Facets

by Barbara Delinsky

“Stay away from Pam,” he growled.

  Not trusting that he wouldn’t tell John to go to hell, Cutter strode off to where he’d left his motorcycle, climbed on, revved the engine—never more appreciating the power of the mama he’d bought the year before than at that moment—and, without a look back, left a strip of rubber and a trail of dust behind him.

  He rode hard, barreling out of town well past his place. He pushed the cycle to its limits, roaring past the occasional car as though it were crawling, taking curves at a precarious tilt. Only after he came within inches of hitting a cottontail rabbit that was hopping across the street in ignorant bliss did he careen to a stop.

  Parked on the side of the quiet highway, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let his fury settle. John was a bastard in every sense but the literal. He’d known that, but it didn’t help much in soothing the insult he felt.

  He didn’t like John’s suggestion that he was fooling around with Pam, that he’d ever harm her. Mostly, he didn’t like the suggestion that he stay away from her, because, unless John was going around town telling everyone the same thing, it implied he wasn’t as good as the others. But Pam didn’t seek out the others the way she did him. She didn’t tell them the things she told him. If John knew half of those things he’d be furious.

  That thought and the knowledge that John could threaten all he wanted and it wouldn’t matter made Cutter smile. If Pam wanted to come out to his place, she would. If she wanted to visit him at the mine, she’d do that, too. And if he saw her on Leroy’s steps, he was going to sit right down beside her.

  He’d be damned if John would tell him what to do, especially when it came to Pam, and if John didn’t like it, that was his problem. He didn’t scare Cutter. After living on danger’s edge for so many of his early years, Cutter welcomed the challenge. Baiting him would be fun.

  So, in hindsight, the confrontation on Leroy’s steps wasn’t so bad. Cutter’s only regret as he turned the cycle in an arc and headed for home was that he’d been distracted from buying the six-pack he’d originally wanted.

  Chapter 8

  WHILE CUTTER HEADED HOME, John drove Pam back to the big brick house. “Get your things together,” he instructed, feeling little affection and even less patience as he walked through the large front hall. “I want to be on the road to Boston in an hour.”

  Pam followed him into the living room. “To Boston? But I thought we were staying all week.”

  He heard her disappointment and wasn’t touched by it in the least. He didn’t care how she felt, especially after the snotty way she’d walked away from him with Cutter sitting right there watching.

  “We’ve changed plans,” he said curtly. He reached for the tallest of the three sterling decanters that stood on the bar. “I want to be at the office in the morning.”

  Pam came up from behind. Although she was growing taller, she still had the sweet look of childhood that never failed to annoy him. Sweet she might look, but she was not. She was too smart for her britches. “I thought Daddy wanted you here.”

  “Simon will cover while he’s gone.”

  “But there’s nothing to do in Boston.”

  He took a healthy swallow of scotch. “Maybe not for you. I have more than enough to keep me busy.”

  “Okay. You go back. Marcy and I will stay here.”

  “Uh-uh. You have to be back by the weekend. I’m not making the trip again.”

  “Then Marcy will drive me home.”

  “Marcy doesn’t have a car.”

  “We’ll borrow one.”

  “No way, princess.” Highball glass in hand, he headed for the stairs. “Be ready in an hour. And tell Marcy to be ready.”

  “John . . .” Pam’s plaintive voice followed him up the stairs. Neither missing a step nor looking back, he went down the hall to his room and began to pack. He had the few things he’d brought from Boston stowed neatly and was packing his shaving kit when Eugene appeared at his door.

  “Pam says you’re leaving?”

  John shot him a sharp glance. “I should have known she’d run straight to you.”

  “She didn’t. I saw Marcy downstairs. I’m off to New York tomorrow, John. I was counting on you to keep an eye on things here.”

  He was using his tempered voice, the one that he used more often now, the one John found patronizing. He preferred the big booming sound that had shaken him so as a child. He wasn’t a child anymore, and he didn’t shake. Moreover, he could give back what he got. He enjoyed a good shouting match with his father.

