Elizabeth the First Wife Read online

  My suspicion meter went up to eleven. “Really? Like an out-of-the-blue, how’s-it-going-roomie kind of phone call? Or what?”

  “Well, as it turns out, he heard about your involvement in the play through the news. And coincidentally, your mother had sent him your CV. So he happened to be coming to Ashland this weekend, as he does every year on the Fourth of July, and he thought he’d look you up. He has a place here. I thought I’d come up and introduce the two of you myself.” My father was talking at twice his normal speed, so it actually took me a minute or two to let the reality sink in. When it did, I looked in my rearview mirror at Sarah, who was grimacing and nodding. “Dad filled me in.”

  “Wait, what?” I was literally speechless.

  “Ah well. …” He went on to explain the timeline of events with a little prompting from Sarah. Apparently my mother didn’t trust my father or me to take action on the possibility of teaching at Redfield. She was so convinced that I couldn’t have changed my mind so quickly after my initial refusal that she took matters into her own hands. She dug up a CV I’d sent her a few years ago when I was doing a speech at the Caltech Women’s Club and she needed to introduce me.

  According to my father, she updated it with a few items like my book idea and my work in Ashland and sent it to Duff’s personal e-mail with a charming note, “in case he hadn’t been made aware of my interest in teaching at Redfield.” My father concluded, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t explain to Duff what had actually transpired, and it didn’t seem right to explain it to you on the phone, so I got on the plane.”

  The idea of my mother “freshening up” my academic resume was terrifying. With what? My groundbreaking research on Elizabethan Bad Boyfriends? And the reality of her sending it off to a college president, like I was a junior in high school looking for a summer internship, was simply humiliating. Couldn’t she leave my career alone? Although really, I realized, my father and I had brought this on ourselves by not coming clean to my mother. I couldn’t get mad. In fact, I was having a hard time not laughing. “So on top of everything else—like bringing down Ted’s political career—I have a job interview this weekend? And my dad is coming with me? Super!” He started to chuckle, too. We were a pathetic pair.

  Sarah joined us. “Don’t think of it as a job interview, think of it as coffee. Dad already set it up for tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, good. Sarah, do you want to come along with us? We can wear matching outfits. Maybe Mom can get you a teaching gig there, too?”

  “Are you kidding? My job is to distract Mom while you two get yourselves out of this mess. I’m taking her to the parade.”

  “Hold on,” I said, looking at my brilliant, clueless father. “Mom doesn’t know you’re here, and she doesn’t know this is happening?”

  “I thought we could tell her together. Tonight. She’ll be at dinner at your place, right?” Apparently he wasn’t as clueless as I thought.

  We arrived at the hotel. “You know, maybe I do want a job at Redfield. I’m beginning to think getting away from my family is a good idea.”

  If I had any doubt that my Summer with Shakespeare monologue was indeed going viral, it was put aside when I heard the voicemail left by apoplectic junior agent Melissa Bergstrom-Bennett. “Elizabeth, love the video. Fantastic! Get that book proposal done now! Call me.” Followed by another from the producer of the Ron and Ben show, wondering if I’d like to come on the air for “a quick interview.”

  I saved the first and deleted the second.

  One of my mother’s mantras was, “When the going gets tough, the tough get mowing.” As a teenager, I cringed every time she said it to my sisters and me. It was corny and not a particularly accurate pun, one of my persnickety pet peeves when it came to the English language. We never actually mowed our own lawn, the perks of living in an area with an endless supply of affordable gardeners, but my mother used the term “mowing” generically, as in anything that needed a little elbow grease. She’d hand us a broom or a vacuum or a trowel and require us to clean the house or wash down the patio furniture to get ready for some big event at the house. It seemed like our childhood was an endless round of preparations for an endless number of faculty dinners and holiday parties.

  True to our characters, the Lancaster sisters interpreted “the tough get mowing” differently. Sarah did one small task thoroughly and completely over the course of an afternoon. Bumble hid in the bathroom applying lip gloss until the hard work was over. And I did the bulk of the chores and then put away the supplies. Like my mother, I found inner peace in physical labor.

  Now, as an adult, I often find myself muttering, “When the going gets tough, the tough get mowing.” Like at that very moment, in the backyard of Sage Cottage, as I did a quick clean up and set up for the barbecue. Let others worry about political ramifications; I preferred to spend my energy raking stray leaves and setting out the high-end paper goods I secured at Prize in Ashland. Like my mother, I coped by planning. Plus I was hoping the lilac-themed cocktail napkins might distract the guests from the crisis at hand. Or at the very least send a subliminal message to Rafa that I was sorry for any trouble I had inadvertently caused.

