The Last Refuge (3 page)

As Jud took charge of the hanger, I fingered the fabric, imagining myself waltzing around in the gown, like Cinderella at the prince's ball. After a moment, Alisha called my attention to the other garments on the rack. ‘This pale blue linen is for everyday wear, of course . . .' She shoved it aside. ‘And this thing that looks like a nightgown is called a shift. Colonials wore them pretty much day and night.'

I thought about all the clothes in my closet at home – if I stopped shopping at Chico's, the company would have to declare Chapter 11. ‘Only two dresses?' I asked.

Alisha chuckled, tucked a stray strand of wiry brown hair back into the untidy knot at the back of her head. ‘Lord, no. The Donovans are supposed to be wealthy. If you sign on, you'll have several more made during the course of the show, and your fancy ball gown, of course.'

I couldn't think of anything more appropriate for a ball than the gorgeous gown she'd already showed me. ‘Ball?'

‘At the State House – the show finale. Every VIP in Annapolis will be attending it. The governor, the mayor, the superintendent of the Naval Academy, senators, congressmen. Your husband will be invited, too . . . you've got a husband?'

I nodded. ‘Will everyone be in costume?'

‘Of course. The ball is the climax of the show.' Alisha stared dreamily up at the ceiling. ‘Candlelight, music, tables groaning with food.' Suddenly she snapped out of it. She grabbed the hanger from Jud's outstretched hand. ‘This is something special, all right. You gotta try it on.'

I stood rooted to the floor, mouth slightly ajar. ‘Are you making
all
the costumes?'

‘Just for the principals,' Jud commented from behind me. ‘For the special events, we've arranged rentals from A.T. Jones up in Baltimore for the invited guests.'

‘Back here,' Alisha ordered in a time-is-money sort of way, indicating the rear of the trailer with an impatient jerk of her head. She hustled me into a cubicle separated from the front of the trailer by a thin blue and white gingham curtain and, once I was inside, ordered me to strip. When I got down to my bra and panties, she waved an impatient hand. ‘Everything's gotta come off, sweetie.'

‘Everything?' I felt like I was back at the doctor's office, preparing for my annual physical exam.

‘Well, you can keep the panties on for now,' she relented, ‘although they didn't wear panties back then, you know – but the bra's got to go.' I turned my back, unhooked, and slipped out of my bra. Although the reconstructive surgeon had worked wonders after the mastectomy that had separated me from my breast, it still wasn't ready for prime time. Alisha, bless her, didn't seem to notice, or care. She thrust the nightgown-like shift in my direction. ‘Put this on first.'

I slipped the garment over my head, smoothing the fabric down over my hips. Before I could even turn around, she wrapped a corset around my waist, adjusted it under my breasts and ordered me to stand still while she laced it up the back like an old-fashioned tennis shoe. ‘I feel like a sausage,' I said, sucking in my gut as she tightened the laces.

Next came an under-petticoat that tied around my waist with a drawstring, followed by a delicately embroidered silk petticoat in the same soft peach as the gown.

I now saw that the gown itself was in two parts – an ankle-length robe, open at the front so the petticoat would show through, and a triangular-shaped piece that served as the bodice. ‘It's called a stomacher,' Alisha explained as she clapped it to my chest and pinned me into it. ‘And you'll be wearing pocket hoops – sometimes called a farthingale – but we're not going to bother with them now. There's not enough room to swing a cat in here as it is. Shoes, too, but frankly, dancing slippers haven't changed much in two hundred years. You could probably get away with Capezios from Zappo dot-com.'

Alisha seemed to be assuming that I'd already agreed to participate in the
Patriot House, 1774
experience. I was simply trying on costumes, though, not committing myself to anything. ‘
If
I sign on,' I reminded her.

Alisha squinted at me, her head tilted, ignoring my remark, then drew the dressing-room curtain aside. ‘Take a look, Jud. Perfect fit. Don't think we'll need to do any alterations at all.'

Jud studied me critically. ‘Jesus, you take my breath away.'

I felt my face redden. Jud was young enough to be my son, but the compliment pleased me enormously. ‘Is there a mirror somewhere?'

