One Year

by Mary McDonough

  Let the games begin, she thought, as she placed a call to Leonard DeWitt.

  “I was half-expecting to hear from you,” he admitted, when she had identified herself. “What are you really up to, Megan, joining the board of the OWHA? It’s not only to keep Mary Bernadette’s voice being heard, is it?”

  “In a way, Leonard, it is,” she told him. “See, I want to get rid of Wynston Meadows as much as you do. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to go about doing that, but it seemed to me the first step was to get on the board. The next is to know on whom I might count for help. And that’s why I’m calling you.”

  Leonard laughed. “Are you sure you and Mary Bernadette aren’t related by blood?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “All right then, you can forget about Joyce,” he said. “She’ll slavishly follow Meadows’s every command, no matter its unsavory nature. I think she’s half in love with the man. And Wallace is too concerned with gaining Meadows’s favor to entertain a sensible opinion about him.”

  “Then what about Norma? Can she be made to see that Meadows is poisonous for Oliver’s Well?”

  “Possibly,” Leonard told her. “She’s not an unintelligent woman, but she isn’t known for her firm views and strong opinions. Frankly, I’ve no idea what she thinks about Meadows and his high-handed ways.”

  “Which leaves you and me and Richard and Neal and Anne and Jeannette. A majority of the board. We’re all staunchly pro–Mary Bernadette and just as staunchly pro–Oliver’s Well. Can’t we just put it to a vote and push Meadows out the door?”

  Leonard cleared his throat. “It’s not as easy as all that. If it were, Meadows would have been long gone. See, we need a unanimous vote, not just a majority, to dismiss anyone from the board. Well, unanimous expect for the person being voted off.”

  “What? That’s ridiculously restricting! Who came up with that idea?” And please don’t say Mary Bernadette. . . .

  “I don’t know,” Leonard admitted, “but it’s been in the bylaws of the OWHA forever.”

  “Well, this puts a new spin on things. No wonder you’re all feeling so stymied.”

  “Not all of us. Joyce and Wallace seem content to put up with any sort of bad behavior for the sake of the money. Which so far has been just a phantom.”

  “Maybe,” Megan said, “we can concentrate on the character angle. Convince the others that Meadows’s history suggests he can’t be trusted.” She told Leonard about the shady development deal and the charges of domestic violence.

  “But nothing ever came to court, you say?”

  “No.”

  “Then it remains speculation. Suspicion isn’t proof.”

  “But sometimes it can be enough reason for walking away from a deal that seems too good to be true.”

  “That is a point, but when there’s so much money at stake . . . Honestly, Megan, I don’t like the man one bit, but if there is a possibility of his coming through with the millions, the last thing I want to do is alienate him. And I’m not alone in that. I think even Mary Bernadette feels the same way.”

  “I understand. Well, thanks, Leonard, for your honesty.”

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But you’ll be the first to know.”

  Megan remained at her desk when the call was over. It occurred to her again that she might have taken on a losing cause, especially given that insane rule about the need for a unanimous vote to get someone kicked off the board. But there was no way she could walk away from the OWHA now, not without embarrassing herself and bringing further shame on the Fitzgibbon name. There had to be a way to eliminate Wynston Meadows without eliminating the money.

  It all came down to the money. But why did the money have to be Wynston Meadows’s money? “Of course!” Megan said to her office. It was so simple! If everyone was so afraid of losing Wynston Meadows’s promised millions, then she would simply have to find the money elsewhere. And then she would have to convince the board members that the new financial backers were a better bet for the OWHA than the illustrious Mr. Meadows.

  Now, Megan thought, her excitement suddenly dampened, where do I find someone with twenty-five million dollars they’re willing to give to little Oliver’s Well?

  CHAPTER 112

  “None of my family will tell me what’s going on with the OWHA,” Mary Bernadette complained. “Jeannette, tell me what you know. What is Wynston Meadows saying about me now?”

