Elizabeth the First Wife Read online

  Now a high-end resort area and a haven for retirees, Ashland remains a hub of sorts, except instead of shipping magnates and timber barons, it’s home to theater junkies, actors of all shapes and sizes, students from the local college, organic farmers, and those who enjoy wearing fleece year-round. Real estate costs have risen exponentially with each new wave of Californians and baby boomers. Locals and transplants alike revel in their reputation for independence and quirky politics, evidenced by the fact that the unofficial mascot is the Spotted Owl, the poster bird for endangered species everywhere that first came to fame here more than twenty years ago. The eclectic population, the natural beauty, and the abundance of artisanal coffee and craft beer made Ashland the perfect spot to spend the summer.

  Maddie and I would be living in a painfully charming rental cottage on Seventh Street in the painfully charming Railroad District. Located right in the heart of Ashland, the neighborhood featured street after street of once-modest cottages built for the railroad workers between 1900 and 1910, each now worth about half a million bucks. There appeared to be some city ordinance that required at least one three-story Victorian B&B on every block. The place was lousy with accommodations called the Black Swan or Anne Hathaway’s B&B, complete with mandatory white wicker furniture and flowering baskets on the front porch.

  I wish I could claim credit for having found the perfect sage-and-purple-trimmed two-bedroom house with a porch in the front and a hot tub in back, but it wasn’t me. It was Angie, an assistant to FX’s business manager, who handled all the arrangements. (The scope of the FX Fahey Industrial Complex was coming into focus. It takes a village, and many assistants, to service a movie star.) In the short time I’d spent working with Angie via e-mail, it was clear that she was both proficient and oblivious. Proficient at researching, negotiating, securing, and documenting the huge number of details it takes to relocate multiple people; oblivious to the cost that said relocation requires. When she sent me the links to three possible houses, I saw that all three cottages were for sale, not seasonal rentals. When I told Angie this, she just said, “Everything’s negotiable.”

  Apparently Angie was right, because a week later, she sent me the keys to my first-choice place, the house with the remodeled kitchen, arched doorways, and claw-foot tub. She assured me that she’d get new beds and linens brought in, and the owner would take up the awful green carpet in the bathrooms because, she said, Hollywood “doesn’t do carpet in the bathrooms.”

  “Is linoleum okay?” she asked.

  I hadn’t even balked at the carpet.

  Angie threw in a cleaning service every week and offered to have someone come in to do our laundry on Tuesdays and Fridays. She also provided information about a grocery delivery service, an inhouse masseuse, and a nearby yoga studio and said she’d arranged for billing to go directly to her. I said no to the laundry, the grocery delivery, and the masseuse, because that all seemed a little too much. But yes to yoga, because I had a feeling I was going to need a little stress relief. Angie sent along the keys to our Ashland dream house as well as a “bible of information” (her words) about all things Ashland and all things FX.

  My guess is that she had no idea that I’d been married to FX, and she clearly thought I’d be doing a lot of his personal bidding this summer. In addition to a four-page list of his preferred everything, from face soap (Dove Unscented, the same soap since college, I noted) to iced beverages (double-shot latte with one-percent milk and a half squirt of vanilla syrup) to white undershirts (TJ Second Skin). The bible also included a list of women with whom he had slept who were not to be mentioned to the press (Carla Bruni!) and another list of women he was interested in sleeping with, should the occasion arise (Stockard Channing?). I wasn’t sure what disturbed me more: absorbing the lengthy columns of names or the fact that “Elizabeth Lancaster” wasn’t included on either list. I tossed the bible into a closet until I could decide the best course of action, burning it or tearing it to shreds, one page at a time.

  But that first morning in Ashland, the needs and desires of FX Fahey were far from the top of my mind. The kitchen of our little cottage was flooded with morning light, and I had my first chance to get a good look at our home away from home for the next ten weeks. It was clean, bright, and creamy yellow, like the website promised. The kitchen was stocked with the essentials: coffee, milk, English muffins. I brewed some coffee, changed into some socially acceptable yoga pants, a fleece pullover, and my Uggs, and headed out to the front porch.

