The private charter descended through a layer of thin clouds. Duke looked out the window at Washington D.C. below.
It was September 16, 1974 and he was on his way to a meeting.
The pilot had clear instructions to avoid National and Dulles airports, the two major airports of Washington D.C.
They were aiming for a small, private airstrip on the outskirts of the city. No reporters waited there. The flight listed a fictional name. Duke preffered it that way.
The plane slowed and stopped. Duke grabbed his coat and steeped otu.
A black sedan idled a few yards away with young man in a gray suit stood by the door.
The young man gave a sharp nod, without asking for a name. Duke got into the back seat as the man shut the door.
The driver navigated the roads leading toward Georgetown. Duke leaned against the leather seat. He watched the streetlamps flash past the window.
Eight days ago, President Gerald Ford had already pardoned Richard Nixon which triggered massive public outcry, with approximately 53% to 58% of Americans opposing the decision.
The fallout crippled Ford's presidency despite him being only a month into the role, causing his approval ratings to plummet by roughly 30% overnight.
The car turned onto a narrow, tree-lined street in Georgetown.
The driver put the car in park and turned around as he told Duke they had arrived. Duke thanked him and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
He walked up to the front door and was about to ring the bell, but the door swung inward before Duke even reached for the knocker.
The man blocking the threshold extended an open palm and Duke surrendered his briefcase. Another man used a Handheld Metal Detector, sweeped around Duke's arms and legs.
After satisfied, the guard stepped into the hall, gesturing him forward.
Duke stepped past the security men and into the house, entering a large ball room with dozens of people that could be seen just pasth the hallway.
The historic scent of the house and aged mahogany settled over him immediately, a big contrast to the open-air offices of Los Angeles.
A server in a white shirt and dark trousers walked past, balancing a silver tray of appetizers with ease.
Duke hesitated by a side table, noticing a server walking with Flammkuchen in hand, 'the worst version of european pizza' he noted, suddenly unsure of the protocol of how to approach this situation.
In a studio whether it was a meeting or production, he knew exactly how to walk in, who to look at, where to sit, specially since he owned the place.
Here, he didn't know if he was supposed to wait to be announced by the host or just wander in like a guest at a party.
He lingered just inside the threshold.
The room was filled with men wearing muted colors, conservative suits, making his tailored cut red and black italian suit suddenly feel out of place.
Normally in Hollywood he was the conservative dressed one.
About a dozen men and one woman were sitting on the armchairs that were on the center of the room.
He recognized Senator Bob Dole talking to a group of people near the fireplace.
Across the room, Senator Howard Baker sank in a sofa, his eyes fixed on a standing man leaning over him.
The others, mostly men with rigid postures were complete strangers.
Duke kept his hands shoved in his pockets. He was aware that he hadn't the faintest idea how the social hierarchy functioned in a room like this.
Lifting a crystal champagne glass from a passing tray just to get his hands a job still considering how to get himself more connections.
Suddenly, Mary Louise Smith stepped to the center of the room, the new chairwoman of the Republican National Committee.
Mary Louise Smith raised her hand, making the party go silent. "Thank you all for slipping away tonight," she said.
"We all know the gravity of the last few weeks. The Watergate incident, the resignation and now the pardon have all damaged our foundation, and the public is angry. But we are not here to autopsy the past or point fingers at each other. Tonight, we must look ahead as an opportunity for reinvention, and it begins in this room."
She gestured toward the wall, where a young man stood. "Dick Cheney has the latest read from the Oval Office."
Cheney stepped into the center, and opened a black notebook, his expression blank.
"Inflation just hit 12%," Cheney said reading from his notebook, "Unemployment is climbing by the week, and the Democrats hold a veto-proof majority in both Senate and Congress."
"Every piece of legislation the President sends up is going to be a fight."
Cheney flipped a page in his notebook and looked directly at Senator Dole. "And then there is the pardon. Which is political poison. The overnight polling is...harsh, and the press is calling it corruption."
He paused, letting the words hang. "But the President made the call. He knows we cannot spend the next 2 years watching a former president on the news. The country has to move forward, regardless of the midterm bleeding."
A broad-shouldered man stepped forward, gesturing with an unlit cigar. "The threat for 1976 is already a reality, Ted Kennedy is clearing out East, turning the news into a daily appearance."
"Scoop Jackson has defense lobbies and labor unions locked up in a grip. And now we have Jimmy Carter running around the South, playing the pure, honest christian outsider to a country that feels betrayed."
"The network cameras are eating it up. The press loathes the RNC right now. If we don't grab the steering wheel and start coordinated television blocks to rewrite the narrative, we are going to get slaughtered in the midterms."
The room erupted into a flurry of conversations.
"The new FEC limits are going to choke us if we run it through the standard channels," a man countered trying to make his point.
