wife, and the Worrell Institute—feel so welcome.” He scanned our faces. He and Amanda were certainly welcomed by everyone at my Thanksgiving gathering. But he might have been better served leaving out mention of the Worrell Institute, considering the ominous series of events that had recently occurred there. An uneasy silence spilled over the table.
I sipped my wine. “Amanda?” I said to O’Neill’s wife. “I believe you’re next.”
“Michael said he was speaking for me,” she said. Her voice was cold, and distinctly unfriendly.
It had become obvious to me soon after the O’Neills arrived that Amanda did not share her husband’s enthusiasm at having accepted my invitation. She’d said little. There are many people whose quiet demeanor at gatherings is appealing, if not welcomed. Amanda O’Neill’s taciturn silence, however, spoke of arrogance. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was usually gracious and generous in her social skills, but had been angered by something that happened before arriving at my house. I’d met her at the opening gala for the institute; she’d seemed gracious and hospitable enough in that setting.
If my generosity of spirit hadn’t been accurately applied, however, I was left with only surprise that she was Dr. Michael O’Neill’s wife. He was gregarious and charming. She was—to be kind, a dolt. At least on this day.
Their choice of clothing for a Thanksgiving dinner said much about their differing personalities. Michael wore a navy cashmere blazer, snow-white turtleneck, and gray wool trousers with a razor crease. Amanda, who was tall and slinky, wore a painfully tight black dress cut low in front, massive gold hoop earrings that reached her bare shoulders, and stylish, albeit uncomfortable black platform shoes.
I looked at Michael O’Neill. If his wife’s unpleasant refusal to speak had made him uneasy, he wasn’t overt in showing it. Trying to put him, as well as everyone else, at ease, I said to Amanda, “That’s perfectly all right, Mrs. O’Neill. No need for everyone to have their say.”
“I’d like to say something.”
The voice belonged to Barbara McCoy, who sat to Amanda’s left. She was one of two young women from the Worrell Institute. Once Dr. O’Neill had accepted my invitation—and realizing the dinner table would need an extra leaf or two anyway—I asked whether there were artists at the institute who would be alone on the holiday. He came up with three: Barbara McCoy, a musician; Susan Dalton, the young woman in whom Mort Metzger had taken a liking at the opening party, and who was writing a murder mystery; and a young man, Jo Jo Masarowski, a “video artist” who looked like a poster boy for a FEED THE HUNGRY campaign. There is skinny, and there is pale, but Jo Jo had combined them into an art form of its own.
Barbara McCoy was a striking, although not necessarily attractive woman, who put herself together well, and whose self-confidence made you think of her as beautiful. Model-tall, and pencil-thin, her auburn hair was cropped extremely close, almost a crew cut. Unusually high and defined cheekbones created canyons in which aquamarine eyes dwelled. I pegged her at about the same age Maureen Beaumont had been at the time of her death.
McNeill had told me that Barbara was very much alone in the world. “She doesn’t have any family,” he’d said. “Her parents were killed in a plane crash two years ago. An only child.”
Ms. McCoy spoke slowly, softly, and deliberately. She had stage presence. “I’d like to thank you, Mrs. Fletcher, for inviting me here. May I call you Jessica?”
“Of course.”
Amanda O’Neill looked up and squinted at the large brass-and-copper chandelier above the table. Was she asking God for deliverance from the table?
“I’d also like to say something else. I promise I’ll make it brief. It’s a wonderful tradition you have here, Jessica, having people at your Thanksgiving table
I sipped my wine. “Amanda?” I said to O’Neill’s wife. “I believe you’re next.”
“Michael said he was speaking for me,” she said. Her voice was cold, and distinctly unfriendly.
It had become obvious to me soon after the O’Neills arrived that Amanda did not share her husband’s enthusiasm at having accepted my invitation. She’d said little. There are many people whose quiet demeanor at gatherings is appealing, if not welcomed. Amanda O’Neill’s taciturn silence, however, spoke of arrogance. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was usually gracious and generous in her social skills, but had been angered by something that happened before arriving at my house. I’d met her at the opening gala for the institute; she’d seemed gracious and hospitable enough in that setting.
If my generosity of spirit hadn’t been accurately applied, however, I was left with only surprise that she was Dr. Michael O’Neill’s wife. He was gregarious and charming. She was—to be kind, a dolt. At least on this day.
Their choice of clothing for a Thanksgiving dinner said much about their differing personalities. Michael wore a navy cashmere blazer, snow-white turtleneck, and gray wool trousers with a razor crease. Amanda, who was tall and slinky, wore a painfully tight black dress cut low in front, massive gold hoop earrings that reached her bare shoulders, and stylish, albeit uncomfortable black platform shoes.
I looked at Michael O’Neill. If his wife’s unpleasant refusal to speak had made him uneasy, he wasn’t overt in showing it. Trying to put him, as well as everyone else, at ease, I said to Amanda, “That’s perfectly all right, Mrs. O’Neill. No need for everyone to have their say.”
“I’d like to say something.”
The voice belonged to Barbara McCoy, who sat to Amanda’s left. She was one of two young women from the Worrell Institute. Once Dr. O’Neill had accepted my invitation—and realizing the dinner table would need an extra leaf or two anyway—I asked whether there were artists at the institute who would be alone on the holiday. He came up with three: Barbara McCoy, a musician; Susan Dalton, the young woman in whom Mort Metzger had taken a liking at the opening party, and who was writing a murder mystery; and a young man, Jo Jo Masarowski, a “video artist” who looked like a poster boy for a FEED THE HUNGRY campaign. There is skinny, and there is pale, but Jo Jo had combined them into an art form of its own.
Barbara McCoy was a striking, although not necessarily attractive woman, who put herself together well, and whose self-confidence made you think of her as beautiful. Model-tall, and pencil-thin, her auburn hair was cropped extremely close, almost a crew cut. Unusually high and defined cheekbones created canyons in which aquamarine eyes dwelled. I pegged her at about the same age Maureen Beaumont had been at the time of her death.
McNeill had told me that Barbara was very much alone in the world. “She doesn’t have any family,” he’d said. “Her parents were killed in a plane crash two years ago. An only child.”
Ms. McCoy spoke slowly, softly, and deliberately. She had stage presence. “I’d like to thank you, Mrs. Fletcher, for inviting me here. May I call you Jessica?”
“Of course.”
Amanda O’Neill looked up and squinted at the large brass-and-copper chandelier above the table. Was she asking God for deliverance from the table?
“I’d also like to say something else. I promise I’ll make it brief. It’s a wonderful tradition you have here, Jessica, having people at your Thanksgiving table
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