  Maddie and I had pulled in late the night before after a grueling 700-mile drive from Southern California to Southern Oregon. Maddie talked nonstop for ten hours. I’d brought a few books on tape that I thought would help pass the time, but she was her own book on tape. I now knew the last names of all the Emmas and where they were spending the summer. I found out why she stopped taking flute from Mr. Tom. (Yes, he did touch her thigh, which, as she reminded me, “is not a part of my body involved in playing the flute at all!”) I was fully versed in the rules of table tennis and the political drama that played out when one of the top players got a B in math and was benched by her parents. And she told me about the mean girl in her class she suspected of attempting to trap her in some sort of scandal so she could post on YouTube to discredit Congressman Ted. By the time we reached the Oregon border, I was pretty sure that a) Maddie would run out of things to say by July Fourth, and b) Maddie needed to get out of Pasadena as much as I did.

  Maybe it was the cool, clean morning air or the sound of the train whistle in the background, but I felt a shot of renewed energy. I’d spent the last five summers grinding it out in the heat and smog of Southern California, teaching a few torturous remedial writing classes, moving dirt, and catching up on back issues of Sunset and Cottage Living. Basically, I’d done nothing in the moving-forward department, except the garden. Even just thinking about my life made me realize how static my status quo had been for a long while.

  Now I felt ready for something new, even if it meant reconnecting with something old, like an ex-husband. Over the last week, I had pieced together a to-do list of personal improvements I wanted to tackle this summer. Top three items: the play, the book, and my desire to upgrade my wardrobe by adding more color and less black. Add to that mastering the art of omelet making and I was a walking Glamour article, if anyone still read Glamour.

  “I can do this,” I said to no one, in a most atypical personal pep talk. “It’s the Summer of Me.”

  To my surprise, somebody answered, in the form of a cold nose rubbing against my hand. What the hell? The sensation scared me to death, as if Oregon might be home to marauding packs of wild coyotes. I let out a pathetic scream, cut short when I saw it was just a mid-size fluffy brown dog. Well, sort of fluffy anyway. The dog dodged behind a chair, proving that yes, they really are more scared of us than we are of them.

  Ashamed of my overreaction, I tried my best dog-lover patois, even though I wasn’t that experienced talking to dogs. “Here, puppy. That’s okay. Come here.” He/she came toward me timidly, head down but tail wagging slowly. “Who are you? What’s your name? Are you a boy or a girl?”

  Thanks to my complete lack of canine knowledge, I assumed the stray was a boy because he was light brown, and that’s a boy color. He had no collar or tags and a look in his eyes that said he’d been on his own for a while. His fur was matted and he was whimpering slightly, as if he was incredibly relieved to make contact with another living being. Once I started petting him, his tail went nuts. He gave me a grateful look. I was smitten.

  “Are you lost? Do you live around here?” For the first time, I understood why so many cartoons feature talking dogs. Who wouldn’t love their dog to speak up just once? They’re no help when you need them to answer a few simple questions. I walked down the porch steps with Fido at my heels and looked both ways down Seventh Street, expecting to see an owner looking for his dog. Or maybe the dog would head home for breakfast. Oregon was kind of a lawless place. Maybe
dogs didn’t need to be on leashes here. Maybe they walked themselves? But there was no one on the street except a teenager on a skateboard headed in the other direction. I noticed a lost-pet sign on the telephone pole and called to my new friend, “Come on. Let’s go see if this is you.”

  But the flyer was for a missing ferret. A ferret? There really are wild marauding animals around here, I thought. I needed to protect this dog from that ferret. Then I thought about what my sister Sarah, the Advice Whisperer, had said to me: Get a dog. A dog would distract my mother from my career. A dog would distract me from dreams about FX. A dog would be an excellent prop at social events where everybody else had a spouse. Could this be the first challenge in my Summer of Me vow to say, “Yes!” more than “No”? Perhaps. But for now, I didn’t want to get too attached, because a dog this cute must have a family. “Come on, let’s go inside and get you some water.”