"We need independent committees and blind pools of capital that don't trigger disclosure laws." He looked around, checking for nods. "The cash is there. We can get twenty million out of New York and Chicago by next Friday if the operational skeleton is clean."
Mary Louise Smith eyes swept past the senators, past the guest, and went directly to Duke.
"Duke," she said, "How do we fix the screen?"
Duke tapped his own chest with his index finger, to confirm she was speaking with him.
Smith gave a nod. The manj with the unlit cigarrete stepped back, adjusting his tie, giving up the floor.
"The screen is currently showing a bad story," Duke said, trying to remember what his own advisors had told him. "And every time one of your members appears on evening news, they just remind the audience of the incidents. Stop talking about Watergate or explaining the pardon. A trial that didn't even happen is a dead story."
"With respect," the broad man countered, crossing his arms, "the press won't let it go. Every appearance is an opportunity to attack us."
"Then we change the subject," Duke said, turning his gaze onto the man. "The guy buying two gallons of gas in Ohio doesn't give a damn about the RNC or the DNC. He cares that his tank cost more than it did before."
"I can assure you housewifes in Arkansas aren't reading Watergate transcripts, she's mre likely to read her grocery receipt for milk and bread."
"Basically, what i'm trying to say it's, we must frame every angle around the kitchen table. Energy independence, grocery prices and safe streets. If the question is about Nixon, the answer has to be the price of beef."
Duke briefly remembered a time a member of Trump's cabinet answered a question about the Epsttein files by saying the Dow, S&P, and the NASDAQ stock markets were all breaking records.
Duke continued. "And stop letting them frame Ford as a substitute teacher who inherited a bad classroom. He's the President, give him a policy for him to convince people."
An hour later, the conversation broke. The servers moved back into the room, their trays heavier with scotch and ice. The senators migrated toward corners in groups, with Duke going around speaking with people with a person, making sure he meet the people.
"Walk with me, Duke," Mary Louise Smith appeared by his side, and said on his ear, already turning toward the exit.
He followed her out, and they moved down a narrow hallway lined with oil paintings.
At the end of the hall, she pushed open a door into a small library.
The door of the library clicked shut after they entered.
Mary Louise Smith turned the deadbolt with a twist, she gestured toward one of the 2 chairs in the room.
"Sit, Duke," she said, trailing her fingers along the edge of a desk as she walked past. "We don't have much time before the senators start looking for me."
Duke sat on the chair, but didn't lean back yet. He just watched her.
"The executive committee is drowning," Smith said, "The pardon cost us a lot of goodwill overnight. The midterm elections will be soon, and right now, our candidates are not up to standard."
Duke let a moment pass, deciding not to speak.
"We are establishing an advisory group," Smith continued, taking the chair opposite him. "Entirely separate from the RNC budget of course. If a memo is typed, it will be burned the same afternoon. We need a person who can help shape our primary strategy." She paused, her eyes locking onto his. "Will you join?"
Duke slowly leaned back into the cushion.
"I have three conditions," Duke said.
Smith nodded once, her hands resting flat on her knees.
"First, my name stays out," Duke said, "No paper trail. If a reporter prints so much as a whisper about a Hollywood man sitting in these rooms, the advisory group vanishes."
"Agreed," Smith said. "What else?"
"Second, I am not a donor. I will not write a check to the party, and I do not want my signature appearing on any FEC filings. My currency is media and strategy, not cash."
"Consider it done. And the third?"
"Paramount has plans to expand on the TV station market in Texas. The Justice Department is still looking over us. If we could somehow stop the Newspaper and Broadcast Cross-Ownership Rule from happening it would be for the best."
Enacted by the Federal Communications Commission, FCC in 1975, the Newspaper and Broadcast Cross-Ownership Rule.
The rule prohibited a single corporate entity from owning both a daily English-language newspaper and a broadcast station (either television or radio) that served the same local market.
Smith's expression didn't shiftf. She merely reached out and picked up a small letter opener from the side table, turning it over once in her hand.
"The Attorney General's office was quite accommodating during your recent records inquiry, wasn't he?" she asked. "Consider that a gesture of good faith. The administration values its friends, Duke. Especially the ones who can help the party."
She stood up, setting the letter opener down, Duke rose to meet her.
Smith held out her hand, and Duke took it.
Duke wondered whether after being involved in Politics he could write better Star Wars prequels than George Lucas, after all he would have first hand experience.
Duke unlocked the door himself and walked out into the hallway. He picked up his briefcase from a side table, nodding to the security guard who held the front door open for him.
Duke climbed into the back seat of the sedan and closed the door.
____
The sun over Holmby Hills cut through the morning haze on the driveway of the Owlwood estate. Duke stood on the patio with sunglasses, watching an unmarked white panel truck back up to the side entrance.