  “Simon can do it. You trained him. He knows what you want.”

  “I want you.”

  “I have things to do at the office.”

  “I want you here. You’re my son. I want you here when I’m not.”

  John’s patience waned. It didn’t matter that Eugene was getting older and more gray, or that there were a few times when he actually looked lonely. He represented all that John despised, and John was helpless to hide that contempt.

  “You don’t need someone here. You don’t need to be here yourself, but it’s the one place you can be yourself. You don’t fit in the city. Timiny Cove is where you feel comfortable, so you hang around here and tell yourself that they need you. Well, they don’t. The mines practically run themselves. If you want to waste your time up here, fine, but I don’t.” He tossed back the rest of his drink, then took mellow pleasure from his father’s reddening face.

  “This is your living, these mines. You seem to keep forgetting that. Without them, you’d be back in the city in some small office kissing some big shot’s ass. That what you want?”

  “It’s a moot point, since we do have the mines.”

  “I have the mines. They’re not yours yet.”

  “But they will be, because I’m the only one, next to you, who knows enough about the business to run it. You’ve done well in that sense. Even when I was fighting, you got me up here and involved. I have to hand that to you.”

  But Eugene shook his head. “I don’t take credit for no failure.”

  John bristled. “You’re calling me a failure?”

  “I’m saying that I failed with you. Maybe I got you to know the business. Maybe I even got you to be important to the business. But I could never wring any feeling from you. You’re cold as a fish, John. Ever since your mama died—”

  “Don’t bring her into this!” It was the one thing he couldn’t take. Eugene had abused her. Even thirteen years after her death, it hurt John to hear her name on his tongue.

  Eugene ignored him. “Ever since your mama died, you’ve been hard as a rock. You may know this business better’n anyone but me, but you sure don’t have the love for it that I hoped you might.”

  John was incredulous. “Love? What’s to love? A business is a business. We’ve got open pits and mountains and mines and dirt. We’ve got gemstones. We’ve got receipts from the sales of those gemstones. If there’s anything to love, it’s the bottom line—which would be a hell of a lot more impressive if you would let me broaden the company a little. But you’re so goddamned narrow-minded—”

  “Whoa,” Eugene warned, his face heating.

  “What? I shouldn’t say that? But it’s the truth, only you’re still living like a hick so you don’t know it.”

  “Watch it, boy.”

  But John wasn’t intimidated by his father’s flashing eyes. “It’s been a long time since I was a boy. If I were to get full control of this company tomorrow, I could turn it into something big within a year.”

  “You’d ruin it.”

  “I’d build it. It’s static now, standing still, just like everything and everyone in this godforsaken town.” He couldn’t resist elaborating on that, because he knew it would irk Eugene. “No one does anything here. Small brains, small thoughts. If not for St. George Mining, these people would be living like they did thirty years ago. They don’t know what ambition is. Well, I do. I’d make something of the company that no one else around
here could dream of.”

  Sniffing in a breath, Eugene drew himself up straight. “You may just live to eat those words, boy. Mind you, when it happens I won’t be around to gloat, but you can bet your boots I’ll be up there, leaning against those pearly gates, watching to see which one of you does what.”

  John felt his stomach tighten. “Which one of us?” He had assumed Eugene would leave something to the others, but he was thinking in terms of money or a trust. “You’re going to let Pam have a say in running the company? Or Patricia? Neither of them knows anything about this business.”

  “Cutter does.”

  John didn’t breathe for a minute. He was sure he’d heard wrong. “Cutter?” When Eugene nodded, he said, “Cutter Reid?”

  “Ain’t no other Cutter around.”

  John was incredulous. “Cutter Reid has nothing to do with this.”

  “Someday he will. I’m leaving him Little Lincoln.”

  “You’re . . .?leaving him . . . Little Lincoln.” It was a statement, disbelieving, but a statement nonetheless.

  “That’s right.”

  “Cutter Reid?”

  “That’s right.”

