The Last Refuge Read Online Free PDF Page A

my mind to consult him first, even though I knew that the majority of his business had to do with real property, trusts and estates. ‘I know you’re slammed, Jud, but can you give me a couple of days?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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
    â€˜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
    A ll 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