Facets (23 page)

“We’re here for the weekend. Can I see you again?”

“You bet.”

They’d gone about halfway back to the cabin when she said, “Daddy loved you, too. He really did.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“He did. He wanted to leave you something in his will. Did you know?”

After a pause, Cutter said, “He mentioned it once. Little Lincoln.”

“I don’t know what happened.” She remembered the argument her father and John had about it. “I heard him tell John and he was so definite. He wouldn’t change his mind. Not about that. I think he wished you were his son, not John—and John knows it.” She looked up at him. Lit by the moon, his face was all hard, bold angles that should have looked harsh to her, but didn’t, couldn’t. Cutter was special. “He would be mad as anything if he knew I ran out here first thing.”

“Well, you’re not gonna tell him,” Cutter vowed, looking defiant, “and I sure ain’t, so unless he’s got spies up here, he won’t know. Right?”

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Pam smiled.

She did more smiling that weekend. She saw all of her friends, and while there was always an awareness that someone was missing, being with them was healing.

Being with Cutter was the best part. His life was so different from hers, but somehow he understood what she was feeling and thinking. When she was with the others, she felt well tended and guarded as those people who loved Eugene would guard his daughter, but still there was an element of loneliness. When she was with Cutter, she didn’t feel alone.

For that reason, she squeezed every possible trip to Timiny Cove out of John. It turned out to be easier than she had thought it would be and had nothing to do with either kindness or compassion on John’s part. On the weekend of that first party in April, he discovered that he liked having the townhouse to himself, which he told her bluntly. She didn’t care. Going to Maine meant the world to her. She was happier there than she could ever have been with John on Beacon Hill.

Cutter was her dearest friend. Sometimes they talked at his cabin or walked through the woods to the stream. Sometimes they went to the mountain he was working so that he could show her through the mines that had been opened since she’d been there last. Sometimes he watched while she doodled with a stick in the dirt or with a pencil on the back of his pay envelope. He kept all her sketches posted on the wall by his bookshelf and was particularly enthralled by those she made of tourmaline in each stage of discovery.

“I’d wear this one in a ring,” she told him once, and when he asked what the ring would look like, she drew that, too, then took delight in his appreciation.

She knew of his reputation for toughness, but she saw none of it. She saw his eyes harden when he was angry, saw him grow guarded when he was in town, but in the next breath he’d look at her and everything in him would become gentle. That made her feel special. She liked the exhilaration she felt when she was with him. Like Eugene, he was spontaneous, not programmed. He liked to talk about books he read, or about what Washington was doing to help out the local dairy farmers. He hadn’t ever traveled, hadn’t ever gone to the theater or the ballet or the opera, didn’t own a suit, wasn’t thinking of leaving Timiny Cove or moving up in the world. Still he was the most interesting person she knew.

John found out that she saw him, of course. She wasn’t sure how, but when he confronted her, she lied. She said that she’d bumped into him by accident, and that it wasn’t her fault he happened to be walking along the sidewalk at the same time she was.

John warned her that it wasn’t to happen again. She nodded and said that it wouldn’t. And her smile was that much wider the next time she arrived in Timiny Cove and went straight to Cutter’s cabin in the woods.

Chapter 11

J
OHN’S SPY WAS A MAN NAMED
Sylvester Crosey, known to the townsfolk of Timiny Cove for his cat grin and his slyness. He had worked for Eugene until the day he was found doctoring his time charts, when, for the sake of the morale of the others, Eugene let him go. John rehired him in a supervisory position in one of the less productive mines and paid him a salary that far exceeded his position. Once Sylvester grew accustomed to a lifestyle he did not want to forfeit, John added the responsibilities that he’d hired him for in the first place. Spying became paramount among them. Not only did John want a bead on what was happening at the mines, but he wanted to keep a pulse on the town without having to spend anything but token amounts of time there.

Sylvester was the one who told him that Pam was spending time with Cutter.

John had mixed feelings about that. On one hand, it infuriated him that Cutter—and Pam—would blatantly disregard the warnings he’d given. On the other hand, the friendship had possibilities. The longer it went on and the stronger it got, the greater a bargaining tool it became. If Pam did something John didn’t like, or if he wanted something from her that she was reluctant to give, he could threaten to keep her away from Maine. Likewise, the knowledge that he could slap a child-molestation charge on Cutter at any time gave him pleasure.

He didn’t dwell on it, though, because within six months of Eugene’s death, the bulk of his mental energy was channeled into the business. As Eugene’s will had been written—with Cutter Reid no longer a part of it—John received a share of the business equal to Patricia’s and Pam’s. Small pieces of the pie had been left to Eugene’s lawyer, his long-time accountant, and certain select friends in Timiny Cove, but the three family shares determined the power structure. Following Eugene’s instructions, Pam’s shares were put into trust until she turned twenty-five or married, with Patricia and John sharing discretion over her interest in the company until then. But Patricia wasn’t in any condition to exercise discretion over her own interests, let alone Pam’s, as John easily convinced the court. With the passing of documents granting him guardianship, he had full and unconditional control. The business was his to do with as he wished.

It was a heady feeling. Whether walking through the offices in Boston or the mines in Maine, he felt the power of such control. People regarded him differently. They went out of their way to please him. He didn’t delude himself into thinking that they liked him any better; they knew he planned changes and were seeing to their own best interests. But whatever the cause of their deference, he liked it. Being the boss was a fine thing.

Being in control of his own destiny was even better. The dreams he had had when he was younger were reemerging and seeming more attainable by the day. The party he gave at the townhouse was a success, as were others that followed. In turn, he was asked out often. People were taking greater notice of him.