  Talk of Little Lincoln, the mountain that John had been lobbying to open for years, was bad. Talk of Cutter Reid, who was a constant thorn in John’s side, was even worse. But it was the smugness in Eugene’s voice that broke John’s composure.

  “Have you gone mad?” he roared in an uncanny and unwitting imitation of his father. “You can’t do that! Little Lincoln may contain some of the richest pockets of tourmaline we’ve found yet. You can’t leave that mountain to Cutter Reid! He’s not in the family—he’s not your flesh and blood—and he doesn’t know a thing about management. Cutter Reid? You’re out of your mind!”

  “I don’t think so. Neither did Joe Grogan.”

  “Then that old lawyer is as crazy as you!” He turned away, sure that what he was hearing was a joke, but in the next breath he turned back, less sure. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  Eugene shook his head.

  “Cutter Reid is a no-good troublemaker!”

  “He’s a good worker.”

  “He’s lazy! If he had his way, he’d have the men taking breaks every hour!”

  “The others respect him. He’s a leader.”

  “He’s an instigator.”

  “He believes in human dignity.”

  “Is that why he lives in that filthy shack in the woods? Is that why he bombs around town on that motorcycle, making enough noise to wake the dead? Is that why for years he stole whatever money he could find?” When Eugene was unmoved, he threw in his ace. “Is that why he hangs around Pamela? I just came from town, and there he was, snuggling up to her outside Leroy’s store. I’m telling you, he’s sick. She’s just a girl, not thirteen to his twenty. It’s obscene!”

  Eugene was perfectly calm. “I trust him.”

  “To fool around with your daughter?”

  Eugene snorted. “He’s not doing that. He likes Pam. Everyone likes Pam. She’s friendly and agreeable. She’s also one of the few people who knows Cutter for who he is, rather than where he came from. He’ll go places one day, John, and I intend to give him a boost.”

  “But why?” John cried. “Why Cutter Reid? You’ve always had a thing for him, right from the day you hired him. Is he your little project? Your cause? Is that what this is all about? You took a kid who was headed for jail, put him to work and turned him around, so you have a personal investment in him now? Is it an ego thing for you? But you won’t be around when he inherits Little Lincoln. Why in the hell would you waste a prime piece of mining property like that?”

  “It won’t be a waste.”

  “He won’t know what to do with it.”

  “He’ll know,” Eugene said, and gave John a curious look. “But what I don’t understand is why it’s botherin’ you so much, the thought that I’m giving him some land. You’re goin’ to have the business, and the good Lord knows how much other property the business owns. We’ve got mountains all over the county. Little Lincoln isn’t much more than a hill, when you come right down to it.”

  “But it’s rich.”

  “And it’ll be years before he can get at it, for pity’s sake. We have a contract with families who live there sayin’ that no mining will be done till they leave. That may not be for another twenty or thirty years.”

  John had spent his share of time in the past thinking of ways to circumvent that contract. “I’d offer them money to move them sooner. Cutter wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t have the money to do it.”

  “Which is probably why I’m willing that land to him,” Eugene said. “I’ve already offered those folks money, and they don’t want it. They want to stay where they are. You’d pressure them, but I won’t have it.” He shook his head conclusively. “No, Cutter was born and raised here. He feels for the people more than you ever could.”

  “‘Feeling for the people’ isn’t what keeps a business running.”

  “It’s what’s kept it running so far.”

  “And not terribly efficiently, if you ask me.”

  Eugene drew himself up to his full height, which, to John’s frustration, hadn’t shrunk at all with age. “I ain’t askin’ you.” He started for the door.

  But John wasn’t through talking. He had to get Eugene to change his mind—and his will. “All right.” He followed his father into the hall. “You have a personal interest in Cutter. If you want to help him, leave him some money. The guy lives like a pauper.”

  Eugene paused at the top of the stairs. “If he lives that way, it’s because he banks most all of his paycheck, just as I taught him to. He’s got money. He wants to spend it, he can.”

