The Last Refuge (5 page)

‘Hannah, I didn't trust myself to advise you on this, so I consulted with a colleague in D.C. who represents Sonic Ice Cream Junkies, Gurlz-N-Boyz, and one of the contestants on the twenty-first season of
Survivor
.'

‘Sonic Ice Cream Junkies?' I asked.

‘It's a rock group. Go figure.'

I snorted. ‘Sorry, go on.'

‘Max emailed me a PDF of one of the boilerplate contracts in his files. I compared them and we agreed that what you have here is industry standard. In spite of the length, it's pretty straightforward,' my brother-in-law explained from across his desk. ‘I don't know who the attorneys who drafted this document are, but it's tight as a tick. Basically, you agree to give them three months of your time in exchange for fifteen thousand dollars. They've thought of everything you could possibly sue them for, then added an additional clause that pretty much says if you can think of something to sue them for that they haven't mentioned herein, you can't sue them for that either.'

That actually made me laugh. ‘What could possibly happen in an eighteenth-century house with cameras following you around twenty-four seven?'

‘I don't know. But if an asteroid slams through the atmosphere and lands on you while you're picking green beans in the Paca garden, don't expect Paul to get any money out of it.'

‘Thanks, Hutch. I'll remember that.'

‘In addition, you're prohibited from writing a book about the show, and during the course of the show, you can't grant interviews, have a personal website or blog; nor can you post about the show on Facebook or Twitter.'

‘I don't have a personal website, and since we'll be living in 1774, I don't believe there'll be any Internet, so Facebook and Twitter are definitely out. Seriously,' I said after a moment, ‘if you have any specific concerns, isn't there any place we can modify the contract?'

‘It's pretty much take it or leave it, Hannah. In my opinion, this contract contains much more than a producer could possibly need, but it'd be next to impossible to push back, since they could always put somebody else on the show.'

I thought about how Kat Donovan's costumes fit me like a glove, and about Jud's desire to stay on schedule and within his budget, and thought that wasn't very likely.

‘And Paul has to sign something called “An Immediate Family Release,”' Hutch added, shoving another sheaf of papers that I had obviously overlooked across his desk.

I simply stared at it for a moment, paralyzed by the number of pages in the supplemental agreement. ‘You mean I have to have Paul's
permission
to be on the show? That's positively Victorian.'

His upper lip twitched. ‘You don't need Paul's permission, no. But, he has to agree not to hold LynxE liable for anything bad that might happen to you, nor can he profit from any interviews, books, films – blah-de-blah-de-blah – that concern the show without their approval either before, during or after. Basically, Paul will have to agree that in terms of
Patriot House, 1774
, his life, like yours, will be an open book with LynxE pulling the strings, food for their publicity mill.'

Hutch pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, squeezed. ‘Think hard about this, Hannah. Is this something you
really
want to do?'

Still seated, I smiled up at him. ‘I have to confess that I'm torn. I'm an incurable romantic, you know. When I was in high school, I devoured books by Victoria Holt and Georgette Heyer.' I pressed a hand to my chest. ‘“
You may have married her, but she is mine. Do you think I shall let you take her? She may be ten times your wife, but, by God, you shall never have her!
”' I quoted, batting my eyelashes furiously. ‘That's from
The Devil's Cub
, one of Heyer's early Georgian romances. I've probably read it a hundred times.'

‘Playing damsel in distress seems like a pretty lame reason for giving up three months of your life,' Hutch said reasonably. ‘The novelty of wearing fancy frocks will wear off fairly quickly, I should imagine, approximately two minutes after you make your first middle-of-the-night run to the outhouse.'

I had to laugh. ‘That's why chamber pots were invented, silly.'

‘And if you decide to leave the show in midstream,' Hutch continued, his face serious, ‘you not only lose the fifteen-thousand dollars, but you open yourself up to a million-dollar lawsuit.'

‘Jesus! Really?'

‘It's in the contract.'

‘Damn.'

