Facets. Part 2

"What is?"

"Justice. Sweet, sweet justice."

Needing more than that, Hillary tried a teasing tone. "What's going on, Pam? You've hinted at things before. I've seen that same look on your face, and it's stronger each time I see it. You're doing something, aren't you? You and Cutter?"

"John's the one who's doing it."

"That's a plat.i.tude if I've ever heard one." When Pam didn't deny it, Hillary chided, "You wouldn't have gone on 20/20. You wouldn't have stood up to him in public."

"Television was the wrong forum."

"So what's the right one?" Hillary thought her book was. Clearly, Pam disagreed.

"There's a right one. Trust me. He'll get his."

"When?" After several seconds of silence, Hillary asked, "How?"

Pam sighed. "I can't say more now. But think about it. It stands to reason that when a man like John goes through life hurting the people closest to him, at some point they'll strike back. You want to strike now-as many of us have wanted to for years-but there are ways and there are ways. Some are better than others. It may take time to do it right, but it will happen. So help me G.o.d, it will."

Hillary wasn't particularly rea.s.sured. She wanted to write her book. She didn't want to wait around while Pam and Cutter and whoever else they were in cahoots with plotted revenge against John. She had her own instrument of revenge, and she wanted to use it now.

"Don't worry," Pam said, misinterpreting her expression. "It won't be cheap. We're not talking a public smear here."

"A public smear mightn't be so awful," Hillary argued. "When a man goes public, he goes public. As of last Friday night, John is fair game. He wanted the good and took it, and now he has to risk the bad."

"I doubt he sees it that way."

"Probably not, the pompous a.s.s."

Pam gave a dry smile. "Now I know he's in trouble. When you start calling him names, he's up the creek."

"That's for sure," Hillary said. "I know what I've felt these past few days. It has to be something like what you've spent years and years feeling."

Pam gave a sage nod. "The anger. The sense of injustice. The need to lash back. I've felt all of those things. But you know that. You've seen me kicking and screaming, banging my head against the wall because of things John's done."

The image of ladylike Pam banging her head against the wall made Hillary smile. "It's been a while since the kicking and screaming. I remember the first time I saw it, though. You couldn't have been more than eight. You were in Timiny Cove over school vacation. John was having a go of it with your dad, and because of that, what was supposed to be a special time between you and Eugene was ruined."

Pam remembered well, if not the specific incident then dozens just like it. "Those two were like oil and water. Ten minutes in the same room with each other and there was trouble. If I was eight, John would have been twenty-four, so he'd have already been involved in the company. He thought he knew how to handle things, but his way was the ant.i.thesis of my dad's. He was arrogant even way back then. Twenty-four and wanting to run the ship. He was born arrogant."

"So were you, I thought. You looked like a spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum."

"Frustration. It was frustration."

"You were furious that anything or anyone should upset your plans."

"My relationship with Daddy was special," Pam argued in indulgent self-defense. "When school was in session, I was in Boston. He split his time between us and Maine, so I didn't see him much. But every vacation I went to Timiny Cove. Mom stayed behind in Boston, so it was just Eugene and me. He had John cover for him at the mines. It used to drive John nuts."

Hillary could understand that. "He didn't like Timiny Cove any more than your mom did."

"No. He wanted to be in the city. That's where everything was happening, he said. Nothing happened in the sticks."

Hillary reminisced with a chuckle. "The sticks."

"You hated it there too. You used to ask me all kinds of questions about life in the city. Remember?"

"Uh-huh. It must have seemed bizarre. I was ten years older than you were. But I was starving for information. John gave me some, but never enough. He always held back a little to keep me curious. You told me everything you knew."

"Which wasn't an awful lot."

"To me it was. Besides, I liked you."

"Because I was John's sister?"

"No. Well, yes, maybe at first, but I really did like you. You had a spark. You were fun. Happy."

"Except when I was throwing temper tantrums," Pam said with a droll look. Then the look grew pensive. "I loved the time I spent in Timiny Cove. The house was big and airy, the people friendly and interesting."

"Interesting?"

"They were colorful."

"Colorful."

