear that he considered her of no importance whatsoever. She was beginning to suspect that he considered Oliver’s Well equally insignificant.

  “The man is running the meetings and making decisions as if he was the chairman or the CEO. Not that you or Leonard would ever act so high-handedly. It’s deplorable, Mary, it really is.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Deplorable.” And she was the one who had brought this man into the fold.

  “Nothing is going as we expected it to,” Jeannette went on.

  Her friend was right. Leonard had informed them that Meadows was being maddeningly vague about when he would be ready to make good on the first installment of his pledge. “In due time, he told me,” Leonard complained. �
��What does that mean when we have business to conduct?” At the last meeting of the board Neal had pointed out that the Branley Estate was still on the market and the object of their fondest hopes. To which Meadows had replied, “I don’t see any other buyer knocking on the door of the old place. Patience.”

  Jeannette poured more tea into their cups. “I guess it’s no time to bring up funding for another film about the OWHA.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Mary Bernadette said. She raised her cup to her lips but put it down untouched.

  “Did you see Joyce making eyes at the man? A more ridiculous sight I’ve never seen. And a married mother at that! Those girls of hers are already trouble. Imagine what they’ll be like when they’re teenagers, with Joyce for a role model.”

  “Yes,” Mary Bernadette replied. “Imagine.”

  “And with the Stoker job stalled for who knows how long . . . well, I’m worried, Mary, and I don’t mind telling you.”

  Mary Bernadette straightened her shoulders. “We’ll see our way right, Jeannette,” she said. “I have no doubt of that.”

  “Will we, Mary? Do you really think so?”

  “Yes,” Mary Bernadette lied. “I do think so. Would you like another scone?”

  CHAPTER 44

  The bell over the door tinkled loudly as Alexis entered the pricey little gift shop called the Billet Doux. Since she was small she had had a weakness for beautiful pens. No matter that she used a keyboard to write just about everything but a grocery list; there was something about a high-quality, well-designed pen that attracted her. By now she had amassed quite a collection—Cross and Montblanc and Waterman and Rosetta—but there was always one more to buy.

  There was only one other customer in the shop, a woman Alexis recognized vaguely, and she was talking to the owner, who was stationed behind the counter. Neither woman acknowledged her entrance. They must be sharing some pretty exciting gossip, Alexis thought, not to have been distracted by that bell.