‘Slammed doesn’t begin to describe it,’ Jud complained as we strolled past the herb garden and out the gate that led back into Martin Street. ‘Try back against the wall, puffing my last cigarette with a dozen M-16s aimed at my chest.’
I touched his arm. ‘I guess I’d better be quick about it, then. I wouldn’t want your execution on my conscience.’
‘Thanks, Hannah. Much appreciated.’
As we strolled down Martin Street, Jud pointed out the greenhouses where the gardener had been at work for several months growing the vegetables needed to sustain the Patriot House cast over the course of the program.
Further on, another parking lot was being transformed. Straw had been strewn over the gravel and, as I watched, workmen began to erect a log-like structure – half barn, half lean-to – where, Jud informed me, our horse stall, cow shed, chicken coop and rabbit pens were going to go. Milk and eggs I could deal with, but I tried not to think of chicken and dumplings or rabbit stew.
As Jud walked me home, the great circle route via King George Street and Maryland Avenue, I continued to worry aloud about being thrown into the mix so late, but when we arrived back on my doorstep, Jud pinned me with a disarming grin and said, ‘It’s reality TV, Hannah. If the missus had been kidnapped by Indians, or died of smallpox or something – God forbid – it would be natural to expect Jack Donovan to send for a female relative to help run his household. That’s how it was done.’
Not much different from today, I mused, remembering how my two sisters, Ruth and Georgina, had rallied to take care of Paul while I was undergoing chemo and feeling like crap. ‘Well, I certainly trust that Paul won’t be busily lining up wife number two just to keep him in clean laundry and freshly-baked bread while I’m away – if I decide to come on board, that is.’
Jud grinned, and raised a pale eyebrow. ‘By Sunday, then? You’ll let me know?’
I reached out and shook his hand. ‘Today’s Thursday, so yes, by Sunday. One way or the other. Promise.’
THREE
‘I own a car dealership in Texas, so I’m not exactly up to speed on entertainment law, but there is the darndest clause in the contract I signed in order to be on this show. It gives the producers – hold on a minute, I had to write it down – it gives them rights “in perpetuity and throughout the universe and for any and all forms of expression whether now existing or hereafter devised.” As far as I can tell, the only loophole in that clause is if I suddenly slipped through a wormhole into a parallel universe.’
Jack Donovan, Patriot
All the way home, floating several inches above the sidewalk, still caught up in the fairy-tale world Jud had painted for me, I’d been wondering how I’d break the news to Paul. When that thought rose to the surface, I realized that I’d half decided to do it.
Back in my cluttered kitchen, I checked the calendar I keep stuck to the fridge with a magnet, and decided that I’d have to reschedule a mammogram and a bone scan, but they were routine; waiting another couple of months shouldn’t be a problem. I had a few lunches with girlfriends, but they’d understand – maybe even be green with envy. My daughter, Emily, would be totally cool with ‘My mother, the TV star,’ even if she’d have to make alternate arrangements for carpool on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
But Paul? My husband, the mathematician, was a financial wizard. I imagined he’d apply the same intense scrutiny to the contract Jud wanted me to sign as he did to his quarterly investment reports, so I figured that before he got home that evening, I’d better get my ducks in a row.
I fingered the manila envelope holding the contract that I’d laid on the kitchen table, hefted it, and decided I’d need a cup of hot tea to help me deal with actually looking inside. While the tea bag was steeping in the cup, I slid the contract out of the envelope and flipped through – all thirty-two pages of it – and began to read, but by the time I got to page four of the teeny-tiny print, my eyes had glazed over and, in spite of all the caffeine in the tea, I was in danger of slipping into a coma.
I checked my watch. Just two o’clock. I picked up the telephone and called Hutch.
Maurice Gaylord Hutchinson, Esquire, is a prominent Annapolis attorney, married to my older sister, Ruth. Sometimes when I telephone I get my sister, who fills in when the secretary is away, but that day Megan answered and put me straight through.
‘Hannah!’ Hutch sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you for that fabulous dinner party you put together last week, but when I got back to the office the next morning, things kind of got away from me.’
‘You brought the wine, Hutch. That was thanks enough. Look, I apologize for calling during office hours, but I have something strange and rather important I need to talk to you about.’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I come and see you? Ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of bothering you, especially as I know you’re super busy, but it’s a contract I need someone with brains to look over, and it’s time critical.’
‘Now?’ I could hear papers rustling in the background. I held my breath, hoping Hutch was checking his calendar. ‘I have a three thirty, so if you come right away…’
‘Thanks!’ I said, before he could even finish the sentence. I wasn’t planning on wasting a second of my brother-in-law’s valuable time.
Hutch’s office is on Main Street – several doors up from his wife’s eclectic, New Age boutique, ‘Mother Earth’ – on the second floor of a building that houses an upscale leather bootery.
I hustled up Prince George Street and down Maryland Avenue toward the State House, taking a path through the alley near the Maryland Federation of Art that cut between State Circle and Main Street. I bopped into Hutch’s office just seven minutes after I hung up the phone.
Megan, Hutch’s secretary, glanced up from her keyboard. ‘Good to see you, Hannah. He’s expecting you. He’ll join you in a moment in the conference room.’
The last time I’d been in Hutch’s conference room was when we were arranging a home equity loan to help cover Emily’s Bryn Mawr College tuition. Hutch wasn’t there yet, so I sat down at the head of the table and made myself comfortable, admiring an oil painting on the wall of a sailboat under sail, its red, blue and yellow spinnaker billowing.
When Hutch breezed into the room I looked up and barely recognized him. His floppy, neatly trimmed hair style – so very GQ – had been replaced by a buzz cut. ‘My goodness,’ I chirped. ‘What on earth did you do to your hair? Were the U.S. Marines looking for a few good men?’
Hutch rubbed a hand briskly over the pale stubble. ‘Ruth and I have taken up dancing again, so I figured I needed something a bit more wash and wear.’
I considered his new do with a critical eye. ‘Too bad. The Leonardo di Caprio look had your younger clients swooning. The older ladies, too, come to think of it.’ I winked, so he’d know I was teasing.
‘I don’t need clients to swoon over me, Hannah. I need them to pay attention, and do what I say.’ His eyes flicked from my face to the clock on the wall, then down to the manila envelope I’d placed on the table in front of me. ‘So, what have we here?’ he asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to me. He laid a hand lightly on the envelope.
Hutch is one of the most unflappable guys I know. You’d have to be, married to the superannuated flower child that is my sister. Ruth had actually been at Woodstock in 1969. She’d inhaled. She’d enjoyed it. I watched Hutch’s green eyes widen as I explained about Patriot House, 1774 and my potential role in it.