Facets

Chapter 9 #3

She’d pressed the right button. Arlan McGregor was a pleasant-looking man, only minimally stocky, with wonderful long dark hair that showed no sign of thinning.

There was something of the teddy bear about him, which was one of the reasons why Hillary liked him.

Even without the girth, he had a cuddly quality, and though she’d never actually cuddled against him, she’d taken full advantage of his kindness.

She respected his editorial expertise; she understood his need to ask pointed questions; but through it all he was gentle, which meant a lot more to her than dashing good looks.

He was not suave. He’d been known to mistakenly introduce a to-be-wooed reviewer as an art assistant, and at more than one publicity event he’d dripped cocktail sauce on his shirt.

Nor was he wealthy. He had risen from Poughkeepsie’s working class, gone through college on scholarship, and held numerous jobs working with words before settling down in his present office.

At forty-six, he was a senior editor with some status, and though he complained at times, he liked his job. But it would never make him rich.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t poke fun at those who were, or feel a certain satisfaction when one of the high and mighty took a fall. John St. George was one of the high and mighty. The look on Arlan’s face told Hillary that if she could make John stumble, Arlan would be the first to tout her book.

Motioning toward her briefcase, he held out his hand.

One week later, she was back in his office, wearing the same calm look, though she felt anything but calm.

The first part of her book lay on the desk.

Arlan was leaning back, his hands linked over his stomach, fingers clenched more tightly than they should have been.

She wasn’t sure if that was because he didn’t like what she’d done and didn’t want to tell her, or because he wanted a cigarette.

“Well?” she asked when she could bear the suspense no longer.

“You didn’t tell me St. George was engaged.”

That wasn’t what she had expected to hear. She had to work harder at looking calm. “Is that supposed to be relevant?”

“Could be,” he said and smirked. “Do we bill the author as the woman scorned?”

The operative phrase was “bill the author.” Her eyes lit up. “You liked it?”

“I liked it. You knew I would,” he chided. “But you didn’t answer my question. Are you the woman scorned?”

“Of course not. John and I never had any kind of formal arrangement. We’re just old friends who go back a long way.” Pleased with that explanation and the cool way she’d offered it, she asked, “Why? Would it matter if that weren’t so?”

Arlan picked up a paper clip and began tapping. “I like this book. I want it done. But if your motivation for writing it isn’t entirely professional—”

“I’ve been thinking of writing it for years.

I told you that. If anything, it was the 20/20 piece that got me going.

And the going’s good, Arlan. This story flows.

” Her excitement grew as she spoke. “I’ve spent most of my adult life as a writer, and I’ve done my share of struggling with words and phrases.

This book is different. It’s the one I was born to write.

” She barely paused. “Couldn’t you tell? ”

He tossed the paper clip aside and squirmed in his seat. “I could tell.”

She frowned. “So why are you fidgeting?”

“I’m fidgeting because I’m dying.”

She tried to be sympathetic. “Still want one?”

The look in his eyes said he’d kill for a puff just then. “Your manuscript took my mind off it for a while.”

She grinned. “I knew you’d like it. I could feel it. The words came so easily. Something connected.”

Arlan nodded sagely. His fingers were steepled now, flexing like crab’s legs.

“That’s because you’re intimately involved with the situation and the characters.

It’s like they’re your family.” He paused.

“But they’re not. You have family of your own.

So why is it,” he slapped a hand to the papers, “that you come across in this manuscript as an orphan?”

“Because I’m not a major player in the story.”

“But I want to know where you fit in. You refused to give us any kind of detailed bio to use for your other books.”

“I gave you a bio. You got all the pertinent information—where I was born, where I went to school, what publications I have to my credit. That’s all that matters.”

Arlan shook his head. He reached for the sunflower seeds. “I want to know more. It’s part of this story. You grew up in Tammany Hall—”

“Timiny Cove, Timiny Cove.”

“You lived there, you knew all the people there, but you’re not like them, and you never were.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“But you lived there.”

“My family lived there.”

He popped some seeds into his mouth. “Go on.”

“Really, Arlan. This isn’t necessary.”

“You want a contract?”

She knew that he was teasing, but it was a low blow. Rising slowly from the chair, she said, “I make my own way in life. I may not be as famous as I want, but what I’ve done, I’ve done on my own. Not once have I tried to pull strings.”

“Too bad. Your dad has nice strings.”

She stared at him in silence for a minute. “You knew?”

“Sit down.”

She sat down but remained ready to bolt if the conversation took a turn she didn’t like.

Arlan seemed to know that he’d found her Achilles’ heel, because his voice immediately gentled. “Somewhere along the way, I read that Oliver Cox was living in a small town in Maine called Timiny Cove. The name stuck with me because it reminded me of—”

“—Tammany Hall.”

“Then you came along and inadvertently mentioned you were from the place. I began to wonder. Same name, same town. A phone call was all it took.”

“To my father?”

“To the postmaster—uh, mistress. What a lovely lady she was. No questions asked, she said you were Oliver Cox’s daughter.”

Hillary was too busy adding things up to be annoyed. “Then you’ve known for a while.”

He nodded. “I figured you had your reasons for wanting anonymity.”

“I certainly did!” she cried, sitting back in the chair with her faith in Arlan restored.

“My father was a brilliant poet who’d won nearly every award in his field.

My older sister graduated from high school when she was fourteen, went off to M.I.T.

, and to this day is doing advanced work in nuclear physics for the government.

