The moment PJ was gone, Alexis reached for her cell phone. She had seen Mary Bernadette drive off about twenty minutes before; she was an early riser and often out and about on her chores before PJ and Alexis left for work. Paddy, too, had gone off that morning; he and Danny had volunteered to help Father Robert tend to the church grounds. The Fitzgibbon house was empty.
“Mary Bernadette,” Alexis said to the voice mail. “This is Alexis. I’m going to be taking next Thursday off to attend to some personal business. I wanted to give you plenty of notice. Thanks.”
Alexis hated herself for being so cowardly, but the thought of lying to Mary Bernadette’s face—or, rather, the thought of telling her another half truth—was just too intimidating. Anyway, there was nothing wrong in leaving someone a message.
Just as there was nothing wrong in spending a few hours in broad daylight with a man who wasn’t your husband.
CHAPTER 61
Every Thursday morning of her married life without fail, Mary Bernadette changed the sheets on all the beds in the house. Every Friday morning she did the laundry and vacuuming. On Saturdays, she dusted and polished. Routine and order were the keys to keeping a clean and comfortable home.
So it was that on this Thursday morning, Mary Bernadette carried a set of fresh sheets and pillowcases into the bedroom she shared with her husband. Banshee watched intently from the top of the dresser as she pulled the dirty sheets off the mattress and piled them against the wall, to be taken down to the washing machine in the basement.
The fresh sheets were on the mattress and neatly tucked beneath it when Mary Bernadette became aware of a dull pain in her lower back. It happened often lately, especially when she bent to retrieve something that Paddy had dropped or to clean Banshee’s litter box. She sat on the edge of the bed to rest.
Easter baskets. Suddenly, Mary Bernadette realized that she had forgotten to make Easter baskets for the twins. She put her hand to her face. She was appalled by her forgetfulness. She was embarrassed by her display of carelessness. How could she not have remembered something so obvious, something so ubiquitous as Easter baskets?
No one had mentioned the missing baskets, but they must all have noticed their absence. Her family’s silence was worse, she thought, than if they had teased her about her forgetfulness. It was probably Megan who had made sure that no one spoke. She was always so sensitive to other people’s feelings. It annoyed Mary Bernadette sometimes, that scrupulous concern. She believed that it was better to be made to face one’s faults than to be shielded from them. It was better to be made to correct one’s mistakes and to atone for one’s sins than to be coddled and kept in a state of ignorance.
Sensing her agitation, Banshee jumped from the top of the dresser and onto the bed by her side. Mary Bernadette stroked her sleek back. The cat began to purr.
What is becoming of me, she asked herself. She had faced bigger threats than Wynston Meadows in the course of her long life. She had met and conquered tougher challenges. Was it that she was simply too old for this battle? Or could it be that God was punishing her for having committed the sin of overweening pride, assuming a degree of importance in Oliver’s Well she had never actually achieved?
The world was fickle. Mary Bernadette realized that she might have been permanently plucked from her place in the sun, condemned now to live out her days in a place of shadow and shame. And if that were the case, well, then so be it.
“Banshee, my love,” she said to her feline companion, “I must finish making this bed.”
Banshee leaped to the floor. Mary Bernadette got up more slowly and, resolutely banishing her troubles from her mind, she got back to her Thursday morning chores.
CHAPTER 62
Alexis was dressed in her best pair of dark skinny jeans, a new white T-shirt, and a fitted black blazer, an appropriate outfit she thought for an afternoon visit to an art gallery—and not an outfit she had bought at Anne’s shop. She had taken extra care with her hair and makeup, not for the intention of attracting male attention—no, not even Morgan Shelby’s—but for her own pleasure. It had been ages since she had been anywhere outside of Oliver’s Well other than to a garden supply center in Waterville with PJ and his grandfather. Try as she might, she just couldn’t get excited about backhoes and garden gnomes.