Alisha tugged on a rolling clothes rack and when it gained momentum, wheeled it to one side, revealing a full-length mirror mounted on the inside of a door that led to a pocket toilet. ‘Who
is
that?' I gasped when I saw my reflection.

I certainly wasn't what anybody would call fat, but the woman in the mirror had a waist the size of a mayonnaise jar and – Oh. My. God! – a pair of round, plump breasts and a goodly amount of cleavage. I tucked my chin down for a closer view. ‘Wherever did
those
come from?' I asked of nobody in particular.

‘You can thank the corset,' Alisha replied. ‘Good for back support, too,' she continued, flexing her knees in way of illustration. ‘You'll probably be doing a lot of heavy lifting.'

‘Won't there be servants for that?' I mused, turning to check myself out in the mirror, back, front and sideways.

Jud and Alisha exchanged a knowing glance. ‘You've decided to do it then?' Jud prodded.

I whirled around to face them, petticoats sweeping the dark green linoleum. ‘Not so fast, young man! I've got a million questions. I'm curious about the Donovans, for one thing. When Kat Donovan had to withdraw from the show, how come her family decided to stay? There's no way that Paul would have left me to deal with my cancer treatments all alone.'

‘LynxE was set to send all of the Donovans packing and go with another family,' Jud explained, ‘but it was Katherine Donovan herself who insisted that her husband and children be allowed to stay on.'

‘Why would LynxE agree to that?' I asked.

‘It's purely a practical matter,' Jud explained. ‘The Donovans were halfway through the orientation, for one thing. For another, the wardrobe is a huge expense. We'd have to remake
four
sets of costumes, instead of just one. So, with the Donovan family's full concurrence, we decided simply to replace Kat.'

‘But why
me
?' I asked as Alisha began to help me undress.

Jud shot me a crooked grin. ‘Lady of the House number two was a size fourteen, at least. As for Lady of the House number three? We would have had to use a shoehorn to get that woman into the dress that you're wearing now. So that's why we cooked up the sister-in-law scenario, and why I thought of you.'

‘Just like Cinderella. Her foot fit the glass slipper, and she got the prince. I fit the dress and if I want to, I get to be a television star.'

‘You'll do it, then?'

Barefoot, stripped down to the shift, I stared at him for a moment, considering my options. Jud was still grinning boyishly, sucking up to me big-time, the rascal. ‘I like to think I'll try anything once, but . . . gosh, Jud, I feel like a fish out of water. A beautifully dressed fish, to be sure . . .'

‘Tell me you'll consider it seriously, Hannah.'

‘It'll take a lot more than beautiful dresses and sweet talk, Jud. Do you have some sort of prospectus with details about the show? And I imagine there's a contract you expect cast members to sign.'

‘If you have time to accompany me to the production room, I'll see that you get a contract.' He did an about-face, threw Alisha a kiss, and said, ‘Thanks, doll.' Then, to me: ‘Get changed and we'll tour the house. That should answer some of your questions. I'll wait for you outside.'

After I dressed, Jud escorted me through the Paca House garden where workmen were busily assembling an old-fashioned wooden well. ‘Colonials had to be careful about drinking the water,' he explained, ‘but we're connecting this well up to the city water supply. Coming down with cholera would be just a bit too real, you know?'

I had to agree.

We passed through the spacious kitchen and walked down a narrow hallway that led into a bright English basement situated directly under the main house. Jud paused in front of a door that was secured by a combination lock, its keypad resembling the face of a telephone. ‘Ordinarily, this is a conference room,' Jud told me as he punched four numbers into the lock and twisted the knob. ‘But we'll be using it as an on-site staging and storage area.' Jud pushed the door open and held it aside, waiting for me to pass through. ‘We'll keep the camera equipment in here, use it as a break area for the crew, et cetera, but as far as the cast is concerned, the room will be strictly off limits.'

A half-dozen plastic filing crates lined the long, walnut conference table that dominated the room. Jud rummaged through one of the crates, extracted a fat sheaf of papers secured with a paper clamp. From another cube he took a manila envelope.