That wasn’t to say he was where he wanted to be. He wasn’t known much beyond Boston, and he certainly wasn’t nearly as wealthy as he wished to be. While he made the occasional A-list for parties, he wanted to make it consistently, and not only in Boston, but in New York, Washington, Palm Beach, wherever he chose to go.

He could see such success happening. If he played his cards right, he could have it all. It also meant closely following a carefully devised plan. He made several immediate changes at St. George Mining. First, he moved the headquarters to a new and prestigious address in Boston’s financial district. Second, in a reorganization of his staff, he promoted the most intelligent and enterprising, demoted those who were mere technicians but necessary to the functioning of the office, fired others who were either old, boring, or still mourning Eugene. Third, he hired people chosen for their creativity, daring, and connections to fill newly created posts, most notably in public relations and marketing.

Once his staff was operating satisfactorily, he formally changed the name of the business to the St. George Company and went about taking it public. It was a complicated process, involving lawyers, bankers, brokers, and large amounts of paperwork and legal maneuvering, but he’d analyzed the market well. Precious and semiprecious stones, of which tourmaline was one, were considered a solid investment. By the end of the first day of trading, he, Patricia, and Pam were each millionaires many times over.

With the proceeds from sales of common stock, plus the capital that the business already had at its disposal, he was finally able to begin work on what he felt was the company’s future. He rented a prime piece of storefront property on Newbury Street near the Ritz, and remodeled the inside according to the advice of one of the city’s most savvy interior designers. He studied the work of dozens of jewelry designers in Boston, New York, and Los Angeles. Hiring the youngest and most talented of the lot, he set up a studio over the store itself and provided them with the tourmaline and other gems and metals they’d need to design the kinds of pieces he had in mind. Well before the first of those pieces were ready for sale, he hired an advertising agency to launch a campaign designed to appeal to customers with class.

Facets
opened in May 1971, nearly eighteen months after Eugene’s death, with the kind of gala champagne reception that would have driven the elder St. George to the street in a sweat. John, on the other hand, was calm, cool, and in his glory. The guest list included the best and the brightest of Boston, from society’s cream to business leaders, members of the diplomatic corps, luminaries in the professions, and philanthropists. The bubbly flowed freely but was consumed with the kind of temperance to be expected of people who were self-assured and successful.

They loved the store. John spent the evening accepting praise and congratulations. His designers, attired in tuxedos and gowns, spent the evening fielding inquiries as to whether they could make a piece of jewelry like a particular one on display but with a sapphire here, a bit more gold there, a pair of diamond trilliums somewhere else. His salespeople, chosen for their good looks and poise and well tutored in every aspect of the merchandise, spent the evening wandering through the crowd smiling, answering questions, inviting people back for a more personal look at a quieter time.

Everything clicked. The store was elegant, the jewelry exquisite, the mood exclusive, all of which appealed to people who were used to the same but usually had to leave Boston to find them. John was applauded for that by more than one grateful patron. By the time the evening was over, he was sure the venture would succeed.

Sales were good in the weeks that followed. He made sure that his designers’ work was traditional enough to appeal to Boston’s upper crust, but he allowed them enough freedom to create pieces for the more eccentric of the chic as well. Differences between styles were subtle in some cases, more distinct in others, but nothing was radical and nothing was cheap.
Facets
prided itself on the quality of its product, its setting, its service, and its personnel. People were willing to pay well for the privilege of bringing home a purple velvet box with the tiny gold marquise,
Facets’
insignia, embedded in the upper right-hand corner.

That insignia, the product of extensive consultation with art and advertising experts, had cost a bundle. So had renovation of the store. And while John had relatively easy access to tourmaline, the cost of buying the other gemstones for his designers was high, as was his operating overhead. He was shaken by the amount of money he had spent. More quickly than he’d have imagined, the funds gathered from taking the company public were depleted, and while that increased the pressure on him to see that
Facets
was a success, it didn’t affect his personal spending. He was the figurehead, as he saw it, the personification of
Facets’
clientele, and in that sense he had an image to uphold. That image involved a five-star lifestyle that mandated wearing the finest clothes, driving the newest cars, eating at the trendiest restaurants, and being seen at the poshest parties.

The bills came in, and the pressure mounted, although no one would have guessed it from the calm and confident way John carried himself. It wasn’t part of his persona to look worried. Not once in any social conversation did he give the slightest suggestion that
Facets
was treading on shaky ground. That wasn’t anyone’s business but his own. Still, the pressure was there, making him tense deep down inside.

It was only natural that he should want a woman to divert his anxiety. Although his sexual appetite had been on hold in the months following the accident, it had returned in bits and pieces, and was back with a vengeance now.

Patricia was lost to him. She refused to see him—not that he wanted to see her either. She was a blemish on his record, a miscalculation on his part. Every time he saw how shattered she was, he remembered the cause. The accident wasn’t his fault, of course. He hadn’t been driving the car. Like the affair, the accident was Eugene’s fault. Eugene had driven them to sleep together.

Now there were other women, strangers to him, whom he bedded. Having one woman, one night, added to the mystique of John St. George. It also kept him safe. He didn’t want any woman getting close enough to interfere with his plans for the future. He didn’t want any woman getting under his skin, discovering his needs, finding that he wasn’t made of steel after all.

Hillary already knew that, which was one of the reasons he kept returning to her. She was privy to his past and wasn’t part of the crowd he was trying to impress. She wasn’t part of any crowd at all. Although she had plenty of friends, they were from diverse groups. She was an individual in that sense, which definitely fit into his plan.