At 9:15 she got behind the wheel of her car and set off on her adventure. She couldn’t remember when she had last experienced that delicious mix of guilt and excitement that accompanied doing something you knew that you shouldn’t be doing. But why shouldn’t she be going on a little excursion with a friend? There was nothing whatsoever wrong in that.
At exactly ten o’clock Alexis arrived at the gallery in Somerstown. Morgan was waiting for her, wearing slim black pants and a taupe linen shirt. Alexis thought he looked great.
“Punctual,” he said, opening the door of the gallery for her.
Alexis smiled. “It’s one of my many talents.”
There were two categories of prints on display at the Foss Gallery. In the first room were Binjin prints. Each depicted a beautiful woman dressed in a traditional Japanese kimono. She was always alone, sometimes contemplating her image in a mirror, sometimes applying her makeup or giving herself a pedicure. At other times she was in a landscape. One of these, a portrayal of a woman in a veritable storm of cherry blossoms, particularly charmed Alexis.
“The colors are really amazing, aren’t they?” Morgan said. “So luminous.”
“Mmm. And the mood is so serene. They’re just lovely.”
In the second room were landscapes. These images were just as beautiful; they depicted specific sites in Japan—rivers and towns and monuments—at sunsets and sunrises, in rainstorms and in snow showers. Morgan was greatly taken with a print of a spectacular waterfall. “I’m overwhelmed by the sheer beauty in this room,” he told Alexis. Her own appreciation was keen, but Alexis suspected that Morgan, having gone to graduate school, was seeing things she wasn’t trained to see. As for the names of the artists—Ito Shinsui, Kawase Hasui, Natori Shunsen—she had no idea how to pronounce them and hoped Morgan wouldn’t ask her to try. She didn’t want to appear foolish.
When they had finished viewing the exhibition—and Morgan had been in no rush to leave the gallery—he suggested they have lunch. “I know this little place a few blocks away,” he said. “They have great soups. Do you like soup?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“My college roommate. He couldn’t abide soup of any kind. Bisques, broths, cream of whatever. Hated them all.”
Alexis laughed. “Maybe he was traumatized by a soup at an early age.”
“Or maybe,” Morgan said, “he was just weird.”
When they were seated at the restaurant and had each been served a bowl of corn chowder, Morgan said, “Guess who came into the gallery the other day? The illustrious Mr. Meadows.”
“Really? Did he buy anything?” Alexis asked. Imagine, she thought, having all his millions! I wonder if shopping would ever get boring?
“He looked. And he asked me to keep an eye out for an armoire by Stephen Trevelyan. He was a famous cabinetmaker in the late eighteenth century.”
“Are his works hard to find?” Alexis asked.
“One in good condition can be, but I’ll try my sources.”
“So, what was he like, one on one?”
Morgan frowned. “Perfectly pleasant. But I got the distinct feeling that it was a very practiced act. He’s a crafty man, no doubt. I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”
“I think he’s met his match with Mary Bernadette,” Alexis said with a laugh. “She’s the most bossy, most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
“But she’s never made millions managing a hedge fund, has she?” Morgan asked. “And she doesn’t handle the OWHA’s finances and properties. Leonard DeWitt does that. And everyone knows that she doesn’t like to travel. When was the last time she went even fifty miles from Oliver’s Well? Did she ever hold a paying job other than off
ice manager of her husband’s company? I think you overestimate her, Alexis. I’m not saying she’s not an intelligent woman, but I am saying that this time she’s in way over her head. I’ve heard what’s being said about how Meadows has been acting with the board members, treating them like his minions.”
This was a perspective Alexis had never considered. Maybe Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon didn’t have what it took to withstand someone like Wynston Meadows. Maybe he really could destroy all that she had built, if only for sport. In fact, Mary Bernadette hadn’t even gone to college. How had this rather unworldly woman managed to assume so much control and influence over so many people? Had it all been through the force of her personality and the strength of her will? But Morgan was probably right. Not even Mary Bernadette’s formidable self could triumph over a man like Wynston Meadows, who traveled the world to dine with dignitaries, was an important presence on Wall Street, and was rumored to be considering a run for a major public office.