  Jeannette, who was sitting in the chair beside her friend’s bed, sighed. “Honestly, Mary, I don’t know anything. And I think everyone would agree that it would be in very bad taste for him to malign a sick woman.”

  “Everyone but Mr. Meadows would agree,” Mary Bernadette retorted. She had dismissed her son and daughter-in-law’s warnings about him as ridiculous and insulting. And now . . . Now she was paying for her pride.

  “Please, Mary,” Jeannette said, “don’t drive yourself mad with thinking about the man. Please just concentrate on getting better. We miss you back home, Mary.”

  Did anyone really miss her? Anyone other than Paddy, of course, and if he did miss her, Mary Bernadette wondered now if it was only because she was a habit for him, someone whose presence punctuated his days and gave them form. It was a terrible thought, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the truth.

  “I’ve had a bad shock, Jeannette.” The second the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could draw them back in.

  Jeannette nodded gravely. “Indeed you have, Mary.”

  “I never thought that something like this would happen.” There, again, were words she had never meant to speak.

  Jeannette smiled. “What, that you would grow old like everyone else?”

  “Don’t mock,” Mary Bernadette scolded. “I’m serious. It was foolish of me, terribly foolish to expect I would escape—weakness. Foolish and sinful.”

  Jeannette reached over and patted her friend’s arm. “Now, don’t be too hard on yourself, Mary. We all entertain fantasies of immortality from time to time. Sometimes we do it without even being aware that we’re living in a dream.”

  Fantasies of immortality. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, turning her face from Jeannette.

  “There’s nothing to do Mary, but to rest and get well.”

  “Poor Paddy.”

  “We’re all looking after him, Mary, don’t you worry.”

  Mary Bernadette turned back to her friend. “Do you think he’s been happy?” she asked. The need to speak seemed to be overwhelming. She realized that she desperately wanted to hear the truth, but if anyone knew the truth would they tell it to her?

  Jeannette stood abruptly—Mary Bernadette saw her flinch and knew that her back was hurting her—and began to smooth the sheets. “Of course he has! Now, don’t go troubling yourself with such silly thoughts.”

  Mary Bernadette pushed Jeannette’s hands away. “Stop fussing over me. I’m not entirely incapable. Not yet.”

  Carefully, Jeannette sat back down. “The doctors say you’re doing much better.”

  “Then why are they still holding me prisoner?” Mary Bernadette demanded. “When can I get out of this place?”

  “Patience, Mary. Patience is a fine virtue.”

  Mary Bernadette frowned. “Yes, well, that’s all very well for you to say when you’re not the one eating substandard food. And I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since I’ve been here, what with sick people coughing and buzzers buzzing and machines whirring and beeping. For so long I was—I was terrified of this place! Do you remember when Paddy had the hip replacement, how you sat with him for hours on end because my nerves wouldn’t allow me to? Now I’m just sick of it!”

  Jeannette sighed. “This too shall pass, Mary. Be thankful that you survived.”

  Mary Bernadette suddenly reached for her friend’s hand. “I am thankful, Jeannette,” she said fiercely. “More than anyone can ever know.”

&nbs
p; CHAPTER 113

  Pat followed his father through the living room and into the kitchen, Mercy trotting between them. The two men had been at the hospital all morning. Pat had spent only a moment or two with his mother and then had waited for his father in the cafeteria, reading the paper on his iPhone and drinking weak, flavorless coffee. Anything was better than standing tongue-tied by his mother’s bed, wrestling with unsettling emotions.

  Mercy was now bouncing around the kitchen. In search of a treat, Pat supposed. The mutt never stopped eating, asking to eat, and probably dreaming of eating. Well, that sort of fixation was common in shelter animals. God only knew what sort of awful life Mercy had endured before someone had brought her to safety and then Paddy Fitzgibbon had adopted her.

  “Let me make you some lunch, Dad,” Pat said, opening a cupboard and scanning the contents.