"They were, Hillary. How else would you describe Phoebe Hanks or Rufus Hackett or Dwayne Wardwell? G.o.d," she sighed through a smile, "they were great. Phoebe with her crochet hook making those hideous slippers, one after another after another, Rufus with his chipmunk cheeks and his toothless grins and the jokes whose punchlines he always messed up, Dwayne looking so stern under his butch haircut-all of them with hearts of gold. Daddy and I used to play poker with Rufus and Dwayne. I remember it so clearly. . . ."

And so it began. Hillary hadn't asked for it, but it was easy to keep Pam going. A question here, a disbelieving look there, a teasing prod drew forth Pam's unique impressions of Timiny Cove. She accepted Hillary's curiosity about those impressions. Likewise, the questions Hillary asked about Eugene St. George and, of course, John seemed perfectly natural.

As Hillary listened closely, her interviewer's mind filing every detail, a distant part of her brain foresaw other lunches, other mornings, afternoons, or evenings spent with Pam or Patricia or Cutter. She would tell them what she was doing, because they meant the world to her, and if they had qualms, she would soft-pedal one private chapter or another. She would be compa.s.sionate, where they were concerned.

Where John was concerned, she would be merciless.

Chapter 3.

Timiny Cove, 1964 PAM LEARNED TO BLUFF WHEN she was eight years old playing poker in the back room of Leroy Robichaud's general store. She didn't do it deliberately, at first. She was innocent and enthusiastic, and she dared risk her pennies on a hand that none of the others would have, because she had never known what it was like to have to count her pennies to survive.

The other men had. Rufus Hackett and Dwayne Wardwell still did, though nowhere near as much as before the big gem finds; and Eugene, well, Eugene remembered. He told Pam stories of the days when he had lived hand to mouth. She listened to those stories with a child's round eyes, but they were unreal to her. Nothing in her existence remotely resembled those hard times in the 1920s and '30s. By the 1940s, Eugene had already turned tourmaline mining into a lucrative venture, and by the '50s, when she was born, he owned the townhouse on Boston's Beacon Hill, the stately brick home in Timiny Cove, and the Cadillac. But she listened to the stories for hours, because her father was the teller, and she adored him.

"Raise ya, missy," Dwayne said, tossing two pennies into the pot after a somber study of the cards in his hand.

Pam studied hers. It wasn't a particularly good hand, had none of the picture cards that she liked, but she did have a pair of fours, and a pair of anything was better than nothing. "I'll call," she decided. She pushed another penny toward the center of the table and grinned at Dwayne.

"You was s'posed to fold like your daddy and Rufus," he informed her.

When Eugene leaned close to take a peek at Pam's hand, she jerked the cards to her overalls. "I can do it, Daddy," she whispered.

"You know how?" he whispered back.

"Yes." Taking a two of clubs and a three of diamonds from her hand, she laid them delicately on the table and took the two cards that Eugene handed her. A nine of hearts and a three of spades-they didn't do a thing for her hand; still she widened her eyes just a little bit in mock excitement before composing herself and looking serenely at Dwayne.

He'd been watching her closely, which was just what she wanted. She knew Dwayne. He was the most easily fooled of the three, simply because he didn't have any children of his own who pretended. He knew that children liked candy, and he always had a barley pop in the pocket of his faded flannel shirt to give Pam before she left for home.

While he gravely studied his hand, Rufus leaned close. "I got a good one for you, Pammy. It's a traveling salesman joke."

"Okay," Pam said. Rufus sometimes tried to distract her with his jokes, but since Dwayne was the one concentrating at the moment, she wanted to hear. "Tell me."

"Y'see, once there was this traveling salesman, and he has this horse. Now, the two of them was down in Rumford when the old horse up and died."

"Hush," Dwayne grumbled. "I can't think."

Rufus talked softer. "Now, th' old horse died on Piscatawogue Street, y'see, and there's a whole crowd gatherin' round, and pretty soon a policeman comes up to make out a report. So he asks how to spell Piscatawogue, and everybody looks around. No one knows how to spell it, y'see."

"Rufus," Dwayne complained.

