And only moments later Megan had been asking all those questions about their relationship. Alexis felt embarrassed that she had been seen fighting with her husband. But she also felt annoyed. She and PJ were never, ever alone. There was always a Fitzgibbon lurking, ready with criticism and commentary.
Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. Her mother-in-law never criticized, but as much as Alexis liked and admired her, she simply couldn’t trust Megan to be sympathetic. Megan was PJ’s mother. She would be expected to take her son’s side, even if she thought he was in the wrong.
Alexis parked her car in a municipal lot, opened her umbrella, and walked in the direction of Main Street. She had decided that she would stroll by Morgan Shelby’s gallery, and if it was open, she thought she might pop in to say hello.
The gallery was open. Alexis went inside to find Morgan with a customer, a tall, thin woman in a tightly belted trench, fedora set at a rakish angle, and very high-heeled shoes. The stylish woman fairly screamed money. There was no mistaking the diamonds on her hands and in her ears for anything but the real thing.
While she waited for Morgan to be free, Alexis took a look around the gallery. Though there were probably hundreds of items for sale, the gallery was very orderly. There was plenty of space around each large piece for a potential buyer to view all sides and angles. The lighting was perfect. The glass display cases were spotless. Alexis peered into one case and noted an engraved silver case for a lady’s calling cards. A more gracious time, she thought. Or, a more restricting time.
Finally, the striking woman left and Morgan came over to Alexis.
“Sorry that took so long,” he said.
“No problem.”
“I think you brought me good luck. The woman who just left bought that dining table against the wall. And it’s not an inexpensive piece.”
Alexis smiled. “I doubt it was me who brought you luck,” she said.
Morgan looked at his watch. It was clearly a vintage piece, and Alexis wondered if a woman had given it to him as a present. It hadn’t occurred to her before that Morgan Shelby might be in a relationship. The notion slightly upset her, and she thought that maybe it had been a mistake to stop by the gallery. She was about to make an excuse to leave when Morgan preempted her.
“I was going to close up for lunch now,” he said. “Why don’t you stay? There’s nothing too fascinating in my fridge at the moment, but I’m sure there’s a yogurt or two.”
Alexis hesitated, but only for a moment. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
Morgan flipped the Open sign to Closed, locked the door to the gallery, and together they went up two steep and narrow flights of stairs to Morgan’s top-floor apartment, where she found a veritable art studio rather than a normal apartment with couches and end tables and area rugs. In what might have been the living room there were three easels; a long worktable piled high with cans of paintbrushes, tubes of paint, and rags; several drop cloths covering the floor; and at least twenty-five canvases of various sizes, some blank, some showing evidence of charcoal sketching, others—mostly landscapes—seemingly finished.
“Just as I thought,” Morgan called from the kitchen. “Two cartons of yogurt and some grapes and a bit of cheese. All right?”
Alexis joined him there. “Sure,” she said. “So, let me guess. You paint.”
Morgan laughed. “Yeah. I majored in painting as an undergraduate, not that it made me all that great of an artist, and then I went on to get a master’s degree in American furniture from the Rhode Island School of Design.”
“So . . . where is your furniture?”
Morgan laughed again. “Oh, it’s normal enough in the bedroom and study. And as you can see, I do have a kitchen table.”
“I majored in art history,” Alexis told him, taking a seat at that table on which Morgan had laid out their meager meal. “Nothing very specialized because it was only undergraduate.”
“So, if you went on to specialize, what area or period would you choose?”
Alexis had to think about that question; the answer was not readily to hand and that embarrassed her. “Maybe the Italian Renaissance,” she finally said. “Or Cubism. I also like Vermeer a lot.” She laughed a bit nervously. “I guess I never really gave much thought to specializing.” Or, she realized, to what really matters to me.
“You’re young,” Morgan said. “You have time. Blueberry or raspberry?”
“Raspberry, please. So why haven’t you joined the Oliver’s Well Historical Association? I mean, obviously you have a great interest in history.”