Two men in plain navy coveralls lifted a crate of raw timber. There were no logos on the truck, no delivery slips clipboarded to their dashboards, and no casual chatter.
"They're the third crew this week, boss," a voice said from the side, Russel stepped near him. He adjusted his earpiece, his eyes never leaving the delivery men. "Different company, different routing address. The billing went through shell companies in Delaware."
Duke didn't turn his head. "And the paperwork from the agency?"
"Locked down," Russel said, pulling a small notebook from his breast pocket. "Margaux's agent thinks she's at a private villa 3 miles outside of Florence, taking a sabatical doing oil paintings. The maid we dismissed last Tuesday also signed the non-disclosure forms."
"Good," Duke said, "What about privacy wise?"
Russel pointed toward the boundary line, where three flatbed trucks were idling. A crane was already lifting a thirty-foot mature live oak.
"The landscaping crew is planting twelve of those today along the border, the angle from the road on the opposite hill is dead. A telephoto lens from that distance won't even pick up a reflection. I've also doubled roaming patrols along the fence line. Six-hour shifts, no overlapping breaks."
Duke nodded once, Patty Hearst having been kidnapped in February 1974, had released an audiotape this week denouncing her family and adopting the name "Tania" to become a revolutionary member, while the FBI launched a nationwide manhunt that placed her on their Most Wanted list.
Duke looked up at the sky as he though that in february he was still with Lynda, and now he was renovating his property to hide Margaux pregnancy.
Patty Hearst had really done a number on his life.
Duke's mind shifted away from the security perimeters. He checked his watch, 9:14 AM. "Where is she?"
"Library," Russel replied, "The new nanny arrived from London and already meet her."
Russel looked at his notebook and started talking. "Miss Henderson. Norland graduate, 4 years working with high class families in the UK. She asked if you wanted to review the nutritional logs she prepared for the first trimester."
"Tell her to leave them on the desk," Duke said, he didn't really know what a pregnant woman was supposed to eat, the only time he ever though about nutritional logs was during a brief incursion he did on Bodybuilding during his years in Highschool.
"And tell the kitchen that the citrus needs to be organic. Her morning sickness was worse on Wednesday when she had the store-bought fruit. Matter of fact, buy everything organic, buy a cow and we'll put it on a freezer too."
He turned and walked to the library, taking a slow breath as he pushed the door open.
Margaux was curled on a oversized green leather sofa, wrapped in a blanket that completely hid the three-month swell of her belly. A book on her hands as she focused on it.
Duke walked over and leaned over the back of the sofa, his eyes dropping to the title of the book she was reading, An Illustrated History of Belted Cattle.
"You're going to know more than the local vets before we even get off the plane," he murmured, his hand reaching down to brush a stray blonde lock away from her cheek.
His fingers lingered on her skin, checking her temperature. "How are you feeling? The tea did it help with the nausea?"
Margaux looked up, her blue eyes bright. "Tea taste like grass, Duke. No wonder my ancestors left the British Isles, must be a horrible place for their people to drink this in the middle of the day."
She reached up, taking his hand and pulling him to the sofa until he sat down beside her. "Look at this."
She pulled for a side and spread a sheet of paper across the coffee table. It was scribbles of what she wanted in a property that Duke recognized from the surveyor maps of the Idaho property he was in the process of buying.
"The farmhand said the soil near the creek is too soft for heavy stock," she said, pointing at a series of scribbled squares with words inside.
"So we put the goats here, near the rocky ridge. They like the climbing anyway. And the barn cats must be mousers. I don't want city cats."
Duke looked at the map, then at her face. "We can get twenty cats if you want them," "But you're spending too much time leaning over. The doctor said you need to keep your posture straight to help with the lower back pressure. I could hire someone to read this out loud to you."
She leaned back against the leather cushions, letting out a soft laugh "If you keep this up for another six months, I'm going to hire Russel to guard me from you."
She tapped her pen against the edge of the table. "Besides, we haven't even settled the most important thing on the list, the name."
Duke rubbed the back of his neck, he leaned forward, looking at the empty rectangle she'd drawn for the baby's name. "I spent the flight back from Georgetown going through the old family registries. If it's a boy... Alexander has weight to it. Or Bradley. Charles is classic, John, Barron, Mark, there's a lot of options."
Margaux watched him, her head tilted, an amused look in her eyes. "Alexander sounds corporate, Duke. And Charles sounds like he belongs in a boarding school in Connecticut."
She reached over, gently taking the pen from his fingers and twisting it between her palms. "If it's a boy, you get the final vote. But if it's a girl..."
"Hadley," she said, looking out the window. "After my grandmother. Hadley Hemingway. It sounds american and has a touch to it."
Duke repeated the name under his breath, Hadley Hauser, and it rolled off his tongue nicely.
