Facets. Part 29

Arlan looked surprised. "You talked with her?"

"Went up there last week, a day after the party."

"She must be ancient," he said in a hushed voice.

Remembering the bent and weathered woman, Hillary gave a small smile. "Not as old as people think. Maybe seventy-five."

"That's old enough," he drawled.

"But we thought she was double that twenty years ago!" He eyed her with the utmost admiration. "So you went to the pack rat's midden."

Hillary's smile tilted. Arlan was reacting just as the people of Timiny Cove would have done if they'd known she had visited b.u.mble.

"The pack rat's midden," she enlightened him, "is actually a small house on the far side of the woods from Cutter's place. I wouldn't exactly call it a dung heap. It is quite well equipped."

"You mean, she has Teflon-coated caldrons?"

"I mean, she has a modern stove and refrigerator, a microwave oven, a television with a small satellite dish, plus a VCR and an extensive collection of films. Seems she's a sucker for situation comedy. Three's a Crowd, Who's the Boss, Cheers-you name it, she has taped collections."

"Where did she get them?"

"Cutter. He's been sending her stuff for years."

"The microwave and the stove, too?"

Hillary nodded.

"In grat.i.tude for nursing him?"

She nodded again and turned her face to the breeze. It lifted the hair off her neck, offering pleasant relief from the warmth of the sun and the tension of her thoughts.

"And you? Did you take Cutter in for old times' sake?"

"And for Pam's sake. I knew she liked him. I also-" She hesitated, feeling guilty.

"You also what?"

She sighed. "I had mixed enough feelings for John to take Cutter in out of defiance. I knew that John had given him trouble over the years. Somehow it seemed right that I give him his start in the big city. Not that I dreamed he'd actually make it. He seemed harmless. I knew that he had worked hard at the mine, but there was no correlation between mining and anything in New York. It never occurred to me that he would pose any kind of threat to John."

"Does he? Have I missed something here?"

Hillary wasn't sure. Since she'd seen Cutter the week before, there had been times when she wondered how on top of things she really was. "He's become a somebody, all right. He knew the movers and shakers at that reception last week, and they knew him."

"Does that make him a threat to John?"

"Not per se." She was trying to figure out her unease. "But back then he had so much anger. He said there were two things pushing him when he left Timiny Cove-getting Pam, and getting back at John. He doesn't have either yet, but I can't believe he's given up. Especially now that I know . . .?this."

She felt Arlan watching her closely. Seeking to escape his scrutiny, she rose and began walking again. It wasn't long before he was beside her.

"It bothers you, doesn't it?"

"Of course it bothers me. I hate violence."

"It's great for the book."

That was true. Whether it was great for her peace of mind was something else.

"Hillary?"

She continued walking.

"Talk to me, Hillary."

"About what?"

"About whether you're getting cold feet. You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No." But she knew she sounded hesitant. She also knew that if she didn't offer an explanation, he'd hound her forever. "I just didn't expect to start unearthing surprises. Like this business about the beating."

"And the will. Don't forget the bequest that was never bequeathed."

She couldn't. It ate at her.

"Pretty eye-opening," Arlan remarked, chewing on his straw. "The guy really is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"He has his strong points."

"But they aren't what will make your story."

"I know," she said softly.

Arlan stepped directly in front of her, forcing her to a stop. "The contract is in the works, Hillie. We've agreed on the terms. You're on the schedule for next July. Don't fink out on me now."

"I won't. I'm writing the story."

"Including the good parts?"

"Of course."

"Even though you love the guy?"

"I don't love him," she muttered and looked away. "He's getting married next month."

Arlan leaned close. "But he doesn't love her."

Her eyes flew to his. "Does it matter? Since when do people marry for love? Since when is love enough to sustain a relationship? Things don't work that way, Arlan. Love is a frivolous concept. It's something we entertain when we're too young to know better. It doesn't have much of a role in the real-life scheme of things."

"Would Cutter agree with that?"

"Probably."

"Has he stopped loving Pam?"

"No, but she's married to someone else, and he's alone."

"Has he given up on her? She was the other half of what he swore he'd get when he left Timiny Cove. Seventeen years have gone by since then. Has he conceded defeat?"

Of course not, Hillary thought, but she didn't say it. She couldn't believe that Cutter had conceded defeat where Pam was concerned-any more than she could believe that he was done with John. Maybe she didn't want to believe it. Maybe it was the old-fashioned part of her that wanted love to win out and justice to prevail.

And yet, Cutter had seemed satisfied. But was he so content because he antic.i.p.ated greater satisfaction?

Cutter had had the look of a man expecting vindication.

Or had she been imagining it?

She'd have to ask Pam.

Chapter 17.

Boston, 1974 PAM HURRIEDLY LOCKED THE bathroom cubicle and whirled to hang over the toilet. She had to throw up. She felt it coming. She wanted to, if that would settle her stomach. She had a cla.s.s in thirty minutes, and she'd absolutely die if she made a fool of herself there.

But nothing happened.

Nothing had happened in ten days, which was how long she'd been waking up nauseated. Morning sickness. She guessed it was as emotional as physical. Being pregnant was both a miraculously wonderful and a positively terrifying prospect.

Suddenly giddy, she leaned against the cubicle door and grinned at the ceiling. In the next breath, her eyes filled with tears. Lowering her head, she buried her face in her hands.

It had happened in Cutter's truck on that cold night in December. Neither of them had been prepared. Neither had expected to make love, much less there. It had been spontaneous, uncontrollable, and more than a little desperate.

