Facets. Part 21

"John wouldn't know!" She hurried on, "Don't you see, Boston's so much bigger than Timiny Cove that he wouldn't ever know you were there. We'd be lost in the crowd. It happens all the time. He doesn't know half of what I do, and since he wouldn't be expecting-"

"Not a good idea, Pam."

She dropped her hand from his arm. "Why not?"

"First, because I have a job to do."

"Take time off."

"Second, because you'd be in big trouble if he found out."

"He won't find out," she said, but nervously. Cutter's voice was growing harsh.

"Third, because it's bad enough that I have to be under the guy's thumb at work, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm goin' down to Boston just to be looking over my shoulder to see if he's there!" After a minute of silence, he muttered, "Besides, I've been to Boston before."

Pam knew Cutter didn't like John, but she hadn't known the force of his dislike until then. Nor had she known that he'd been to Boston. But before she could ask him about it, a sound in the woods caught her ear. At nearly the same time, Cutter put a cautionary hand on her thigh. Silent and still, they listened. Together, they looked in the direction of the sound.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He leaned closer. She felt the rea.s.suring brush of his arm across her back. "I'm not sure."

"Footsteps?"

"Sounds it."

"Human?"

"Uh-huh."

Their whispers were exchanged over the s.p.a.ce of an inch.

"Do you think it's John's spy?"

"No."

"Too obvious?"

"Too small."

"Who is it?"

When Cutter was slow in answering, she looked up at him. His eyes were trained on the woods, looking sharp in a way that was in keeping with the heavy shadow of his beard. So was the firm set of his jaw and the squaring of his chin. She wondered if that squaring was from tension or if it was always there. Funny, she hadn't noticed. She'd always looked at the whole, she guessed.

Then his lips moved. "b.u.mble," he whispered, and the tension left his features as quickly as it had come.

"What?"

"It's b.u.mble."

It was a minute before the word registered, a minute more before she realized what he was talking about. Dragging her eyes from his face, she looked off in the direction of the rustling in the woods in time to recognize the small creature who emerged from the trees.

Of the people in Timiny Cove, Pam liked most, disliked a few, and was frightened of one. That one was b.u.mble. She was a wizened old lady who dressed in layers of dark clothes even on the hottest of summer days. Pam had always fancied that the clothes were the only things covering her bones, that if she'd ever had any flesh it had disappeared at some point during the course of the 110 years that she'd lived. The age, of course, was based on town gossip and was clearly an exaggeration, still b.u.mble was eerie. She lived in something that was half underground and not unlike a packrat's midden-but that was town gossip too, since few had ever actually seen where she lived. She appeared to be entirely self-sufficient. She spent her days wandering through the woods gathering plants and herbs, and while she had never harmed anyone or anything, she was given wide berth. No one knew her real name. She was called b.u.mble after the sound she made when she talked.

Pam leaned closer to Cutter and whispered, "What's she doing here?"

"Looking for mushrooms probably," he whispered back.

"Why here?"

"Because the mushrooms are good here."

"But these aren't her woods. They're yours."

He whispered a chuckle. "Not quite."

"You know what I mean. Cutter, she's coming straight toward us."

"It's okay. She won't hurt you."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me."

She did, of course. She trusted him with her life. Tucked up against him, she wasn't half as frightened as she'd have been if she were alone.

The old woman didn't stop shuffling until she stood directly before them. Her watery eyes focused on Cutter. Pam felt him nod a greeting. Then b.u.mble looked at her, and Pam felt skewered. She managed a small smile. "h.e.l.lo."

Those watery eyes stared at her for what seemed an eternity to Pam. Then a wizened hand came from the pocket of something that looked like a worn gunnysack, which was layered over a faded smock, which was layered over a frayed dress-all three in varying shades of dun. The hand disappeared into another sack, this one of canvas. It was burgundy and looked far newer than the rest of her.

When the hand came out, it was clutching a sprig of flowers, which she promptly extended to Pam. "Wi'zalis," the little voice buzzed.

"Wild azaleas," Cutter interpreted softly. He gave Pam a gentle nudge at a spot on her back that b.u.mble couldn't see.

Pam took the flowers. She'd seen wild azaleas in the woods before, but never ones as delicately pink. When b.u.mble gestured toward her nose, Pam smelled them. Their scent was nearly as delicate as their color.

"Thank you," she said. "They're lovely."

