The Last Refuge (20 page)

While Samuel packed up his case, Dr Glass sat at the table and wrote something out on a piece of paper. He handed it to French. ‘The tea should take care of the pain, but if you take that to the apothecary, he'll give you something for her fever.

‘In the meantime, white willow bark tea. There'll be some in the kitchen. Don't be alarmed when you see it. In spite of the name, when it's brewed up, it's ruby red in color. You can add a stick of cinnamon if she doesn't like the barky taste. In the morning, you can start her on a broth, chicken or beef. Cool, not hot.'

Samuel helped his master back into his coat; handed him his hat and cane. At the door, the doctor turned, adjusting the lace where it protruded from his sleeves as he spoke. ‘Send for me if you feel worse, or there's any change. I know you're reluctant to leave the project, Mrs Ives, but if
I
think you need modern medical attention, I'll sling you over my shoulder and carry you off to the hospital myself.'

‘In a horse-drawn carriage?' I murmured.

‘If I have to,' he chuckled. ‘I'll come back tomorrow, same time,' the doctor said, and he was gone, with Samuel and the box of medicinals in his wake.

French placed another cool compress on my forehead, then scurried off to the kitchen to brew up the tea. Half an hour later, she returned and helped me sit up. Propped against several pillows, I cradled a cup in my hands and sipped the brew slowly, knowing that if it didn't stay down, it couldn't work its magic. It tasted like tree bark with cinnamon in it, but felt deliciously warm and soothing as it trickled down my throat.

Soon, I felt myself nodding. French relieved me of the cup, tucked the comforter in around me, then settled into the upholstered chair next to the fire with her feet curled up under her.

‘You don't have to stay,' I whispered as sleep began to overtake me at last.

‘I don't mind,' she said. ‘Would you like me to read to you?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

She opened the book and began, ‘Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between Captain Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy – a young lady of great beauty, merit, and fortune – was Miss Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered of a fine boy. The child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but the midwife discovered it was born a month before its full time.'

‘They don't write 'em like they used to,' I thought, as I drifted off.

I'm not sure what woke me. It could have been the cool October wind that was making the bed curtains dance around me as it whistled through the open windows. It might have been my bladder, in eminent danger of bursting from all the liquid I'd been force-fed over the past several hours. I needed to use the chamber pot in the worst way, but the thought of leaving the warmth of my bed effectively paralyzed me.

A fire still flickered in the grate – somebody must be tending it – but the chair that French had occupied was deserted. Our novel –
Tom Jones
– lay open on the table next to the chair, a strap of fringed-leather marking the place where she'd left off.

The book could wait, but my bladder couldn't. Gritting my teeth and thanking my lucky stars that I didn't have to rush outside to use the privy, I slid out of bed and found the chamber pot, wincing as I pulled up my shift and sat down on the ice cold porcelain.

As relief washed over me, I heard the long case clock in the downstairs hall strike the quarter hour. But the quarter of
what
hour? I'd lost complete track of time.

When I finished, I stood up, wobbly. My head swam. My legs felt like cooked spaghetti and I grabbed for a bed post.

I looked to the windows for a clue to the hour, but it was still dark outside. Then I remembered Amy's iPhone.

It was probably less than eight feet from my bed to the dresser, but the distance seemed to stretch out forever before me. I released the curtain and shuffled to the straight-backed chair, clung there for a moment, head pounding, then moved on. At the dresser, I rested, breathing hard, as exhausted as if I'd just run a marathon. Even the Chinese vase felt like lead, but I managed to scoot it toward me across the dresser top, tilt it toward me and stick my hand inside.

But the vase was empty.

Amy's iPhone had gone.

‘Amy's been sight-reading from a collection of songs somebody put together in 1779. I guess they got tired of ye olde songs like “The Twins of Latona” because they're up there right now singing songs from Stephen Foster. I'm OK with “I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair,” but when they get to “All de darkeys am a-weeping, Massa's in de cold, cold ground . . .” Well, I'm here to tell you that not everyone feels the same way about Ole Massa.'