“I told you I’m not into politics, remember?” Morgan laughed, sitting down across from her. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“But the OWHA is hardly politics.”
He raised a brow. “Isn’t it?”
Alexis suddenly felt naïve. Of course it was politics. Just look at what was going on with Wynston Meadows, and all because of his promised millions. “My husband’s grandmother is always trying to get me involved,” she said. “In fact, I’m doing this Day in the Life of Oliver’s Well project for her.”
“What’s that about?”
Alexis explained.
Morgan frowned. “I have to say, it sounds a bit deadly.”
“Why?”
“In a small town like this one,” Morgan explained, “so well regulated, change, if it happens at all, happens in increments. A shop owner like me can’t even put a potted plant on the sidewalk unless he goes to the OWHA first for approval. You could take a photo a day of Main Street for a full ten years and barely see the tiniest bit of change.”
“Well,” Alexis said, “I have to admit it’s not the most exciting project I could imagine. But Mary Bernadette asked me to take it on, so . . .”
“Not the most challenging task for someone of your talent, either.”
“But how do you know I have any talent? You’ve never seen my pictures.”
Morgan grinned. “I know what kind of a camera you use. Someone who doesn’t take her work seriously—someone without talent—isn’t going to waste time and money on a piece of equipment that requires so much skill and attention.”
Alexis felt herself blush. “Oh. Anyway, I think that Mary Bernadette would really like me to devote all of my spare time to the OWHA.”
“And you don’t want to.”
“No.” Alexis smiled. “I guess because of family politics. Mary Bernadette can be pretty overwhelming. She’s the undisputed president of the Fitzgibbon family.”
“More like the dictator. Sorry, but I’ve heard stories. Everyone in Oliver’s Well has.”
“Well, she’s not as bad as all that. Most times. She’s just used to getting her own way.” And maybe that’s why she’s so upset about Wynston Meadows, Alexis thought. He’s not letting her get her own way.
“Sounds like one of my aunts. People like that can be pretty exhausting.”
“Yeah,” Alexis admitted. “But I try not to let her boss me around too much.”
“Well, good for you for standing up to her. For standing up for yourself.”
Alexis wondered if she really was standing up for herself, for what mattered to her, or if she was only being the stubborn child, resisting Mary Bernadette just to prove that she could. At least being recalcitrant got her noticed in the family, but was it the kind of notoriety she really wanted? And what progress was she making in developing her own life, apart from the Fitzgibbons? These thoughts made her feel uncomfortably young.
“You probably should be getting back downstairs,” she said now to Morgan.
Morgan glanced at the small scale grandfather clock on a shelf over the stove. “You’re right. Time flies when you’re having fun.”
They went down to the first floor of the building and into the gallery.
“Oh,” Morgan said. “I almost forgot. There’s a show of twentieth-century Japanese woodblock prints at a gallery in Somerstown. Would you like to go to see it with me some afternoon?”
“I always feel as if I’ve neglected my education in the Asian arts,” Morgan went on. “I mean, I took an overview course in college, but one survey class is hardly enough to give you any real insight or expertise. And the field is so large.”
“Can I let you know in a day or two?” Alexis asked. “I have to check with . . . I mean, I have to look at my work schedule for the next week.”
“Of course. We don’t need tickets, and I can be pretty flexible. Just let me know.”
“I will,” Alexis promised. “And thanks again for lunch.”
Morgan smiled. “And thanks again for bringing me good luck.”
Alexis put her key into the lock only to find that the door to Fitzgibbon Landscaping was already open. She pushed it in and saw Mary Bernadette seated at the desk that had once been hers.
“Oh,” she said, as she stowed her wet umbrella in its stand. She hadn’t seen Mary Bernadette’s car in the lot out front. Where had she parked?
Mary Bernadette rose from her chair. “How long have you been away from the office?” she asked.