Even before she had the last word out, the old woman turned and resumed her shuffling trek through the woods. Holding the flowers to her nose, Pam watched the wrinkled figure until it blended into the forest and was gone.

"Weird," she whispered then. She rested comfortably against Cutter for another minute before lowering the flowers and looking up at him. What hit her, though, wasn't the intent look on his face but his scent. It was familiar in the way of something long taken for granted, new in the way of an awakening. He didn't smell of aftershave like John, or of leather jacket like Robbie. He smelled of earth and of sweat, of man.

Feeling a fluttering in the pit of her stomach, she drew away from him and stood. Holding the flowers to her nose again, she said, "I should go."

Cutter rose. "Can I take you to supper?"

She couldn't think of anything nicer, but she felt strangely awkward. "We can make something at your place." They'd done that many times, then had eaten out on the porch. It was fun and familiar.

But Cutter shook his head. "I'd like to take you out. I haven't ever done that. You're looking so pretty and grown-up. Let me."

Her heart melted.

"There's a steak place over in Norway," he went on. "We could celebrate your finishing school for the year."

"You don't have to-"

"It may be the last time I'll see you for a while."

Abruptly, she felt close to tears. Just then she would gladly have given up her trip for the few weekends she might have in Timiny Cove. She had pa.s.sed seven weeks before without seeing Cutter, but never being quite so far away. Only now did she realize the comfort she drew from knowing he was just three hours away.

"Okay," she said softly.

So they went back to his place while he showered and changed, then he took her out to dinner. She had eaten at fancier restaurants and had better food, but she'd never treasured a dinner the way she did this one. The memory of it stayed with her through the long drive back to Boston later that night, and the tense days that followed.

Chapter 13.

JOHN ALLOWED HER TO GO ON the trip. She wondered if he did it because somehow he knew she was having second thoughts herself, but any reservations were gone by the time she was to leave. Hanging around the house for the first time in months, she found herself thinking about the past and the future, brooding about things she couldn't change. She was on edge even when John wasn't at home. She knew that if she spent the summer at home, regardless of how many weekends she spent in Timiny Cove, she would be a basket case come fall.

The trip was fun. Pam easily made friends, saw Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, San Francisco, Beverly Hills, and Las Vegas. She would have kept going when the seven weeks were finished if it weren't for missing Cutter. And, of course, there was school.

Despite her good intentions, the fall semester didn't get off to quite the start for which she hoped. John was right, she knew. If she paid attention in cla.s.s, did all the a.s.signments, stayed home and studied more, she would do better. But it was hard to pay attention in cla.s.s when her mind kept wandering. The same went for homework. There was always something better to do in the afternoons than to study, and as for the evenings, if she could linger at a friend's house so that she didn't have to return to the townhouse and John, she was happier.

She was his whipping boy, the one he lashed out at when any little thing in his own life wasn't quite right. He found fault with what she was doing, how she was doing it, where she was going, and with whom she was going. He never yelled-he was always in control-but his words were sharp, quite effective in telling her how irresponsible he thought she was. In moments of pique she wondered what she'd done to deserve his torment, but when those moments settled and she thought clearly again, she knew. She was Eugene's daughter. John took one look at her and was defensive. By the same token, he had come to represent everything negative in her life.

Come late October, when her midterm grades came in, he imposed a weekday curfew. When three nights running she dashed in late filled with excuses, he took the car away for a week, but that didn't slow her down. She simply arranged for transportation with her friends. On various occasions he threatened to cut off her allowance, to disconnect her phone, to sell her car-but none of that would have crippled her. John was the materialistic one, far more so than she. There were things that meant more to her than a telephone or a car.

It took him a while, but he finally came to that realization. So when her term grades arrived at the end of December showing no sign of improvement, when she came in at two in the morning from a party he'd told her not to attend, when she ran off the next day on a ski trip to Vermont without asking permission, he lowered the boom.

"Enough," he declared from the door of her room the evening after she returned. "From now on, I want you home for dinner and the evening on weeknights. You can do what you want when you're here. If you don't want to eat, you don't have to eat. If you don't want to study, you don't have to study. And you can do what you want on the weekends-come and go as you please, go to Maine, whatever."

Pam held more tightly to the book she was reading. It was Love Story. She had started it while she'd been away, when the others had driven off to another party and she hadn't felt like going. She was thoroughly caught up in the pathos, or had been until John had intruded. Now, listening to him, she waited for the other shoe to fall. Nothing he had said so far was particularly new or upsetting, but she had an uneasy feeling that something was coming.