Karen Gibbs, cook

‘Y
ou shouldn't have tried to get out of bed, you know.' Someone was swabbing my hands and arms with warm water. A cool compress lay over my eyes. ‘There's a bell on the table. Next time, madam, you use it.'

‘I'm sorry, French, but I had to pee.'

‘It's not French, it's Amy.'

I whipped off the compress, instantly alert. ‘Amy! My God, I've been so worried!'

Amy dipped the flannel in water, calmly wrung it out. ‘I can see that. But you needn't have made yourself
sick
over it.'

‘Where . . . ? How . . . ?'

‘All in good time. You need to rest now.' She concentrated on my hands, working the cloth between each of my fingers. ‘I'm sorry I wasn't here when you needed me, Hannah.'

‘How long have I been out of it? I've lost all track of time.'

‘Just two days.'

‘
Two?
'

‘Uh huh. French told me they sent for the doctor. You're such a troublemaker.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You should be. If you hadn't been such a damn fool, your fever might have broken earlier.'

‘I had to pee,' I explained again. I didn't mention her missing iPhone.

‘The doctor came to see you again last night,' Amy said. ‘Your blood sample was normal, he said. Best guess, you've got a bad case of flu. Wait a minute, I wrote it down.' She reached into her pocket for a slip of paper, squinted as if trying to decipher the handwriting. ‘CDC H3N3,' she read. ‘Ah, the Center for Disease Control says you had the H3N2 virus that's making the rounds.'

‘The doctor came again?' I had no recollection of that. I remembered dreams, weird and disjointed. Amy. Alex. Paul and the Phantom of the Opera duking it out.

‘You don't remember?'

‘I had a long discussion with René Descartes about the existence of God and the immortality of the soul.' I raised the arm she had just washed and pointed. ‘He sat right there at the foot of the bed and explained it all to me. What's more amazing, is that I understood every word.'

‘Ah, that explains the French.' Amy said, dropping the flannel back into the basin. ‘
Je pense donc je suis
. How's your head?'

‘Better.' Amy looked skeptical, so I said, ‘Really.'

‘I'm going to fetch you some broth. Are you up for that?'

‘Only if you promise to sit down next to the bed and tell me what's been going on.'

‘First you eat.'

When Amy returned a few minutes later holding a tray, I asked, worried, ‘Is Derek in the room? Chad?'

‘No,' Amy said. ‘Everyone's off to see a production of
The Beggar's Opera
in the Annapolis Summer Garden Theatre building down by the docks.' She fluffed up my pillows and propped me up against them. She handed me a cup of yellow liquid with specks of green floating on top.

I took a cautious sip, ‘Bleah! It's cold!'

‘It's
supposed
to be cold. Pretend it's vichyssoise.'

‘That's a stretch.' I took another sip and swallowed. ‘But I think it's going to stay down.'

‘Good.' Amy scooted the straight back chair closer to my bed and sat down on it. ‘So, where to start?'

‘At the beginning,' I said. ‘At St Anne's. In the restroom.'

‘I never even
got
to the restroom,' Amy told me. ‘When I entered the vestibule, Drew was already there, waiting, thumbing through the brochures on the tract rack. He saw me, literally scooped me up, and the next thing I know, we're in the back seat of a cab speeding out of town on Rowe Boulevard, heading straight for the airport.'

‘Where was he taking you?'

‘To the Four Points Sheraton at first, and then South America. Argentina, to be exact, in Flores, which is a yuppyfied barrio in the heart of Buenos Aires, or so I gather. You can get lost among thirteen million people, he says. Drew had it all laid on. False passports. A private plane. A suitcase of clothes for me, all bought for cash at Macy's.' She blushed. ‘He even remembered my size.'

‘So how come you aren't in Argentina?'

Amy gave me a look.

Oh, I got it. First things first. The hotel.
Sex.

‘But thank God for that,' Amy continued, ‘because it gave me time to negotiate.'

‘Successfully, apparently.'

She nodded. ‘But it wasn't easy.'

‘So, what future is there in it for you, Amy? Some sort of Do-it-Yourself Witness Protection Program?'