Alexis shrugged. “Only about an hour. Maybe a little more. I—I had some errands to run.” In truth, she had been gone close to two hours.
“Well, it was lucky that I happened to stop by to take the calls you missed.”
“Was there anything important?” Alexis asked. Please don’t let her ask exactly where I’ve been, she prayed silently. Alexis was not a good liar. She had always been proud of this, but now she wished that lies rolled smoothly off her tongue.
“All calls are important, Alexis. This is a business we run, not a hobby.”
“I know, but I thought it would be all right if the voice mail picked up. I can always return calls.”
“That might be, but people want to hear a live human voice, not the recording of one.”
“Sorry.” Alexis was glad that she was wearing one of her office-appropriate outfits. At least Mary Bernadette couldn’t scold her about her clothing.
Mary Bernadette sighed. “Well, no great harm done. But next time you’re going to be out and about during business hours, be sure to let me know so that I can cover for you.”
“Yes. I will.”
Alexis figuratively held her breath until Mary Bernadette had gathered her things—handbag, rain hat, trench coat, and umbrella—and left the office of Fitzgibbon Landscaping. Then she sank into the chair Mary Bernadette had so recently occupied. What had she been doing stopping by the office? Had she expected to find Alexis stealing from petty cash or filching paper clips? Like she had nothing better to do than undermine the family business through a series of petty crimes!
Alexis put her hands on her lap and took a deep breath. She felt dangerously close to an anxiety attack. She hadn’t had one since high school, when for a very brief time she had been bullied by another girl. But she remembered the symptoms well enough.
What is happening to me? When she considered that for the rest of her long life this would be her reality—to be an insignificant part of the Fitzgibbon machine, forced to live by their rules and on their schedule—she was filled with dread. This couldn’t be all that there was to her existence. Alexis had never really believed that a special calling would suddenly raise her above the average person plodding through the years, but surely her life had to contain some bigger meaning, some better purpose than sitting in this unattractive little office, paying bills and assuring impatient clients that Fitzgibbon Landscaping would indeed finish the job on time. There had to be more to her life than sitting in Mary Bernadette’s kitchen two or three nights a week, eating variations of the same dinner, going over the same boring topics—what the weather was doing, who in town was getting a divorce, how pretty much everything and everybody was better in “the old days.” And once she and PJ had children she would be ever more tightly bound to the Fitzgibbon way.
Unless she put a stop to the monotonous forward motion of her so-called life. But being married to PJ Fitzgibbon, how would she go about doing that? Alexis put her head in her hands and took several slow, deep breaths. There was no putting a stop to the inevitable. It was hopeless.
CHAPTER 55
Unlike the rest of the house, Mary Bernadette and Paddy’s bedroom was furnished simply, almost sparsely. There was a queen-size bed and two oak dressers. There was one closet. A crucifix hung on the wall above the bed. A cross she had fashioned from the palm stalks received at church on Palm Sunday was propped against the small mirror over her dresser. Everything was spotless and in its proper place. A messy bedroom had always seemed to Mary Bernadette a sign of a suspect character.
On top of her dresser sat a framed black-and-white photograph of her parents standing outside the family’s little house in Cork, Ireland. Next to it was a photograph of Mary Bernadette and her brother, William, taken when they were about ten and fourteen, respectively. She looked intently at the faces of her family. They were all gone now, dead and buried if not forgotten.
Her wedding portrait stood on Paddy’s dresser in a silver gilt frame Grace had given her one Mother’s Day. She and Paddy had been married after knowing each other for only a few months. For Mary Bernadette, the union had been less of a love match—though she certainly did love the man—than a practical choice of a helpmate. Mary Bernadette had known from the start (in the way that reasonable women knew these things) that she could count on Paddy Fitzgibbon to be sober and hardworking, a good provider for the family with which she hoped to be blessed. Mary Bernadette had never been a silly sentimental girl, not like so many (especially, she thought, these days) who went traipsing into marriage on the most ridiculous of whims only to wind up in divorce court a mere few years later or, maybe worse, stuck spending the rest of their lives with an entirely unsuitable man who drank or who couldn’t keep a job.