"I don't like feeling foolish when I tell you to do something, and you don't," he went on in such a reasonable tone that her unease grew. "I've had it with laying down laws you ignore. I can't watch you every hour of the day. It's time you show some responsibility. You'll be seventeen in a few months."

She waited. He was making her nervous by deliberately drawing out his ultimatum.

"All I ask," he said finally, "is that you make honor roll at school."

"All," she echoed.

"It's not so much. You're not dumb. Just unmotivated."

She thought about that for a minute before saying slowly, "If the problem is motivation, what's to make the difference?"

"Responsibility. I'm wiping my hands of it. It's all in your lap. It's your responsibility to make the honor roll."

"And if I don't?" She held her breath.

"If you don't, I'll do two things. First, I'll fire Marcy. Then I'll sell the house in Timiny Cove."

Pam sat forward so suddenly that the book tumbled to the carpet, but she didn't notice. "You wouldn't."

"I would." His dark eyes gleamed. "Make honor roll, or Marcy will be out of a job. She can look for another, but she'll have trouble matching the pay I give her. Besides, she'll have a hard time of it with no letter of recommendation."

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"But I love Marcy!"

"I know. Did you know she's been helping her mother out with what I give her? If I let her go, it's done. Do you want the responsibility of that on your shoulders?"

Pam didn't, not in a million years. The look of horror on her face must have encouraged him, because he went on more smugly. "As far as the house in Timiny Cove goes, it's superfluous anyway. I make day trips mostly. The house has outlived its usefulness."

"But I use it!" Pam cried. She was trembling inside and with good cause; the scaffolding around the frail fabric of her life had been shaken. "I love that house. Daddy loved that house."

"Daddy's dead," he mocked coldly.

"But it's all I have of him!"

"Fine. Make honor roll, and I'll keep it."

"John," she pleaded.

"Make honor roll, Pam. It's all in your hands." Before she could do more than cry his name again, he left the room.

Her first impulse was to run after him and tell him exactly what she thought of him, but then she thought of Marcy and quickly reconsidered. Her second impulse was to grab her coat and keys and go out, but it was Thursday night, and although she was still on vacation, it was a weeknight. Her third impulse was to call Hillary-but Hillary was in New York, and besides, John wouldn't listen to her when it came to something like this. He felt that he'd found the way to make Pam toe his mark, and maybe he had.

Her fourth impulse was to call Cutter. But Cutter didn't have a phone. So she had to settle for leaving first thing Sat.u.r.day morning for Maine. It was noontime before she arrived and three in the afternoon before Cutter pulled up in the small pickup he'd bought the year before. She had been pacing the inside of his cabin for three hours and was in a mood to beat all moods when he arrived.

"You need a phone, Cutter!" she cried the minute he opened the door. She knew she looked a little wild, but that was just how she felt. "I've been needing to talk with you since Thursday night, and I couldn't! Can't you get one? You've made so many other improvements around here, and a phone doesn't cost that much. I'll pay for it if you want. I have to talk with you sometimes!"

Cutter was standing in the open doorway, caught short by her outcry. Closing the door behind him, he crossed to where she stood, but when he tried to touch her she batted his hand away.

"I'm serious, Cutter. I was stuck in that house and couldn't go anywhere because of John's threats, and the one thing that might have helped was talking with you. But I couldn't." Again he reached for her; again she stepped away. "I thought of sending a message through Simon, but if I'd done that, he'd have called John in a minute. Same with Leroy or any of the others. They're all afraid of him."

Cutter came toward her once again, but this time she wheeled around and went to the window. It was too clean, clearly depicting the winter woods dappled with patches of snow. What wasn't cold and white was dismally gray, perfectly matching her mood. "A telephone isn't such a big deal," she cried, hugging herself against the chill. "I mean, I couldn't call you. I couldn't call Hillary. I could call my friends as much as I wanted, except they don't understand what I'm feeling. They aren't the ones living with a s.a.d.i.s.tic monster. They aren't walking a tightrope. They may have fights with their parents, but at least they have parents!" She whirled to face him. "More than anyone else, you would have understood, but I couldn't talk with you!"

When he next started toward her, she made for the kitchen, but he'd had enough of her evasion. A long arm reached out and snagged her. She tugged, but he tugged right back, bringing her fully against him. She tried to twist away, but he wouldn't allow it.

"Cutter!"

"Easy, babe."