‘Exactly.' I must have looked stricken because Hutch continued, ‘There are exceptions for serious illness or injury, of course. But if you simply walk out . . .' Hutch drummed his fingers on the tabletop and hummed the first few bars of Chopin's ‘Marche Funèbre.' ‘In Max's experience such a clause has never been enforced, but it could end up costing a lot of money if you pull out and their legal people decide to go after you.'

‘I went through six months of chemotherapy, so I figure I can soldier through anything, as long as I can see light at the end of the tunnel,' I said. ‘But based on what you've told me . . .' I tapped the contract where it lay on the desk between us. ‘. . . I'd hate to put my hard-earned retirement account at risk.' I sighed. ‘So I guess I won't be flouncing around Paca House issuing orders to the servants any time soon.'

‘Wise decision.' Hutch grabbed my hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it. ‘Well, it's been fascinating, truly fascinating, but Milady will need to excuse me, or I'll be late for my next client,' he drawled, before bowing slightly at the waist and leaving the room.

‘My hero!' I shouted after him.

‘Bullshit!' he replied.

I gathered up the scattered pages, tapped them together and slipped the contracts back into the envelope Jud had given me. I stared for a long time at the LynxE logo in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope, pondering my next move. Then I took a deep breath, dug my iPhone out of my bag, found Jud's number under ‘Recents' and punched it in.

Jud answered on the second ring. ‘Hannah! You got me on the Washington beltway. What's the good word?'

I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I let it out slowly and said, ‘I've just met with my attorney and much as I'd really like to do the show, I've got to say no.'

Jud didn't answer, and I thought we might have lost the connection. ‘Jud?'

‘I'm here, just trying to stay alive while some idiot is changing lanes. Asshole! OK, I can talk now.'

‘I'm really sorry, Jud, but in the cold light of day, I realized I was being seduced by the fifteen thousand dollars, my romantic nature and some pretty amazing cleavage.'

A few seconds went by before Jud replied. ‘Look, what would it take to get you to say yes?'

I thought for a moment. ‘It's not about the money.'

‘Try me.'

An idea sprang to mind, an idea so outrageous even I was amazed at my audacity. It was an offer I figured Jud would
have
to refuse. ‘A seventy-five-thousand-dollar donation to Komen for the Cure,' I said, naming my favorite charity, ‘earmarked for breast cancer research.'

On the other end of the line I heard a truck rumble past Jud's car, the impatient
toot
-
toot
of a horn. ‘OK.'

I sucked in air. ‘You will? Guaranteed?'

‘Yes. One of the sponsors might have a coronary, but don't worry, I'll sort it out.'

‘Written into my contract?'

‘Of course. Have your attorney contact me ASAP. We'll make it happen.'

Hoist on your own petard, Hannah. Now it's time to fish or cut bait.
I took a deep breath. ‘Then I'll do it,' I told him.

His ‘thanks' came at the end of a long sigh of relief. ‘You won't be sorry, Hannah. I promise.'

After arranging an overnight delivery of a packet of materials about the program and a schedule of the training sessions I'd be attending at the orientation in Colonial Williamsburg, Jud bid me a grateful goodbye.

Now I was back at square one, sitting in my brother-in-law's comfortable office, wondering what Paul would have to say when I told him what I'd just promised to do. After the steak dinner I planned to prepare for him, of course, accompanied by a fine red wine.

Because if I couldn't persuade Paul to sign that stupid Immediate Family Release, no matter what commitment I'd made to Jud, I figured I was pretty well screwed.

‘I miss my boyfriend back in Texas real bad! I didn't get a letter from Tim this week, so I worry that he's hooking up with that little slut from driver's ed, Stacie Green. She better keep her hands to herself or I'll scratch her eyes out, I swear. Are you listening to this, Tim?'

Melody Donovan, daughter

M
y famous grilled rib-eye, twice-baked potatoes and fresh green salad worked their usual wonders. Paul dabbed sour cream off his chin, folded his napkin, then leaned back in his chair. ‘I'm overwhelmed,' he said, rubbing his stomach like a contented Buddha.

When I told him about
Patriot House, 1774
, however, it's fair to say he was pretty underwhelmed. As I began to plead my case, I figured my Cinderella at the Ball routine wouldn't cut much ice with my uber-practical husband, so I focused on the financial perks of the job.