"So because no one knows how to spell Piscatawogue, the policeman closes his book and says to the crowd, 'Okay, you guys, gimme me a hand and we'll carry this horse over to the next street.'"

Pam was silent, looking first to her father, then to Dwayne for help. Guarding his cards against his chest, Dwayne muttered, "No, no, no. You done it wrong. That ain't how it goes. You're s'posed to say, 'Okay, you guys, gimme a hand and we'll carry this horse over to Main Street.'"

Pam did laugh then, because even she could spell Main and because Eugene laughed, which was always a treat for her. He didn't laugh much in Boston.

Then Dwayne made his move. Tossing three cards face down on the table, he took three new ones from Eugene and slipped them into his hand. His expression instantly grew more grim. Aiming a look of disgust at Rufus, he folded, snapping a pair of sevens, a queen of hearts, a king of clubs, and a two of diamonds onto the table.

Fanning out her cards near his, Pam let the others look at her pair of fours while she gathered in the pennies with both small hands.

Eugene gave an even heartier laugh this time. "You're a wonder, Pammy girl!" he said as he collected the deck and shuffled before dealing another round.

Pam glowed. She loved her father. He was a man to please, a man whose voice could thunder through the house when something wasn't right, but he never thundered at her. He might yell at her mother, and he certainly yelled at John, but never at her. She was his special gem, he told her, and though she was too big now to ride on his shoulders the way she used to when he took her to the gem pits, he still said the words. Holding a newly unearthed piece of tourmaline in his hand, admiring its beauty in one breath, in the next he would say, "But you're my special gem, Pammy girl."

Through her mother's eyes, she saw him as a man. "Your father is the most handsome of all the handsome men in the world," Patricia told Pam when she was no more than three or four. "I'll never forget that first day he walked into the bank and I saw him. So broad-shouldered and sure of himself. He took my breath away."

"Your mother was barely nineteen at the time," Eugene teased. "Most anything would take her breath away. She was a beauty then, as she's a beauty now, but she sure did look pretty with those cheeks of hers all pink."

"How old were you, Daddy?"

"I was an old man."

"He was not," Patricia argued, taking the insult personally. "He was forty-seven and younger of body and heart than many a twenty-five-year-old. When he walked into that bank, I knew he was the one I wanted, even if I didn't think I had a chance in the world of getting him."

"She loved my house," Eugene injected, mischief in his eyes, and Patricia was quick to say that it hadn't only been that, though even Pam knew how much she adored Beacon Hill. Patricia's pleasure was evident each time she returned home and walked up the stone steps while envious onlookers pa.s.sed by.

It was a fairy-tale life, Pam thought, particularly when she watched her parents dress up for a ball. Her mother was as beautiful as her father said, small and willowy, with delicate features and blond hair that was long and flowing, as straight as Pam's, though Pam's was dark. Perhaps because of that color difference, Pam didn't make the usual kinds of comparisons between her looks and her mother's. She a.s.sumed that she was different but just as pretty, because her father always told her so, and she always believed what he said.

Her father was her hero. He was taller than most men she'd seen, had more hair than most-thick, silvery hair-and redder cheeks. Her mother used to say he was ruddy and robust, as he eyed himself in the mirrored door of the armoire. And when his bow tie was neatly knotted and his tuxedo jacket spread smoothly across his shoulders, Pam could see it for herself. He looked grand, like Wendy Darling's father in Peter Pan.

Pam knew her mother liked him best when he was all dressed up and they were going out. "To see and be seen," Patricia used to tell Pam. "It's very important. Your father's name is just becoming known. One day he'll be a very important man in this town."

"What do you mean?" Pam would ask, a little unsure because the look in her mother's eyes suggested that things might change, and Pam didn't want that. She liked her life the way it was. She couldn't imagine how things could get better.

"He'll be wealthy, for one thing."

"Isn't he now?"

"Now we're comfortable."

"But we have two houses. Melissa Gentile said that makes us rich. She doesn't have two houses."

"But the one that she has is far nicer than ours."

"I like ours."

"Melissa's is bigger. Hers is an estate, with lots of land."