“Alexis?”
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I was just thinking about what you said.”
“Yes, well, let’s not spend any more time talking—or thinking—about the Fitzgibbon matriarch. Tell me more about you. I mean, the you that has nothing to do with the Fitzgibbons.”
Was there such a person? Alexis wondered. “Oh,” she answered nervously. “There’s really not much to tell.”
“Let me give you a challenge.”
“Okay.”
“The next time I see you, you have to tell me three true facts about yourself. And not things like where you grew up—where did you grow up, anyway?—but things like your dream vacation, your favorite book as a child, what character trait you like best about yourself.”
Alexis smiled. “Philadelphia,” she said. “And I accept your challenge.”
After lunch Morgan walked her to her car.
“This has been a great day, Alexis,” he said. “I’m so glad you could join me.”
Alexis willed herself not to blush. “Me too,” she said. “I mean, thanks for suggesting this.”
Without hesitation or forethought—at least, on Alexis’s part—they shared a brief hug, after which Morgan jogged off to where he had parked his car.
With a slightly trembling hand, Alexis unlocked her door and slid behind the wheel. For much of the journey back to Oliver’s Well she was in a bit of a haze. She had not touched another man so intimately since her first date with PJ. The result was that she felt exhilarated. She felt powerful. She felt as if she had proved something. She did not ask herself what she had proved or to whom.
It was only when she finally reached Oliver’s Well and turned onto Main Street with the intention of making a quick stop at the pharmacy that full consciousness returned, for there was Mary Bernadette behind the wheel of her Volvo, less than three car lengths behind her.
Alexis’s heart began to race. Darn it, she thought. Could Mary Bernadette have followed her that morning as she left Oliver’s Well? Could she have seen the hug she and Morgan had shared? Could she have trailed Alexis back to Oliver’s Well, eager to accuse her of a sinful assignation?
Alexis glanced again at the rearview mirror. Mary Bernadette’s Volvo was gone. For a moment Alexis wondered if she had imagined it. She pulled into the nearest parking space, shut off the engine, and put her hand over her racing heart. Oh God, she thought, why did I lie to PJ? Why couldn’t I have been honest and told him that I was going on an outing with Morgan Shelby?
But the answer was obvious. It was because she considered her relationship with Morgan to be wrong. You didn’t keep a totally platonic friendship a secret, because you didn’t have to keep it a secret.
“I am a deceitful person,” she said to the interior of her car.
Alexis didn’t have the presence of mind to go into the pharmacy and make small talk with the locals. Not now. She started the car again and headed back to Honeysuckle Lane. She was painfully aware of the fact that she should never have gone to the gallery with Morgan Shelby—and just as painfully aware of the fact that if he asked to spend time with her again, she would say yes.
CHAPTER 63
Megan had been surfing through Netflix when Pat came into the living room and with a dramatic sigh tossed himself onto the couch. The springs groaned.
Megan turned off the television. “What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Pat.”
“Did your parents ever keep secrets from you and your brother?” he asked.
“I’m sure they did. All parents do.”
Pat shifted, and the couch springs squeaked. “I mean, big secrets. Like a dead sibling.”
“What makes you ask such a question now?” Megan asked. “Have you been talking to your mother?”
“No. Just thinking. Well, actually,” he said, sitting up and sending a series of metal squeals into the room. “I was reading a short story in the New Yorker the other day about a guy whose parents never told him that his paternal grandfather had been incarcerated for murder, and a pretty grisly one at that.”
“Can you blame them?” Megan asked. “I’d want to keep a disturbing secret like that from my child.”
Pat shrugged. “It got me thinking about my own family. You know, almost from the beginning I knew there was some deep, dark family secret. I knew it in the way kids just know things. Eventually, Grace caught on, too. When I was about sixteen—that would make Grace about eight—I decided to ask Dad what he and Mom were hiding.”