  “Don’t go to the trouble, Pat. I’m not hungry.”

  Pat turned to his father. “You have to eat, Dad. Mom will kill one of us if you lose weight. Look, here’s a can of tomato soup. How about soup and a grilled cheese sandwich? And there’s beer in the fridge. I brought it in. I won’t tell Mom if you won’t.”

  Paddy managed a smile. “No, I won’t say a word.”

  His father took a seat at the table, Mercy ever attentive by his side, while Pat went about preparing lunch. And while he toasted bread and heated soup he thought back to all the times his father had quietly—though sometimes ineffectually—attempted to make up for his mother’s frequent punishments and chronic lack of affection. Pat had always been very grateful for his father’s love.

  Now he brought the soup and sandwiches to the table. “Eat it while it’s hot, Dad,” he said.

  His father picked up his spoon but put it down again. “I know,” he said, “that your mother has been hard on you, Pat. But she’s always loved you. I hope you believe that.”

  Pat choked on his soup. It was the last thing he had expected to hear from his father. The content of their conversations had always strictly remained in the realm of weather, sports, and local politics. Never, ever did they discuss family matters or, God forbid, feelings. Pat fervently wished that Megan would come through the kitchen door right then and rescue them both.

  “It’s just that something happened to her when William died,” his father went on, stirring his soup into a small maelstrom. “And then you coming along so soon after . . . Well, she hadn’t finished mourning, I suppose.”

  “Eat some soup, Dad,” Pat repeated, “before it gets cold.”

  Dutifully, his father took a few spoonfuls of soup and a bite of his sandwich. And then he looked at his son earnestly. “I hope that you can forgive her, Pat. She is, after all, your mother. But I know that’s between the two of you.”

  Pat stared at his plate and considered his father’s words. Could he forgive his mother her arrogance and her constant criticism? Could he forgive her for all the times he had gone to her for comfort and she had turned him away? Could he forgive her for the rudeness and disdain with which she had treated his wife? And could he forgive her for loving William more than she was ever able to love him?

  Automatically, Pat took another bite of his sandwich, but it had no taste for him now. He was half-tempted to give the sandwich to Mercy, but the thought of his mother finding out—no matter that she was in a hospital bed miles away—stopped him. And at that moment he realized that though he might never come to like his mother, he did love her. Though the love wasn’t as strong as what he felt for his father or his wife or his children, still, it was love. And maybe you owed forgiveness to the ones you loved, even the difficult ones.

  Pat cleared his throat. “I promise I’ll always do the right thing by her, Dad.”

  His father smiled at him. “I know you will.”

  They ate their lunch and drank their beer in silence for a while, each man lost in his own thoughts, while Mercy continued to stare fixedly at Paddy’s bowl and plate. “If it weren’t wrong to be envious of another person’s good fortune,” Paddy said suddenly, urgently, “I would be envious of you, Pat. You have all that I lost.”

  “What do you mean, Dad?” Pat asked, troubled by his father’s tone of voice. “What have you lost? What do I have that you don’t?”

  “You have to understand that I mean no disrespect to your mother.”

  “Of course not. But I still don’t understand.”

  “I do love your mother, Pat. And I know that she loves me. But things haven’t been right in such a long time. . . .” Paddy looked down at his half-empty bowl of soup. “It was different,” he said, “when your mother learned she was going to have William. It was—better. We were so very happy. And then when William died, well, it near killed her. My dear wife. She became . . . She grew distant from me, from everyone. She couldn’t risk the intimacy, you see. She was so very afraid that she wouldn’t survive another great loss so she hardened her heart.”

  Pat was at a loss for words. His mother, afraid? And his father . . . He had never known how much of his mother’s difficult nature had registered with his father; he had never even considered that his father might be unhappy or lonely in his marriage. He felt immensely sorry for the man’s suffering. And he felt ashamed of his own lack of sympathy and understanding.