  Maybe water was his cue—just then, he lifted his leg on a bush. Yup, I had a new man in my life. A fluffy brown man.

  Maddie burst through the door, ready for the day. “Oh, who’s this little guy?”

  Without thinking, I answered, “Puck.”

  By the end of the day, I’d unpacked all my clothes and set up my office in the front room with my computer, a bust of William S, and two whiteboards, one for Midsummer and one for my book. I secured groceries for several days and a supply of scented candles to last the summer, because it seemed like the thing to do in Ashland.

  Maddie and I managed to give Puck a bath with the hose, buy a matching plaid leash and collar, and make a dramatic Lost Dog sign, featuring before and after photos of our new roommate. We called the animal shelter to see if anyone was looking for a brown dog, but the volunteer said it had been slow the last few days, only a few lost cats and, of course, the ferret. No lost dogs at all. I tasked Maddie with walking around town to hang up the signs, because it seemed like the right thing to do. Neither of us was all that enthusiastic about returning Puck to his rightful owner, least of all Puck, who was really enjoying his new hemp-filled pet bed and chew bone.

  I was settling in with a glass of iced tea and my notes on Midsummer when a text from FX came in: Here in Ashland. Dinner tonight with Taz? 7 at my place. The address followed. Oh, God, here we go.

  Maddie shook her head as I modeled my outfit for dinner with Taz and FX. With conviction, she handed me a pair of jeans and a blouse. “Not that, these.”

  I reassessed my black sheath dress. “Too job interview-y?”

  “I’ve never been on a job interview, so I don’t know. But just not cool.”

  She was right. Nobody looked cool in a sheath dress. I took her choices then confessed, “Why am I so nervous?”

  “Because FX is so cute?” I knew Maddie was dying to ask me more about him, like she did about everything else. What was our first kiss like? How did I know I was in love? Was he, you know, good in bed? (Romantic and perfect; Love at first sight; Pretty good but not great, though I didn’t know that at 22. According to his bible, he’s had a lot of experience since then.) Bumble must have set down some ground rules, because Maddie hadn’t asked a single thing about him on the drive up. That warning and the nondisclosure agreement we both had to sign had obviously silenced her.

  “No, that’s not it. He’s like an old shoe to me. A really cute old shoe,” I acknowledged, even though that wasn’t completely accurate. “But Taz. …”

  “You got this, Elizabeth.” Maddie sounded like the table tennis team manager she was. Yeah, I got this.

  I changed into the jeans and the filmy floral blouse I’d bought at a boutique in Pasadena in support of my decision to wear more color. It was the sort of piece that other women could pull off with ease, looking like they’d just come from the beach in 1973. But I worried that I looked like I was in costume for a revival of Godspell. “What do you think?”

  “Very cool.”

  At least I looked cool on the outside, even if my insides were a hot churning mess.

  FAKE THE SHAKE

  6 Classy Ways to

  Throw Down an Insult

  1. “Thou art as loathsome as a toad.”

  FROM: Troilus and Cressida

  WHEN TO USE: Excellent all-purpose exit line for almost any offending situation, romantic or otherwise.

  2. “I do desire we may be better strangers.”

  FROM: As You Like It

  WHEN TO USE: Understated line to kiss off any unwanted attention. Especially good in a bar when approached by drunken bro who slurs the words, “Hey baby, wanna see my Sigma Phi?”

  3. “Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood!”

  FROM: King Lear (He said this to his daughter Regan. Totally harsh.)

  WHEN TO USE: Even if you only get out the words “embossed carbuncle,” this one is worth knowing. Same situation as #2 if Frat Boy doesn’t get your first line.

  4. “Methinks thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee.”

  FROM: All’s Well That Ends Well

  WHEN TO USE: When the guy you’re talking to is clearly checking out a woman behind you. Works well in group settings when you have physical backup.