"We have lots of land in Timiny Cove, and our house there is the nicest one in the whole town."

Patricia grunted. "Timiny Cove is dirty. It's shabby and poor."

"I like Timiny Cove," Pam argued, though from an early age she learned that she wouldn't change her mother's mind on the matter of Timiny Cove. "What else is Daddy going to do?"

"Besides make lots of money? He's going to have an office that's even fancier than the one he has now. He may even own the building, and if he doesn't own that one, he'll own others. Real estate is a good investment. It's a good way to make money."

"But if he already has lots of money, why does he need more?"

"Security," Patricia said in a way that left no doubt about its importance. "You're a very lucky little girl, Pamela. You don't know what it's like to be without. I do. I remember when I had to wear the same pair of shoes for three years even though my feet had outgrown them after one. I remember when my mother used to send me to the butcher's shop for a small bit of stew meat, knowing that I didn't have enough money but hoping that the butcher would take pity on us and leave the extra piece or two in the bundle. I remember . . ."

Coming from her father, the "I remember" stories were warm and fun. In spite of the hardships he described, there was a fondness in his voice for the time in his life when he'd made the best of the low cards he'd been dealt. There was nothing warm or fun or fond in Patricia's voice when she spoke of the old days. Her tone was hard. Everything about her was hard when she spoke of the old days, and if Pam had been leaning against her, that was the time when she would get up and move to sit on the floor or wander around the room. Her mother wasn't happy when she talked of the past. Sometimes she wasn't much happier when she talked of the present.

"I never had any security until I met your father. We have some now, but not enough. Real estate is the future. I'm going to have your father talk with Franklin Dowd at the symphony dinner on Thursday night. Franklin has done well for himself in the last few years."

Pam was too young to know who Franklin Dowd was, why real estate was the future, or what the necessity was for stockpiling a.s.sets. But she was sensitive to simple emotions, attuned to facial expressions and tones of voice. Just as she knew that her mother grew agitated when she talked business with her father, so she knew that Eugene was correspondingly complacent. He agreed with Pam. His life was just fine. He loved the things money could buy and availed himself of them as he pleased, but he was happiest and smiled the most when he was in Maine, wearing overalls, either checking on work at one of the mine sites or visiting with his friends, the men he'd known all his life.

Pam knew them all. Whenever she was in Maine, Eugene had her with him, showing her off, teaching her to love the men, the mine, the crisp, clean air on a cool Maine night. Some of the things they did, like sneaking out to swim in the stream at midnight, were secrets because Patricia wouldn't understand. Other things they did, like share a picnic lunch with the governor, were secrets because John wouldn't understand.

John didn't understand much, as far as Pam was concerned. He was sixteen years older than she, the product of Eugene's first marriage and a different world, and if he'd ever been a child, Pam couldn't see it. He didn't play games, tell jokes, or watch television. Moreover, he didn't like tourmaline, didn't like Timiny Cove, and didn't like Eugene or Patricia or Pam. "He's jealous," Eugene would sometimes say when John was at his worst around Pam, and in her innocent way she understood. The warmth that she shared with her father never flowed between father and son. When Eugene and John stood side by side, they rarely touched. When they talked, they rarely smiled. They shared a temper, but then, Pam shared it too, and though in time she learned to control it, she hadn't managed it when she was eight and playing poker.

The game had gone on for little more than an hour when John burst into the back room. "We have a problem," he announced to Eugene without preamble. "Your foreman's stealing stones."

Eugene sent his son a dark look before shifting a slow gaze first to Rufus, then to Dwayne. "That's quite an accusation." Lips pursed, he looked back at his cards.

"I've been going over the books," John went on. He didn't bother to look at Rufus or Dwayne, and Pam was just as glad. The looks he usually gave them weren't the nicest. "They're a mess. When was the last time you went through them yourself?"

Eugene tossed a penny into the pot to match the one Dwayne had bet before him. "I don't have to go through the books. I have a bookkeeper to do that."

"Then your bookkeeper is as crooked as Blaise," was John's brash a.s.sessment. "We're taking more out of the ground than is reaching the vault."