Not having the money for a wedding gown, Mary Bernadette had borrowed a dress from a neighbor named Florence Bainbridge. It was pale blue, a bit out of date, but quite pretty. Most important, it fit. Her bouquet was a simple collection of white chrysanthemums. Paddy, who had served in the Korean War, looked incredibly handsome in his dress uniform. They had no money for a ring, so they had simply done without. A year later they had been able to afford a simple gold band; Mary Bernadette wore it to this day.
The reception had been held in the church’s community room. The food—coffee and sandwiches—was provided by Mary Bernadette herself; Florence Bainbridge; and a Mrs. Tracey, who was the housekeeper for Father Murphy and the other priests in the rectory. Mrs. Tracey had made the cake, too, a three-layered affair covered in white buttercream with pink buttercream flowers. Next to the day of William’s birth, her wedding day counted as the happiest day of Mary Bernadette’s life.
Yes, she had been very lucky to find Paddy Fitzgibbon, and very wise, too, to recognize such quality. How far they had come together. How much they had endured.
Mary Bernadette straightened the crucifix above the bed; it had a habit of tilting to the right. It was Holy Thursday. She and Paddy had gone to the service at four that afternoon, in commemoration of the Last Supper, the Passover feast at which Jesus had washed the feet of his disciples. She had given PJ permission to skip the service so that he could spend the afternoon and evening with his old high school friend Peter Costello, come back to Oliver’s Well to spend Easter with his family. Her grandson had been working endless hours since Wynston Meadows had first cast aspersions on the honesty of Fitzgibbon Landscaping, and Mary Bernadette believed that he deserved some time off.
Alexis had said that she would come to the service on her own, but Mary Bernadette had not seen her in the church, nor had she spotted Alexis’s car in the parking lot afterward. She had never thought she would live to see the day when so many members of her own family would treat their faith so lightly.
Mary Bernadette left the bedroom and headed
down to the kitchen to start the dinner. Well, she thought, nothing was ever the same from year to year, though you could try to fool yourself into believing that it was. Things changed, and often not for the better. Just look at what was happening to her beloved OWHA. But God had not put His children here on earth to complain. He had put them here to work hard and to do good deeds. And the reward for good behavior was the greatest reward of all.
Still, Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon thought, opening the fridge to retrieve the package of pork chops she was planning to serve her husband, there were times when the changes and the sorrows and the trials were very, very hard to bear.
CHAPTER 56
Alexis tossed the empty bag of potato chips into the recycling bin under the sink. She had eaten the entire bag in a matter of moments. She did not feel guilty about this. She was sorry there wasn’t another bag of chips in the house.
April seventeenth. Holy Thursday. Alexis had not gone to the service that afternoon, though she had told Mary Bernadette that she would. If it was okay for PJ to miss the service so that he could spend time with an old high school friend (imagine his grandmother actually giving PJ, a grown man, permission to skip church!), it had to be okay for her to miss it, too.
Tomorrow, though, was another thing. The Good Friday service, commemorating the moment of Jesus’s death, was a command performance. Alexis sighed. She wished that PJ’s mother would be with them; her presence on Palm Sunday had made participation in the mass bearable, especially when the congregation had been forced to enact the Passion. It had almost made Alexis laugh, the vehemence with which her mild-tempered mother-in-law had uttered the words ‘Crucify him!’ as if she were truly a member of that ancient angry mob.
But tomorrow . . . well, she would simply have to endure the somber service as best she could. In the meantime she was glad to be alone at the cottage for a few hours. She hoped Mary Bernadette wouldn’t take it into her head to pay a call. She supposed she could simply not answer the door if she knocked. But Mary Bernadette might come in, anyway. She had a key and she did not like to be ignored.
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