Megan had heard this story many times before, but if telling it again was helpful to her husband, she would listen patiently. “Did you actually come right out and ask your father what they were hiding?” she asked, as if the story were new to her.
“I’ve never been subtle, Meg.”
“Obviously.”
“So my father told me about William. It cost him; even a dumb teenager like me could see that. But I was grateful for his honesty.”
“And he asked you never to mention William to your mother.”
“Right. You know, and I’m sure I’ve told you this before, that when my father told me that my mother had had a baby before me, it really wasn’t a surprise. It was as if I had always known someone else had come first. That someone had precedence over me.”
“Still, better the mystery be a lost sibling than a heinous crime.”
Pat frowned. “I haven’t always been sure about that.”
“Pat. You’re being melodramatic.”
“I was thinking about this, too,” he went on. “There was something my mother used to say to Grace and me when we were growing up. We’d fall and cut our knees, or someone at school would be picking on one of us, or we’d be going through one of those trials that seem insurmountable to a child. Instead of being sympathetic or comforting, my mother would say, ‘Offer it up to God.’ Offer your pain or your sorrow as a sacrifice to God. I mean, that’s the equivalent of saying, ‘Tough luck, kid’ or ‘Shut up and deal with it.’”
“Yes,” Megan said. “It is a pretty harsh concept for a child to grasp. Trauma as a sacrifice.”
“I remember once, I guess I was about twelve or thirteen, I’d been in a fight after school and she told me to ‘offer it up to God,’ and I came back with something like, ‘Why would God want my bloody nose?’ ”
Megan laughed. “Oh, Pat, you didn’t!”
“I most certainly did.”
“And were you punished?”
“With extreme prejudice. No playing with my friends for two weeks, and I had to go to confession, and let me tell you, Father Murphy was not a guy to let you off lightly. I was kneeling at the altar saying Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s for hours.”
Megan grimaced on his behalf. She recalled another story her husband had told her. He had been about six years old and had learned that his mother had thrown out his favorite stuffed animal. Mary Bernadette had made no excuses for it. She hadn’t pretended that the rabbit had gone to Heaven or that he had fallen in love w
ith a lady rabbit and run off to be married. “It was filthy,” she told him. “It was trash.”
So the devastated child had run off and hidden, just before the family was to leave for church. When he was finally found, crying and crouched at the back of the linen closet, his mother had dragged him out and drawn back her hand to strike him. His father had managed to grab her arm before she made contact, but according to Pat, the result had been the same as if she had left a welt on his cheek. He remembered making a solemn vow—as intelligent, sensitive children often do—never to trust his mother again. It was a horrible story, and every time she thought of it Megan felt pity for the poor little boy her husband had been.
“She was never as harsh with Grace, my mother,” Pat went on. “Unless Grace has been keeping secrets from me. It’s odd, but I always thought that Mom was more lenient with Grace, or at least not as relentless with her criticism, because Grace didn’t really care what Mary Bernadette thought of her. Let’s put it this way. I was always trying to please my mother and failing. I don’t think that Grace even bothered to try. Smart woman, my sister.”
“Yes,” Megan agreed. “She is. Look, why don’t you try to get your mind off the family. Why don’t you watch a movie with me.”
“Sure,” he said. “Okay.” Pat flopped back down on the couch at full length. The springs screamed.
“Oh, and Pat?” Megan said, reaching for the remote.
“Yeah?”
“I think we need a new couch.”
CHAPTER 64
Alexis and PJ were eating dinner. She was trying very earnestly to engage with her husband, to ask questions and to answer them in return, but all the while she was uncomfortably aware of a sort of emotional buzzing inside her, something that felt dangerous and destructive. She wanted PJ to finish his dinner and go away before she lost what little control she had of her emotions.
“That was a great meal, Alexis,” he said, crumpling his napkin onto his plate.
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