up, Dwayne looking so stern under his butch haircut—all of them with hearts of gold. Daddy and I used to play poker with Rufus and Dwayne. I remember it so clearly. . . .”
And so it began. Hillary hadn’t asked for it, but it was easy to keep Pam going. A question here, a disbelieving look there, a teasing prod drew forth Pam’s unique impressions of Timiny Cove. She accepted Hillary’s curiosity about those impressions. Likewise, the questions Hillary asked about Eugene St. George and, of course, John seemed perfectly natural.
As Hillary listened closely, her interviewer’s mind filing every detail, a distant part of her brain foresaw other lunches, other mornings, afternoons, or evenings spent with Pam or Patricia or Cutter. She would tell them what she was doing, because they meant the world to her, and if they had qualms, she would soft-pedal one private chapter or another. She would be compassionate, where they were concerned.
Where John was concerned, she would be merciless.
Chapter 3
Timiny Cove, 1964
P AM LEARNED TO BLUFF WHEN she was eight years old playing poker in the back room of Leroy Robichaud’s general store. She didn’t do it deliberately, at first. She was innocent and enthusiastic, and she dared risk her pennies on a hand that none of the others would have, because she had never known what it was like to have to count her pennies to survive.
The other men had. Rufus Hackett and Dwayne Wardwell still did, though nowhere near as much as before the big gem finds; and Eugene, well, Eugene remembered. He told Pam stories of the days when he had lived hand to mouth. She listened to those stories with a child’s round eyes, but they were unreal to her. Nothing in her existence remotely resembled those hard times in the 1920s and ’30s. By the 1940s, Eugene had already turned tourmaline mining into a lucrative venture, and by the ’50s, when she was born, he owned the townhouse on Boston’s Beacon Hill, the stately brick home in Timiny Cove, and the Cadillac. But she listened to the stories for hours, because her father was the teller, and she adored him.
“Raise ya, missy,” Dwayne said, tossing two pennies into the pot after a somber study of the cards in his hand.
Pam studied hers. It wasn’t a particularly good hand, had none of the picture cards that she liked, but she did have a pair of fours, and a pair of anything was better than nothing. “I’ll call,” she decided. She pushed another penny toward the center of the table and grinned at Dwayne.
“You was s’posed to fold like your daddy and Rufus,” he informed her.
When Eugene leaned close to take a peek at Pam’s hand, she jerked the cards to her overalls. “I can do it, Daddy,” she whispered.
“You know how?” he whispered back.
“Yes.” Taking a two of clubs and a three of diamonds from her hand, she laid them delicately on the table and took the two cards that Eugene handed her. A nine of hearts and a three of spades—they didn’t do a thing for her hand; still she widened her eyes just a little bit in mock excitement before composing herself and looking serenely at Dwayne.
He’d been watching her closely, which was just what she wanted. She knew Dwayne. He was the most easily fooled of the three, simply because he didn’t have any children of his own who pretended. He knew that children liked candy, and he always had a barley pop in the pocket of his faded flannel shirt to give Pam before she left for home.
While he gravely studied his hand, Rufus leaned close. “I got a good one for you, Pammy. It’s a traveling salesman joke.”
“Okay,” Pam said. Rufus sometimes tried to distract her with his jokes, but since Dwayne was the one concentrating at the moment, she wanted to hear. “Tell me.”
“Y’see, once there was this traveling salesman, and he has this horse. Now, the two of them was down in Rumford when the old horse up and died.”
“Hush,” Dwayne grumbled. “I
And so it began. Hillary hadn’t asked for it, but it was easy to keep Pam going. A question here, a disbelieving look there, a teasing prod drew forth Pam’s unique impressions of Timiny Cove. She accepted Hillary’s curiosity about those impressions. Likewise, the questions Hillary asked about Eugene St. George and, of course, John seemed perfectly natural.
As Hillary listened closely, her interviewer’s mind filing every detail, a distant part of her brain foresaw other lunches, other mornings, afternoons, or evenings spent with Pam or Patricia or Cutter. She would tell them what she was doing, because they meant the world to her, and if they had qualms, she would soft-pedal one private chapter or another. She would be compassionate, where they were concerned.
Where John was concerned, she would be merciless.
Chapter 3
Timiny Cove, 1964
P AM LEARNED TO BLUFF WHEN she was eight years old playing poker in the back room of Leroy Robichaud’s general store. She didn’t do it deliberately, at first. She was innocent and enthusiastic, and she dared risk her pennies on a hand that none of the others would have, because she had never known what it was like to have to count her pennies to survive.
The other men had. Rufus Hackett and Dwayne Wardwell still did, though nowhere near as much as before the big gem finds; and Eugene, well, Eugene remembered. He told Pam stories of the days when he had lived hand to mouth. She listened to those stories with a child’s round eyes, but they were unreal to her. Nothing in her existence remotely resembled those hard times in the 1920s and ’30s. By the 1940s, Eugene had already turned tourmaline mining into a lucrative venture, and by the ’50s, when she was born, he owned the townhouse on Boston’s Beacon Hill, the stately brick home in Timiny Cove, and the Cadillac. But she listened to the stories for hours, because her father was the teller, and she adored him.
“Raise ya, missy,” Dwayne said, tossing two pennies into the pot after a somber study of the cards in his hand.
Pam studied hers. It wasn’t a particularly good hand, had none of the picture cards that she liked, but she did have a pair of fours, and a pair of anything was better than nothing. “I’ll call,” she decided. She pushed another penny toward the center of the table and grinned at Dwayne.
“You was s’posed to fold like your daddy and Rufus,” he informed her.
When Eugene leaned close to take a peek at Pam’s hand, she jerked the cards to her overalls. “I can do it, Daddy,” she whispered.
“You know how?” he whispered back.
“Yes.” Taking a two of clubs and a three of diamonds from her hand, she laid them delicately on the table and took the two cards that Eugene handed her. A nine of hearts and a three of spades—they didn’t do a thing for her hand; still she widened her eyes just a little bit in mock excitement before composing herself and looking serenely at Dwayne.
He’d been watching her closely, which was just what she wanted. She knew Dwayne. He was the most easily fooled of the three, simply because he didn’t have any children of his own who pretended. He knew that children liked candy, and he always had a barley pop in the pocket of his faded flannel shirt to give Pam before she left for home.
While he gravely studied his hand, Rufus leaned close. “I got a good one for you, Pammy. It’s a traveling salesman joke.”
“Okay,” Pam said. Rufus sometimes tried to distract her with his jokes, but since Dwayne was the one concentrating at the moment, she wanted to hear. “Tell me.”
“Y’see, once there was this traveling salesman, and he has this horse. Now, the two of them was down in Rumford when the old horse up and died.”
“Hush,” Dwayne grumbled. “I
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