She hadn't seen him since.

Hit by the ache of that hollowness, she leaned over the toilet again. Her arms shook as they propped her up. Her skin felt clammy. Closing her eyes, she took an unsteady breath. She knew she had to get control of herself. She would forget the cla.s.s in twenty minutes; she had the rest of her life to manage.

Straightening, she brushed the tears from her eyes, left the cubicle, and went to the sink. The cold water felt good on her skin. Time and again she splashed her face, and would have gone on for a while had another student not come in. She mumbled a wet h.e.l.lo, buried her face in a towel, then, when it was marginally dry, left.

Mercifully, she had a single room, so she was spared having to make explanations when she took a cracker, propped herself up in bed, and began to munch on it. She'd feel better once she ate, she knew.

She didn't feel better when she thought of Cutter, though. She ached. Being without him for the last two months had been as bad as losing her parents. Neither loss made sense. In Cutter's case, the loss was even harder because he was out there, somewhere, and she didn't know where.

Unfortunately, it had taken her a while to realize that. She had a.s.sumed, back in December when the days went by without a call, that he was very wary. After all, she was the one who had pushed for caution. She was the one who'd been terrified that John might find them out. After a week, her frustration mounted. She thought for sure that Cutter would call her from a pay phone, where nothing could be traced. Several days later, she used one herself, but he didn't answer his phone. She kept trying. After three weeks, she began to feel frightened.

Marcy, who was in constant touch with her family, told her that Cutter had vanished.

"Vanished? He can't just have vanished," she argued.

But Marcy held firm. "He's off the payroll, out of the bank, gone."

"But why?"

Marcy looked helplessly blank.

"Someone has to know where he went. All the men he stood up for-"

"I had Lizzie ask. They don't know."

"Aren't they worried?" Pam certainly was, and angry. "Aren't they wondering whether maybe he's in some kind of trouble and needs their help for a change? Aren't they asking questions?"

Marcy was slower, more reluctant in answering. "That's not how they are. They don't ask. They accept. They adjust. Cutter left. Life goes on."

Pam wasn't so sure of that in the weeks that followed. She was miserable. One minute, she was sure that Cutter had abandoned her, that he had decided that loving her was too hard, that he'd given up the fight. The next minute, she was sure that John was involved in his disappearance. She couldn't ask him; it would be revealing and dangerous. She couldn't talk with Simon Blaise or Verne Walker, or even the FBI, for the same reason. So she was as helpless as the miners. Only she felt ten times worse.

The first time she missed her period, she attributed it to worry. The second time, she knew the truth. She didn't have to go to a doctor for confirmation. The sun was rising inside her, a little bit of Cutter growing there, making her feel full, worthwhile, and redeemed.

And scared.

She was going to have the baby. There was no question about that. It didn't matter that the Supreme Court had made abortion legal and easily obtainable. She wanted the baby. She figured that it would come in September, which meant that she could graduate with her cla.s.s in June without many people even knowing of the pregnancy.

But John would know. His eagle eyes would see it. He would be furious, particularly if he knew the baby was Cutter's. Maybe she wouldn't have to tell him. Maybe she could run off, take her own apartment, and have the baby alone. She would be eighteen, an adult. College could wait.

Then she realized that John would be furious regardless of what she did. Her stomach churned at the thought. But she was going to have the baby, and if it looked like Cutter, she'd be thrilled. John could threaten all he wanted. He could resort to blackmail. He could try to manipulate her as he had in the past, only this time it wouldn't work. There was a life growing inside her and it was as precious to her as her own.

She wondered if it was a boy or a girl.

She wondered if it was hard to take care of a baby.

She wondered if people would look at her like she was a s.l.u.t.

She wondered if John would disown her, and if he did, what access she would have to the trust fund her father had left her.

She wondered what Patricia would say. And Marcy. And Hillary.

She wondered where Cutter was.

As the next two weeks pa.s.sed, though, she wondered most if she could make it through the semester. The nausea was nearly constant, and no matter how much she slept, she was tired. She didn't dare let up on her schoolwork lest her grades slip. She didn't want anyone at school, even her friends, to guess she was pregnant, so she had to deny the symptoms. And although she feared that something was wrong, since she was so sick, she feared seeing a doctor more. She was still underage. A doctor would report back to John.

The matter was taken out of her hands during the first week in March, when, rising from her chair at the end of Art History, she pa.s.sed out cold. When she came to, she was on the floor, looking up at a ring of concerned faces. She struggled up, and might have convinced those around her that she was fine, had the headmaster not been pa.s.sing by. He insisted that she be taken to the infirmary. Worse, he called John, who deemed it important enough to pick her up and take her to his personal physician.

"You look like h.e.l.l," he said on the way there, and she knew she did. She felt like h.e.l.l. Pregnant women were supposed to be radiant, but the only thing she radiated was exhaustion. Something was wrong. She was nearly as frightened for the baby as she was about John finding out she was pregnant. One scenario after another raced through her mind. By the time they reached the doctor's office, she was a bundle of nerves.

The first thing the doctor did was give her a sedative. When it had taken effect enough to silence her protests, he gave her the kind of examination the doctor at school hadn't thought to give. When he was finished, he removed her feet from the stirrups, covered her shivering body with a blanket, and left the room.

She was lying with an arm thrown over her eyes when the door opened again, then closed, and she knew the moment of judgment had come. She wished she felt up to it, but the world seemed vaguely distant. Still, she tried to steel herself for a fight.