  Paddy began to cry quietly. Mercy whimpered and rested her head on his lap. “Good girl,” Paddy told her through his tears. “Good girl.”

  Pat waited patiently for his father to compose himself. Eventually, Paddy looked back up at his son. “I did try to make you feel loved. I did try.”

  Pat reached across the table and put his hand on his father’s. “I know,” he said earnestly. “You did the best you could do, Dad. That’s all anyone can ask of a person.”

  “I wish it could have been more.”

  Pat smiled. “You know what they say, Dad. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”

  Paddy smiled back. “You sound just like your mother.”

  “God forbid!”

  “Now, there you go again.”

  Mercy lifted her head from Paddy’s lap and barked.

  “Eat your lunch, Dad,” Pat said. “And try to keep that dog off the table.”

  CHAPTER 114

  Alexis, Grace, and Megan took the elevator down to the hospital’s cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Mary Bernadette had fallen asleep and there was no point in the three of them staring at her. That was what Grace had said.

  PJ’s aunt was tall and straight shouldered like her mother. Her hair was brown with a few streaks of gray and her eyes were the exact color as her brother’s. On the fourth finger of her left hand she wore a simple silver band. There was a silver chain around her neck, and Alexis guessed a cross was suspended from it, but whatever it was rested inside Grace’s shirt.

  “How are you getting along at Fitzgibbon Landscaping?” Grace asked her when they had found seats at a table by a window. “Yikes, this coffee is awful.”

  “Fine. It’s not a very difficult job.”

  “Easy for you to say. I don’t do numbers. What else are you up to?”

  “Not much,” Alexis admitted. “Well, nothing, really. I was . . . I was doing some work for the OWHA but . . .” Alexis felt her cheeks flame. “But that didn’t work out.”

  Grace grinned. “Too strong a dose of the matriarch, eh?”

  “You two have such full lives,” she blurted. “I mean . . . you have your own lives, apart from . . . apart from Oliver’s Well.”

  “You have to learn to stand up to Mary Bernadette, Alexis,” her mother-in-law said. “Unfortunately, nobody else can do it for you. Not even my son, though—God forgive me for saying this—he might be of more help to you than he has been.”

  Alexis was stunned. Could it be that PJ’s mother and aunt had sympathy for her plight?

  “Mary Bernadette is not a goddess, Alexis,” Grace added, “no matter how formidable she might appear. She’s just a flawed human being like the rest of us.”

  “I gu
ess I know that, but still. When she gives you that look . . .”

  Megan laughed. “Ah, the look! She really should have been an actress. I wonder how much of her persona is conscious.”

  “Good question,” Grace said. “I think that my mother is a fascinating example of a person who’s highly conscious of the effects she wants to achieve and at the same time largely unknown to her self. Unaware of her real motives. Flailing. In short, desperately staying afloat.”

  “Maybe that will change,” Alexis said. “A crisis can change people for the better. Or so it’s said.”

  Grace looked up at the cafeteria ceiling, as if, Alexis thought, the answer lay in the insulated tiles. “Maybe,” she said after a time, looking back at the other two women. “But my mother is one stubborn lady. It might take a miracle to budge her. And I haven’t witnessed many of those lately.”

  “We’re Catholic,” Alexis pointed out. “We’re supposed to believe in miracles.”

  “Do you?” Grace asked. “Do you really believe in miracles?”

  “I don’t know,” Alexis admitted.

  “The problem with my mother,” Grace said now, “is that she has no sense of humor. Now, I don’t know if she ever did or if it died when William died. Either way, it would do her good to laugh more. To see the ridiculous or absurd side of things once in a while. To learn to make fun of her own foibles. But again, I think we’re talking a miracle.”

  Megan shook her head. “I can’t imagine Mary Bernadette giggling. Can you? Think about it. Laughing modestly, sure. But not giggling.”

  “No snorting milk through her nose, either.”

  Alexis laughed. “No thigh slapping.”