‘You could say that. In a few months, the Navy will declare Drew officially dead. I'm to collect the $100,000 survivor benefit and cash in his $450,000 life insurance policy. Then I join him. He's arranged passports, as I said. New identities. He had training as an accountant, so he even got somebody to dummy up a convincing work history for him. Low-level jobs at large corporations where nobody will ever bother to check.' She smiled grimly. ‘I was once a teacher. Ditto on my new résumé.

‘Drew is fluent in five languages, but I don't even speak Spanish, so what kind of work can
I
do in Argentina? “You can learn,” he said. Ha! Honestly, Hannah, I married the man for better or for worse, and this is definitely for worse. He probably wants to keep me at home, barefoot and pregnant.

‘He looked different,' she rattled on. ‘Sunburned, bleached, brittle, so . . . hard.'

‘It was pitch dark the night he visited me in your room. I never saw him, Amy.'

‘His hair is long now, tied back in a ponytail. It was always kind of dirty blond, but it's been bleached almost white by the sun. And he's no longer Drew, by the way. His name is Donald. I
hate
the name Donald.'

I had to agree. ‘I had an evil boss once named Donald. We amused ourselves by inventing devious ways to kill him. And there's always Donald Duck.'

Amy laughed mirthlessly.

‘Drew knew how much staying on the show meant to you because I told him. Why did he risk getting you kicked off the show by taking you away?'

‘In a way, it's the show that saved me, Hannah. He was going on about living in luxury for the rest of our lives. I let him think I was on board with it, too, but dammit, I don't want to live life on the run. I'm not particularly close to my mother, but I have a sister, and a niece and a nephew, and I don't want never to see them again. Besides, it's been ten months. I have new friends now.'

‘New friends,' I repeated. ‘Like Alex.'

Amy fell back against the chair. ‘You noticed?'

‘I stumbled across the two of you in the service staircase one day.'

‘Shit.'

‘He's been worried sick about you, Amy.'

‘Oh, Hannah, what am I going to do about Alex? I'm sweet on him, sure, but now that Drew's back in the picture . . .' She leaned forward, grabbed my hand. ‘Alex doesn't know about Drew, and if Drew finds out about Alex, I hate to think what might happen!'

‘Maybe you need to let Alex down gently,' I suggested.

‘Alex is such a sweet, gentle spirit,' Amy said, ‘while Drew . . .'

‘Doesn't Drew have family?' I asked. ‘Other than you, I mean.'

‘His father was killed in Vietnam, in the final days during the fall of Saigon. His mother died of cancer when Drew was only twelve. Drew's grandmother raised him, but when she died . . .' Amy shrugged. ‘I'm the only family he has. Everything Drew loves goes away.'

‘If he wanted you to stay with him so badly, Amy, how on earth did you escape?'

Amy shrugged. ‘I gave him some of the best sex he's ever had, and in the afterglow, I put him off. I pointed out something that should have occurred to him in the first place if he hadn't been thinking with his . . . you know. It would only attract attention if I disappeared from the show in midstream.
60 Minutes
and
48 Hours
would be all over it.' Amy held an imaginary microphone to her mouth, stared at me intently and said, ‘Why would the young widow of a Navy SEAL run away from the set of a major television show? Where is she hiding? And why? Stay tuned. We'll be right back.

‘If I wait until the show is over, I pointed out to him, then I could leave without comment, not have to worry about a million-dollar lawsuit, collect his insurance money, shave my eyebrows, dye my hair black or whatever, join him in Argentina, and I'd even be $15,000 to the better.'

‘But, if you don't intend to run away with Drew, what
are
you planning to do?'

Amy's face clouded up. ‘I don't know, Hannah. I'm just trying to buy a little time while I work it all out.'

‘I hate to sound like an old mother hen, but I'd give it some careful thought because it doesn't sound like Drew is willing to leave without you.'

‘Oh, Hannah, I used to be so in love with that guy! But, now? I
can't
go away with him, Hannah. Drew is not the same man I married. He's changed. He's hard, cynical. I don't know whether it's PTSD or what, but if I met him today, we'd never get past the first date.'