But for once, William was wrong. While Paul’s work continued to flourish, with catalogue work and non-speaking roles in commercials dominating his calendar, he instructed his agent to preserve time on his calendar each month for returns to Moetown. He also had a copy of the softball schedule and made as many games as he could.
“It’s working out even better than I hoped,” he told Lucky, who was the only one in the L when he called one afternoon. “My agent says I’m booked solid for the next eight months—all quality work. And everyone down here’s falling over themselves to tell me how they knew I was innocent all the while.”
“Guilt and hypocrisy. Sounds like you’re playin with house money down there.”
“Yeah, I’m on a bit of a winning streak. So how’s the team doing?”
“We won one and lost one this week. The Gimp whines every game you’re not here, says Jeff’s doing all he can out in center, but he needs his lead-off hitter back.”
“Tell him I’ll be there next week for both games. Then I’m gone for a week—an LL Bean shoot in Nova Scotia.”
“Tell me when you get a warm-weather shoot and I’ll join you.” A pause. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
With Paul and his schedule integrated into Moetown’s operation, the camp settled back down. Josh and Clark continued to work on projects, with Pete helping on occasion. William’s counseling business grew to the point that he was turning away new clients. And though the camp assured him that he didn’t have to work another day in his life, Lucky continued to ply his trade with steady, though unspectacular, success.
The only ones whose lives changed that much were Pete and Donna. While Pete had initially worked most of the day with Josh and Clark on the buildings and clearings, he now ended his workday at noon, at which time he had lunch with Harry, freeing Donna up to work with Carol on the book. At three o’clock he handed Harry off to Donna and headed to his studio, where he worked the wood and marble until dinner.
The sculptures had always been for his own pleasure. Lucky, without Pete’s permission, had taken a few of the smaller pieces down to San Tomas, then up to San Francisco, but the feedback was that, while the craftsmanship was excellent, the work was ‘not for us.’
It was Paul who wound up creating Pete’s market. While on a catalogue shoot for The Nature Collection, a line of outdoor apparel for the upscale consumer, the set director and stylist were having problems finding the right background pieces. Paul placed a call to Moetown and put the director on the line with Pete. The next day, five of Pete’s pieces arrived by FedEx and made their way into the shots. When the catalogue came out three months later, there was as much interest in the pieces as the clothing. And in the sculptor.
Wary of publicity—not only for himself for but Donna and Josh—Pete consulted with William, who suggested he keep his identity secret, not just for privacy sake but to enhance interest in his work. The set director then put them in touch with a West Hollywood gallery, who offered a one-man show. Pete agreed, with the understanding that he wouldn’t have to attend the opening-night.
“What the hell,” William said. “If it ever comes to them needing to put a personality behind your work, we’ll give them Lucky. They won’t know if they’re coming or going.”
“It was kind of flattering,” Pete said to Donna one night as they lay in bed, “the idea of being interviewed and profiled. For about ten minutes. Then I looked at it from different angles and it lost its appeal.”
“How so?”
“Well, first, and don’t take this the wrong way, but once it got out that we were married, I’d never know if they were interested in me for my work or because I was ‘Mr. Donna Fairchild.’ You know?”
She nodded into his chest. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. Also, just in the preliminary talks with the agents who wanted to rep me, I felt like a piece of bread surrounded by seagulls. And I know that’s nothing compared to what you went through.”
“Yeah, well, that was then. I was on my own and it was all about the cause. Now…” She put her hand on his shoulder and puller herself more tightly into him. “I’m afraid it’s going to start up again. The interview and the subsequent articles—and now the book. Turns out I’m bigger news than I thought I was.”
He stroked her hair. “You sorry you got back in the game?”
“No. It’s time. And also, if not on me, the spotlight would have fallen on Josh. And none of us wants that.”