As usual, Paul performed the calculations without counting on his fingers. ‘Twenty-four hours a day times ninety days, divided into fifteen thousand dollars, that's around seven dollars an hour. Minimum wage in Maryland is $7.25 an hour. Shit, Hannah. Emily pays her
babysitters
more than that.'

That was a sobering thought. ‘But,' I countered, playing a practical card of my own, ‘I'll earn
zero
dollars per hour by staying at home.' I raised my wine glass in a toast. ‘Better than a sharp stick in the eye, as Mother would have said.'

‘Hannah, can't you ever be serious?'

‘I
am
being serious.' I leaned my elbows against the table and, holding the glass between both hands, swirling the liquid around from time to time, I continued to sip my wine. ‘We could start college funds for the grandchildren. Five thousand each.'

‘That'll go far in this wretched economy,' Paul harrumphed.

‘But wait! There's more,' I said, and explained about the seventy-five thousand dollars that would go to Komen for the Cure if I managed to stay the course.

‘I see,' my husband said, fixing me with his serious, dark-chocolate eyes, and I could tell that he did.

I watched Paul pick up the wine bottle and top off his glass. I steeled my nerves and trotted out my best Lady Di sideways-through-the-eyelashes glance. ‘Uh, there's this form you have to sign.' I set my glass down on the tablecloth and retrieved the envelope from the floor under my chair. I laid it on the table between us.

‘Why do
I
need to sign anything, Hannah?
You're
the one who wants to take part in this cockamamie adventure, not me.' Paul slid the envelope from beneath my fingers and extracted the form.

‘They want you to agree never to blog, Facebook or Tweet about this, or grant interviews or write a bestselling tell-all about your life as the husband of a reality show participant. Unless LynxE arranges for it, of course.'

His eyes scanned the first page. Without looking up he said, ‘So, if I don't sign this you can't go on?'

‘More or less.' I had to force myself to breathe. The pen lay, silent, like an exclamation point on the table between us.

‘You really want to do this, Hannah?'

‘Call me crazy, but I do. And I'm doing it for charity, too, don't forget.'

Paul shrugged, picked up the pen, and signed the form with a flourish. ‘I know better than to argue with you when you've already made up your mind,' he said, holding the form out to me. ‘So, tell me, is there any way I'll be able to get in touch with you while you're away?'

‘Letters, Jud says. Once every week to a post office box in Annapolis, but I'm pretty sure they'll be monitored.' I took the agreement from his outstretched fingers and slipped it back into the envelope next to the fatter contract that had to be revised before I would be able to sign. ‘They're probably delivering them by pony express.'

Paul sniffed. ‘No cell phones, I presume.'

‘Ha ha ha. If there'd been cell phones back then, Paul Revere would have Tweeted that the British were coming. “1 F by C.”'

He didn't crack a smile. ‘So, what if I need to contact you, like in an emergency?'

‘There'll be a number to the production team that you can call. Wait a minute! I'll give you Jud's cell. He called me, so the number's still on my iPhone.'

Paul didn't look entirely convinced. ‘And if you need to talk to
me
?'

I shrugged. I hadn't thought that one through. ‘Jud will contact you if there's an emergency. Otherwise, red petticoat hung out to dry on the clothesline? Notes in a hollow tree?'

Paul reached for my hand. ‘You are a devious wench, but I love you. And I'm going to miss you like crazy.'

‘It's only three months, Paul. I was out of it for six months when I was undergoing chemo.'

‘I know, but at least then I could see you, touch you, hold you.'

‘How about this, then? I'll write you in code.'

‘Ah, there you go, guilt-tripping me again. But, I could use the lonely hours to work on my book.'

Paul and his colleague, Brent Morris, had a friendly academic rivalry going on. Brent had surged ahead, having recently published a paperback called
The Math of Card Shuffling
, while Paul's book,
Famous Unsolved Codes and Ciphers
, still languished in a Word file on his computer. It had been a copy-edit away from being ready to go, then somebody had conclusively solved the Dorabella Cipher – sent by composer Edward Elgar to a young Dora Penny – and the project had stalled.