"Hadley is perfect," he said, his hand moving back to her waist.
He glanced out the window, suddenly wondering whether Idaho's weather could have negative impact on a pregnancy, he had already made preparations, but still, he didnt want risks.
Duke turned his attention back to her, "The local hand in Idaho called the office this morning. If we stay here another week, the mountain passes are going to be choked with mud, and the truck won't be able to get your horses up to the barn."
Margaux's pen stopped moving. She looked up at him, her lips parting slightly, her eyes widening. "Is the house already clear? The nanny visited and said the kitchen wasn't fully insulated yet."
"The crew finished the seals yesterday at midnight," Duke told her. "The wood is stacked, the generator is full, and there's a medic that will be living there. We're leaving California at the end of the week."
Four days later, they flew to Idaho. The private jet landed at a small airfield.
Margaux shivered, pulling the collar of her thick wool coat tight as Duke guided her down the plane.
A dark green Ford truck sat idling by the hangar, already turned on with hot air awaiting for them. Duke helped her up into the passenger seat, threw their bags into the truck bed, and climbed in behind the wheel.
"The Miller family was ready to let it go," Duke said, keeping his eyes on the road as the truck bounced over a pothole. "The cattle market's been bleeding them dry all year. Between the fuel costs and feed prices, inflation ran them into a corner. The old man wanted out, and so they sold for 2.7 million."
"We own the 19th farmhouse, a barn, a John Deere tractor, three Quarter Horses, five Herefords, and whatever barn cats are currently in the property."
The truck slowed, as the tires crunched loudly on a gravel driveway that cut through a wide pasture.
Up ahead, a two-story farmhouse stood in the middle of a field smoke rising up from a stone fireplace chimney.
An older man in faded denim and a sweat-stained cowboy hat was waiting by the front porch steps, holding his hat in his hands as the truck rolled to a stop. Duke killed the ignition.
Margaux pushed her door open and stepped down herself into the dry dirt, as Duke stared at her.
"I like this place," she looked at the plains nearby where a few cows were grazing, with one even mooing at her. She yelled at Duke while he got out of the truck. "Duke, this is exactly where I want to raise our child. It's perfect."
"I had to move fast," he admitted, getting behind her resting his chin against her hair. "I only had the blueprints, a few aerial photographs, and a land surveyor's report to go on."
"Looking at you right now, I'd say my bet paid off." He also choose this place, cause there it was near federal area that he could use to hunt or fish in the future.
Margaux leaned into his chest, letting out a laugh as she wiped her cheek with the back of her sleeve.
They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the boundaries, the old farmhand walked a respectful few paces behind them, pointing out the line where their fences met the federal forest land.
Margaux stopped near a flat meadow where a natural spring trickled out of the hillside.
"I want an artificial lake here," she said, turning to show Duke her rough sketch. "Deep enough for trout, wide enough for swimming in July, and we can clear the snow off it to ice skate when the winter hits."
She led him toward the timber barn, pointing down at the muddy track that connected the outbuildings to the main house.
"We need a proper stone path here cause I could slip," she insisted, tapping the pencil against her chin. "Something smooth. I don't want to be fighting mud every morning if I'm trying to push a baby stroller down to the stables."
They walked past the pasture fence, where three horses lifted their heads to watch them pass. Margaux leaned against the top rail, gesturing toward the empty grass on the other side of the creek. "The goats too, don't forget that."
They circled around to the back of the farmhouse, where a rectangular patch of dark earth lay. "This is going to be the vegetable garden, I'm going to grow heirloom tomatoes, squash, and berries. I'll buy the glass jars, the pressure cookers, and have the nanny show me how to can things for the winter months."
Duke didn't offer a word of protest, he just nodded. Pregnant women are made to be spoiled.
They walked back to the house, settling into two sturdy rocking chairs on the front porch. The screen door squeaked open, and the Norland nanny stepped out, carrying a wooden tray with two steaming mugs.
"Hot apple cider, Mr. Hauser, ma'am," she said with a polite, quiet smile. "The kitchen is fully stocked, and the heat is up."
The old farmhand walked up from the stables, and pulled a orange carrot from his pocket and held it out toward Margaux with a nod toward the fence line.
"The Hereford lead cow is a gentle old thing, ma'am," he said, his voice a low, slow drawl. "If you've a mind to meet her, she's partial to sweet things."
Margaux set her cider down and walked out to the wooden rails, a brown and white cow ambled over, its large eyes fixed on the carrot.
"Keep your hand like this," the farmhand coached softly, demonstrating.
Margaux laughed out loud as the cow's sandpaper tongue swept the carrot into its mouth. She reached out, and stroked the animal's thick neck.
___
More of a chill chapter, Will prob not focus on Margaux as much on the next few chapters.