‘Here's the contract,' he said, handing it to me. While he scribbled something on the outside of the envelope in black felt tip marker, I scanned the contract quickly. Although the print was minuscule, a phrase on the first page practically jumped out and slapped me in the face:
You will be required to wear a microphone twenty-four seven
.

‘Jud, what's this about wearing a microphone all the time? I mean, my God, even in the privy?'

Jud capped the marker, eased the contract out of my hand and stuffed it into the envelope. ‘Sorry about that. It's a boilerplate contract we borrowed from another show.' He hauled a cell phone out of his pocket and tapped in a memo. ‘Just reminding myself to have the lawyers modify that clause. We have microphones, of course, but due to the wonders of modern technology, cast members won't be wearing them. Follow me. I'll show you something amazing.'

Jud tucked the envelope containing my contract under his arm, then pulled the door shut behind us, jiggling the knob to make sure it was securely locked. I followed him back towards the kitchen and up a short flight of stairs into Paca House's spacious entrance hall, where Jud pointed to a flat disk about the size of a dinner plate mounted high on the far wall.

‘That's it?' I asked. ‘The microphone? It looks like a mini-UFO, or a fancy shower head.'

Jud grinned. ‘It's called a SelectoZoomMini. The technology was originally designed for sporting events, a much larger version, of course. They would install SelectoZooms high above stadiums, and a wide-angle camera would look down on the scene from the center of the disk. All an operator has to do is pinpoint a spot on the field using his monitor, and the SelectoZoom can zoom in on that spot and pick up the audio. It's so sensitive that it can actually hear somebody popping their chewing gum.'

‘That must have kept the censors busy,' I joked, ‘bleeping out all the cussing.'

Jud laughed. ‘I imagine so.'

He led me into a spacious room just to the right of the massive front door, where a workman was assembling a wooden bookcase. The worker glanced up curiously, then went back to leveling a shelf. ‘We're setting this room up as a library. We've installed SelectoZoomMinis here and in all the main rooms of the house,' Jud continued, ‘including the kitchen and the schoolroom, and there's one in the upstairs hallway, too. There will be a couple of Steadicam operators on hand to film close-ups, and to accompany you to places and events outside the house, of course. But when you're in the house, you won't need to worry about wearing microphones.'

‘Do you have mics in the bedrooms, too?'

Jud snorted. ‘No way. We're not
that
kind of network. If we decide we need to film you dressing or bathing – although they didn't do much bathing in 1774 – we'll give you fair warning and, I assure you, we'll do it tastefully.'

‘What's that, then?' I asked a few minutes later as we descended the staircase that led back to the kitchen. I was pointing to a wooden box about the size of a bird house that sat on a deep window sill to my right.

‘That's a diary cam. There are four of them – one here, as you see, one in the library, one in the storeroom just off the kitchen, and one out in the summer house at the foot of the garden. Patriot House participants will be able to use the diary cams at any time to record their private thoughts or register their concerns. The diary cams are monitored, and someone on the production staff will collect the tapes daily.'

He opened a little door on the box, stepped aside with a slight bow and a wave of his hand. ‘Take a look.'

Inside the box was a video camera, straight off the shelves of Circuit City or Best Buy. A simple control was mounted just above it with two big buttons, one red and one green. ‘Push the green button, wait for the red eye on the camera to start flashing, then say anything you want.'

I followed Jud's instructions, and when the red eye began winking at me, I said, ‘Hello, my name is Hannah Ives, and I am out of my freaking mind.' I pushed the red button to stop the recording (I'm a quick study) and said, ‘There you go. A comment that millions of viewers will soon be programming their TiVos to hear, I'm quite sure.'

‘I honestly hope so.'

‘Which reminds me,' I said as we headed into the kitchen. ‘When will
Patriot House
actually air?'

‘We start taping on Labor Day and wrap up with the State House Ball, just before Thanksgiving. Throughout December, we'll be editing the show. The first of eight episodes will air on January the third.'

Labor Day was less than two weeks away. If I signed on to the show, I'd miss the family's annual end of summer cookout, but it wasn't my year to play hostess, so perhaps they would forgive me. ‘Is the show scripted?' I wondered.