  “Okay.” John could deal with that argument, too. “So he’s being prudent, just like you taught him. Leave him a little more money, and he won’t feel that he has to be so prudent.”

  Halfway down the stairs, Eugene said, “He’s happy with his life. He wants to splurge, he can.”

  John grasped the railing with both hands. “But he’s going to need more money anyway. Pretty soon he’ll meet someone and want to get married, then he’ll have kids coming right and left. He’ll need funds, but it’ll be years before he sees a dime from Little Lincoln, and then only if he puts money into it.”

  Eugene’s smile, as he looked up from the bottom of the stairs, was a knife twisting in John’s gut. “You’ve got his life planned out for him, eh, John? You’ve always been orderly, ever since you were a boy lining your toys up in your room. But Cutter’s life ain’t your toys. You ain’t got much of a say in it.”

  He took a breath and went on. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what Cutter’s got planned. Don’t think he does. Don’t think he wants to plan much ahead right now. And that’s why Little Lincoln is the perfect thing for him. By the time it’s ready to be mined, he’ll know what he wants.” He arched a brow and said pleasantly, “Tell you what. You keep your money in the bank, and by that time you might have enough to buy him out. Course, Little Lincoln won’t come cheap. And by that time, at the rate you’re goin’, Cutter will hate your guts enough to take you for a real ride.” He walked to the front door and left.

  Pride was only one of the feelings that prevented John from going after him. The other was a raw anger that kept him immobilized, standing where he was gripping the second-floor railing, for a time. It was only when his fingers began to ache that he realized what he was doing. Returning to his room, he finished packing with a vengeance.

  “Pam!” he bellowed, trotting down the stairs with his bag. “Get down here, Pam!” Had he not been her only source of transportation home, he’d have left without her. Having to suffer her company was bad enough under normal circumstances. Given his present mood, it was going to be unbearable. “We’re leaving, Pam,” he shouted. “Get her out here, Marcy! I’m getting the car!” He stormed out of the house.

  It was another fifteen minutes before they g
ot on the road. The sudden departure plans had caught Marcy baking a chocolate cake. She had to clean up the kitchen before she could pack, then had to dash to take food to her mother, who was laid up with a broken rib.

  “Did he hit her again?” John asked in disgust when, breathless, she finally climbed into the backseat of the car.

  “She’s okay,” Marcy said and tucked herself into a corner.

  Pam turned around in the front seat. “Is someone with her?”

  “Lizzie.”

  “Where’s Jarvis?”

  “He ran off. He’ll be back in a week or two. Always is.”

  “It’s her own damn fault,” John snapped. “He was beating her before they got married, still she went ahead with it. It was a stupid thing to do.”

  Pam turned on him. “She had her reasons for marrying him.”

  “Sure. She wanted someone to warm her bed, so she picked the first man who came along.”

  “Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she was scared. Marcy was just a baby. Honestly, John, can’t you imagine what she was feeling?”

  “Frankly, no. It was a stupid thing to do. So now she’s living with the decision.”

  “She doesn’t deserve what he does to her.”

  “Then she should kick him out.”

  “She does, and he keeps coming back.”

  “Then she should go to court.”

  “She doesn’t have the money to do that.”

  “So she sits there and takes it. She’s as stupid now as she was back then. Some people just don’t learn.”

  Pam made a face. “You’re a pill, John.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” John said and stepped on the gas.

  He made record time back to Boston. While the speed took the edge off the worst of his anger, enough remained to keep him geared up. He kept thinking of Cutter, then of Eugene. Then he thought about Patricia, and kept thinking about her, so that by the time he parked the car in the courtyard of the townhouse on Beacon Hill, he was sexually excited.

  Pam and Marcy took off as quickly as they could, which was just fine with John. Dropping his bag by the back door, he took the stairs two at a time. Patricia was in the parlor, sitting at the roll-top desk, writing out invitations for a party she planned to give. Having already paused to greet Pam, she raised her eyes when John appeared at the door.