Facets (39 page)

“Uh-huh. Four of us hitting ten countries in nine weeks. I’m not sure Europe is ready—at least, not for the three of them. Me, I’ll be Milquetoast.”

“Heart’s not in it?”

“No.”

“It could be fun.”

She sighed. “Well, it’s the thing to do after graduation, and I committed myself to these friends over a year ago, so I couldn’t very well back out. I suppose it’s a good enough way to spend the summer. There’s not much I’d rather do.”

“Do you know how many people, grown-ups, would give their right arms to be in your shoes?”

She caught his grin, still she was duly chided. Sheepishly she said, “I know.”

“You’ll have a good time.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll learn a lot.”

“Maybe.”

“The art. The art. Think of the art.”

“Believe me,” she drawled, “that’s the only thing that’s keeping me going.”

The art was wonderful. Pam and her friends started in London, hitting the National Gallery, the British Museum, the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the Tate Gallery, not to mention Big Ben, the Tower of London, and Westminster Abbey. From London they flew to Rome, where they caught the Sistine Chapel, the Galleria Borghese, and ruin upon ruin. They went by train to Florence, where Pam instructed the others on the magnificence of Michelangelo’s
David
, as well as the treasures of the Pitti Palace and the Uffizi Gallery. By the time they reached Milan, her three friends were beginning to rebel. They met a group of local students and chose partying over spending hours before
The Last Supper
, as Pam wanted to do. She went along, but was miserable. By the time they had worked their way through the French countryside into Paris, she was spending part of each day off on her own, seeing what she wanted to see, then turning in early, while the others availed themselves of the local nightlife.

Then, on a small side street on the Left Bank, after she had thoroughly exhausted her enthusiasm at the Louvre, L’Orangerie, and the Jeu de Paume, the Musée Picasso, and the National Museum of Modern Art, Pam’s fancy was caught. She was wandering by herself, having long since left her friends to check out Le Printemps and its kind, when she chanced across the small shop of a jewelry designer. She was first caught by samples of the woman’s work—bracelets and rings of gold and silver with stones worked intricately into the designs—on display in the window. The pieces inside were even more impressive, far bolder and more innovative than anything Pam had seen produced by the designers at
Facets
. The artist, Monique Geffe, worked at the back of the shop. She was a quiet woman, in her thirties, Pam guessed, and she was amenable to letting Pam watch while she worked.

Watch, Pam did, through the rest of that afternoon and most of the next day. She was fascinated by the way Monique worked from a drawing, the way she pounded the metal, cut it, molded it, shaped it, the way she mounted a stone, then remounted it when it wasn’t quite right. Pam asked questions. She also drew simple sketches, often replicas of ones she had in her portfolio at home. She was totally drawn into the process of forging something beautiful out of rough goods, and what Monique made was beautiful indeed. At the end of the second day, she begged Monique to let her stay for the summer.

“Kind of an apprenticeship,” she said in a voice that was soft but urgent. “No pay. I don’t want any pay. I just want to learn to do what you do. I want to watch.”

Monique spoke only broken English, yet Pam managed to make her point. “And your frienz?” she asked, rolling the
r
. “Zey say you do ziss?”

“My friends have each other. They can go on without me. They’ll know how to contact me if anyone from home tries to reach me.”

For a split second she allowed herself to dream that Cutter would call, that he would fly over, that they would hole up in a small Parisian pensione, madly in love with each other and with life.

When the second ended, she thought of John. He wouldn’t try to reach her unless something happened to her mother, and she could forestall that by letting Bob Grossman know where she was. She’d tell Patricia, anyway. She was writing her long letters from each of the cities she visited. Whether they were read or not, it felt good to pretend that there was someone at home who cared.

Monique let her stay. Pam wanted to think it was because she saw promise in her sketches, but she suspected it had more to do with the respect Pam showed her. Not all Americans did. Pam was astonished by the derogatory comments made within easy hearing range of Monique. On more than one such occasion, Pam surprised the offender with a comeback in English, until Monique assured her that it was a waste of time and energy. Time and energy, she claimed, should be channeled solely into the craft.

Following that credo, Pam spent July and August by Monique’s side. She concentrated intensely and learned everything she could. Living in a small room not far from the shop, she worked six days a week. On the seventh, she either wandered through Paris on her own or went on outings with Monique and her husband. He spoke even less English than Monique. But Pam knew French. By the end of the summer she was fluent in it. By the end of the summer she was also turning out surprising professional pieces of jewelry.

Pam wanted to stay on. She had been happier working with Monique than she’d been in what seemed a very long time. In light, hopeful moments, she imagined becoming Monique’s official assistant. She didn’t need a salary. She would happily live on the commissions her work brought in. But Monique insisted she return to the States.

“Why do I need a liberal arts education,” she asked in French, “if this is what I want to do?”

“You need more formal training. I can’t give you that. You want to develop your own style. Some of it is there, in your sketches, but it is rough.”

“It may be rough, but it’s more than I’ll get at Swarthmore.”

Monique was shaking her head and a hand along with it. “No, no, no. Not Swarthmore. I’ve been talking with Phillipe. He knows people who studied in America. They say that Swarthmore is a fine school and has a good art program. But there is a better one.” She took a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and put it flat on the table before Pam.

Pam looked at the name written on it. “I don’t believe it,” she murmured in English. Returning to French, she said, “But this is in Boston. I want to
leave
Boston.”

“Have you heard of this school?”

“Of course. I’ve taken courses at the Museum of Fine Arts. Some of the teachers were students at the Museum School. I’ve seen shows by others.”