  5. “Thou art unfit for any place but hell.”

  FROM: Richard III

  WHEN TO USE: He’s cheating and you’re leaving. Say it and keep walking.

  6. “You starvelling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s-pizzle, you stock-fish—O for breath to utter what is like thee!—you tailor’s-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck!”

  FROM: Henry IV, Part 1

  WHEN TO USE: Right before you say the line above from Richard III. Really lay into that last bit about the “vile standing tuck,” whatever that means.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I took the whole place for the summer. Isn’t it great?” FX threw his arm in a giant circle, implying that all within sight belonged to him: the two small cottages, the lovely spa, the tea garden, and the rock-lined private hot springs. Tucked into a corner of the Railroad District, the Chozu Bath & Tea Garden was now FXHQ for the duration of our stay. Top-notch assistant Angie had mumbled something about finding FX a place “with a staff and without any chintz”—not easy to do in Ashland. (The chintz part, not the staff part.) But in the Anything’s Negotiable spirit, she’d found FX the only Japanese-inspired hideaway in Southern Oregon and made it his for ten weeks. The arrangements included a masseuse and an in-house sushi chef to serve him as needed. “I had to buy out some of the guests who had already booked in, but wait until you soak in the hot-spring tubs. Perfect ratio of salt. Like the Amanpuri Phuket.”

  Just what I needed. I was already a wreck and now he’d reminded me how out of my comfort zone I was. This was Hollywood in Ashland; I was Pasadena in Ashland. I tried to blend in.

  “Next time, I’ll bring my suit.”

  “Or not,” FX winked, and unbelievably, I blushed. Here was a man I’d been naked with for most of the latter half of the ’90s and I blushed at the thought of even skinny-dipping with him. Skinnydipping! Get a grip, Elizabeth. FX, used to blushing girls, barely registered my color. “Wine, beer, or tea?”

  Definitely wine.

  “So can I get a hint about what Taz is thinking?” I was hoping for a preview before Taz showed up so I could be prepared for whatever creative grenade the Australian might toss. On the short walk over from my house to FX’s compound, I’d worked up a sweat thinking about all the dodgy Midsummers that Taz might pitch: Zombie Midsummer. All-male Midsummer. Midsummer in Vegas. FX had been tight-lipped until now, and that scared me a little. “What’s so mind-blowing?”

  A voice boomed out. “Mind-blowing? I assume you’re talking about me.” From behind a changing-room door, the unmistakable Taz Buchanan appeared. He certainly hadn’t overdressed for the meeting: He was wearing a sarong and not much else, even though the weather was cool. My first thought: So glad I’m not wearing that sheath dress.

  Taz came in
for the double kiss. He was medium height, well built, and not so much handsome as fierce looking. His chest was still slightly damp, and he smelled of salt and lavender from the spa. “You must be Lizzie. You’ve done a marvelous job getting this lad up to speed. All those years doing action movies, wasn’t sure FX could handle this much plot and dialogue. Are you ready to make magic?”

  I took a big swig of wine and braced myself. “You bet.” You bet? Was I freaking Canadian?

  FX stepped in, much to my relief. “Put a shirt on, Taz, and let Elizabeth catch her breath. I don’t think she’s seen that many men in skirts in Pasadena.”

  Taz roared, the kind of laughter you read about in books but rarely ever hear in person. Though his real name was Arthur Buchanan and he wasn’t from Tasmania, his zeal for life landed him the nickname Taz at a Sydney prep school (where he shocked school officials by performing Hamlet’s famed soliloquy in drag). Thirty seconds into our relationship, I saw why female stars fell for him, producers courted him, and actors revered him. He was like a giant magnet of energy. According to a Vanity Fair profile, he used his charm to pull people into his projects and then hammered everyone on set during the production to get the best out of them. And he only slept four hours a night, dabbled in veganism, and played Midnight Oil albums at least once a day.