They were both odd, but my mother was the real eccentric of the bunch—which she’d have to be, to be able to live with the other two.

“Then I came along.” She sucked in a breath.

“Let me tell you, I was a disappointment. I wasn’t a poet and I didn’t multiply, four-digit numbers in my head when I was six.

When I was three, I did all the normal things that three-year-olds do.

When I was four, I did all the normal things that four-year-olds do.

Not that the townspeople believed that. They figured I had to be weird, too, so they didn’t accept me any more than they did my parents and sister. ”

“Your father was known to be a recluse.”

“He was. Not a social being at all. His mind was so complex that there was an odd simplicity about him. He could be lovable when he tried, but as the years went on, he tried less and less.”

“Why Timiny Cove?”

She had never known the answer to that. “It was out of the mainstream, I suppose. Any rural town would have suited his purpose. He wanted the quiet to work.”

“So the neighbors left you alone.”

“Totally. They never claimed us as their own. They just stood back and stared. Well, I didn’t like being stared at because I was his daughter or her sister, and I didn’t like being a disappointment because I couldn’t keep up with them.

So I made up my mind that as soon as I was old enough, I’d leave and make a name for myself. ”

“Oliver Cox hasn’t produced anything for a while.”

“No. He’s aged.” But the earlier days were never far from Hillary’s mind. “Do you know what it’s like growing up with brilliant people? I mean, really brilliant people?”

Arlan scratched his head. “Can’t say I do.”

She ignored his comical expression. “It’s awful.

They don’t communicate. My father used to sit staring off into space.

I could say something, and he wouldn’t hear.

Then he’d pick up a pencil and scrawl something on the back of an envelope or a bookmark or a matchbook, and it would be incredibly beautiful, only when I tried to tell him that, he was already off in some other mind-place. ”

“His work is highly acclaimed.”

“As rightly it should be.”

“Then you’re not ashamed of him.”

“I was never ashamed. I was just tired of being rated on a scale that was way off the boards to begin with. I didn’t want to be thought brilliant when I wasn’t. I didn’t want to be thought eccentric when I wasn’t.”

“Apparently John St. George didn’t think those things.”

At the mention of John’s name, she took a deep breath.

She remembered those early days with John as though they had just been.

A sense of visceral excitement rushed back.

“No, John didn’t think those things. I met him at a time when I was feeling pretty low.

I didn’t fit with my family, and I didn’t fit with the locals.

I was biding my time, waiting to escape to college.

John was the link that I needed. He was from the outside world.

He was as much of a misfit in Timiny Cove as I was.

” She smiled. “And you know something? He didn’t care.

He didn’t care what the miners or their families thought of him, because he had this other life.

And what a life.” She sighed. “I used to ask him about it. I wanted to know everything. I could have listened to him for hours on end.” More quietly, she said, “I idolized John. When we became lovers, I was on cloud nine. He was a cut above anyone I’d ever known. ”

“But he was playing with you.”

“Maybe.”

“You knew that he had other women. Didn’t it bother you?”

“I didn’t know it back then. I was seventeen and naive.”

“You didn’t even see him that often. If what you wrote was the truth, he used to come and go from Timiny Cove at will. Did he call you when he was away?”

“No.”

“Write?”

“No.” She rushed on, “But I understood. Really. I adored him, but my dreams weren’t centered around him.” At his skeptical look, she insisted, “They weren’t. I knew by then that I wanted to be a writer. I used to dream of that.”

“When you were done dreaming of John. What was it you saw in him, Hillie? Was it the polish? The glamour? Given all you know now, it sounds like the guy’s an ogre. What did you see in him?”

She thought about that for a while. What did she see in him?

She saw the fire. He had it. He was his father’s son in that sense.

Fine, custom-tailored clothes were only a veneer.

When the clothes came off, he could be earthy as sin.

He tried to temper the passion, but the more he did, the more it built and the more powerful it was when released.

Those were the times she liked best, the times when he was an absolute wonder in bed.

She wasn’t about to tell Arlan that, though, so she simply said, “He was alone and different, just like me. That was what probably brought us together in the beginning. Then, when I got to know him, I was taken by his charm. Yes, charm,” she insisted when he looked doubtful.

“John was a charmer when he wanted to be. And he was bright in a normal way. I enjoyed being with him.”

That was simplifying the issue, she knew, but using the past tense was getting to her. Glancing at her watch, she said, “I have to run,” and stood.

“Hillie, about this book—”

“I’m going to keep writing.”

“Have you talked with him lately?”

“No. I’ve had a couple of messages on the machine from him, but I didn’t see much point in returning the calls.” In fact, John hadn’t asked her to return them, which was typical. He called the shots. If he phoned her and she was out, he figured that was her loss.

“What’s happening with the engagement?” Arlan asked. “Have they set a date?”

Heading for the door, she tossed back a nonchalant, “No date yet, but the engagement’s still on as far as anyone knows.”

“Think you’ll be invited to the wedding?”

“God, I hope not.” Just thinking of it was painful. She would have to arrange a conflicting engagement. Perhaps she’d be out of town on business. She would be out looking for evidence that John had tampered with his father’s will. She liked the idea of that.

“Stick it to him, Hillie!” Arlan called as she passed into the hall.

She didn’t acknowledge the comment, but a small smile played on her lips during the elevator ride to the lobby.

Once outside, though, her smile faded. She could do it, she realized.

If she found evidence of a bequest to Cutter, she could really stick it to John.

After all he’d done to her, that would be satisfying.