“They were good, no?”

“They were good, yes. But I don’t want to be in Boston. I don’t want to be anywhere near John.”

“You’d be near your mother.”

Monique knew about that, too. One day Pam had received a letter from Bob telling her that Patricia not only read her letters but held them in her hand for days afterward. Monique had seen Pam’s tears.

“Yes,” Pam conceded. “I’d be near her. I’d like that.”

“And you’ll get your own apartment, something near the museum, maybe with other students, and you won’t have to see John any more than you would have if you went to Swarthmore.”

“But I wanted a change of scenery.”

“Is Boston so small? Wouldn’t you be living and studying in an area that’s different from what you’re used to?”

Pam supposed she would. Monique was being sensible.

“It’s the best place for you, Pamela. Phillipe says so, and he’s seen your work. So do I. If you want to come back here next summer, I would be very happy, but by then you may have moved beyond me.”

“I doubt that.”

“No. You have talent and enthusiasm. You love working with the materials. I can see it in the way you handle them. You love them and respect them. You have a vision for presenting them that few artists have. You need to work at enhancing that vision. Once you’ve done that, your pieces will be superb.” When an innate modesty made Pam protest, Monique waved off the protest. “This is where your future lies, Pamela. You can establish a name for yourself. You can be very successful. If you want.”

Si tu veux.
The words echoed in Pam’s mind during the flight across the Atlantic, and by the time she’d landed at JFK and transferred to a flight to Boston, she knew that she wanted to be successful more than anything in the world. By making a name for herself, she could be independent of John. She could take her legacy when she turned twenty-five and tell him to drop dead. If she was successful enough, she could even open her own shop and rival
Facets
.
That
would be satisfying.

Letting her imagination run wild, she envisioned the atelier she might have on Newbury Street, perhaps not as close to the Ritz as
Facets
was, but at a lower number, where the newer and more daring artists worked. She would fit in well, and once she’d established a client base of her own, she could move higher, closer.

She could rival John on the social scene. That would make him croak. She could lure clients from
Facets
, and she’d do it without a second thought. Best of all, Cutter could visit her in her chic little shop, and John wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.

That would be the most satisfying of all.

Chapter 19

S
TARING AT THE BANK STATEMENT
he’d just received, Cutter indulged in a few fantasies of his own. It was a new experience, but then, having a six-figure balance in his personal account was a new experience. Barely nine months out of Timiny Cove, he had a steady income and a promising future. Hard to believe, given the way he’d arrived in New York.

He was cold, tired, and slightly overwhelmed when he’d rung Hillary’s bell that night. The trip from the airport had been a mess of bus changes and subway connections. Even at night, the city was ten times louder, more crowded, and faster paced than Boston. But New York was the place to be if a man wanted to make it, and Cutter did. He didn’t know how, but being in the right place was the first step.

In hindsight, he realized that showing up at Hillary’s had been an act of daring. She had been close to John in Timiny Cove. Cutter had no idea whether she still was. But he had to take the chance that she’d let him in. He didn’t know where else to turn.

Besides, she and Pam were friends, and he needed to be in touch with someone who was in touch with Pam.

Not only did Hillary let him in, she gave him a bed and food. She seemed pleased that he was there, even when he told her that he and John were archenemies.

“Then it’s a good thing he isn’t here,” she said smugly.

“Is there a chance he’ll come?”

“Not much. He was here last week. Twice in a month and I might think he was serious. He wouldn’t let that happen.”

So Cutter stayed. There was a certain gratification in encroaching on John’s turf. He knew that Hillary felt it too. It created a subtle bond between them.

He slept for most of the first few days. His back hurt, and he hadn’t fully regained his strength. He didn’t tell Hillary about the beating; the trouncing he’d taken embarrassed him. He couldn’t hide his overall anger, though, since it was largely what kept him going. It also kept her aware that she was cavorting with the enemy. He wanted her to remember that.

Still she took him under her wing. She took him to the bank to deposit his savings, took him to Bloomingdale’s to buy job-hunting clothes, took him to an employment agency run by a friend to look for a job. There was nothing, of course—at least nothing that he wanted to take. He didn’t want to be a janitor or a short-order cook or a salesman.

“I think you should consider the chauffeur job,” Hillary told him as they walked back to her place.

“And wear a uniform and a cap?”

“Head too big for it?”

“Yeah. It is. I’ve got pride.”

“You also have no skill, no training, no job. If you took this one, you’d be working for the president of a large brokerage firm. You’d be listening to high-power conversations involving some of the most successful businessmen around. You’d be in a position to make contacts. The exposure would be incredible.”

“I’d be a chauffeur.”

“Play your cards right, and you’d be someone’s discovery. You’re a bright guy. Ask the right questions of the right people, and you could find yourself in a super entry-level job that you wouldn’t have been able to get without that personal contact.”

But Cutter doubted that things happened that way in real life. Besides, New York traffic unsettled him. He figured he could afford to wait around, looking, for a week or two before taking something just for the sake of the money.

The waiting depressed him. He slept late every day, then just hung around Hillary’s, hoping the phone would ring. When the silence had him climbing the walls, he went out for long walks. He immersed himself in the crowds. He timed his stride to match the businesslike gait of those around him. He did his best to be part of the city’s hustle.

Deep down inside, though, he felt like an impostor. He wasn’t thinking New York thoughts as he walked those streets. He was thinking Boston thoughts. Pam thoughts.

He wondered how she was, what she was doing, if she was thinking of him.