  Why William

  Shakespeare Would Be

  a Bad Boyfriend

  FELON

  Prosecuted for illegal wool trading and money lending

  PLAGIARIZER

  Based many plays on already existing works

  SECRET LOVER

  Who were all those sonnets written for, Will? Who?

  ACTOR/WRITER

  Not a stable career path

  FLAWED CHARACTER

  Shades of bigotry, racism, anti-Semitism, and misogyny

  ALREADY MARRIED

  Never a good bet

  WORE AN EARRING

  So last millennium

  CHAPTER 20

  “More of these, please—they’re divine.” Mary Pat stood before me, holding an empty serving platter, which had been filled with my patented grilled pizzas. “You make them, I’ll toss them on the fire.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a moment to look out on the scene in the backyard. Miraculously, it was a simple family party, like I had suggested and Ted had wanted. My parents sat in the corner, chatting with Dependable Jane and Sarah, who was blissed out from her afternoon of pampering. I could see they weren’t speaking to each other, though; my mother’s laundry list of grievances included my father’s appearance overshadowing her big moment and her girls’ weekend simultaneously; my YouTube appearance trumping her front-page interview with Look Out Pasadena!; and my father forbidding her from joining the coffee/interview with Duff Miller, even though she’d made it happen. It was clear his strategy for the evening was to wait out her bad mood and keep replenishing her wine glass, not a bad call.

  In that moment, the two had appeared to reach détente and were listening to Dependable Jane recall her Greatest Moments in Real Estate, the foreclosure version. Dependable Jane really didn’t subscribe to client/realtor confidentiality, at least not after her self-imposed six-month statute of limitations had expired. She started a lot of stories with, “Well, you know, I held my breath hoping the sale would go through, and I really shouldn’t say, but the sellers…” and ended many a story with, “but you didn’t hear that from me.” In fact, she really shouldn’t have said, and we did hear it from her, but the tales were often so juicy we didn’t care.

  In the other grouping, Ted and Bumble were doing some grilling of their own. They had poor Dylan of Klamath Falls in their sights, but he appeared to be holding up under questioning from the congressman and the flack. I gave him credit for that, as those two intimidated me on occasion. Maddie, a student of her stepmother’s, had done an excellent job prepping Dylan on safe areas of conversation while the two of them were setting up the bar for me. It seemed that both Dylan and Ted were fans of Lou Reed’s music and admired his influence on world political leaders like Vaclav Havel. (That must have been a short detour in Ted’s musica
l journey, because most of his campaign theme songs had come from one-name, early ’80s bands like Kansas or Styx.) How Maddie had happened upon this conversation starter, I’ll never know, but the foursome was deep in conversation.

  So far, none of the rest of Team Ted had shown up, including Rafa. I hoped my face hadn’t fallen too far when I opened the door to just Ted and Bumble, searching beyond them for the man in the white shirt. Bumble mumbled something about a new press release and “maybe later,” then thrust a couple of bottles of wine into my hands and made her way to the backyard.

  All that waxing for nothing.

  “Elizabeth…” Mary Pat said sharply, jolting me from my reverie. “The pizzas?”

  “Oh, of course, another round. I’ll get them ready. And then we can throw on the salmon. I made a cilantro-citrus coleslaw, too, and some all-American potato salad. It’s delicious, if I do say so myself.” I took the platter from Mary Pat, who gave me and my black maxi dress the once-over. I could tell she approved.

  The retired caterer laughed. “I like an immodest cook.”

  “Tis an ill cook who cannot lick his own finger,” I quoted. “Romeo & Juliet.”

  “True, but still, I think you missed your calling. You should have come and worked for me.”

  Then I thought about the job interview in the morning and my botched summer of Shakespeare and responded, “Maybe I should have.”

  “Hey.”

  He was here. Rafa was standing in my kitchen in person, not on a screen, and it was no surprise that he seemed larger in person. He’d brought a lush bouquet of lilacs, the last of the season, and their scent filled the room.

  “Aren’t you a dulce viento blowing into town?” I managed to get out, referring to the flowers.

  He handed them to me. “For you. Your favorites, I think. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. The front door was open. I let myself in.” Puck greeted him like he was a long-lost friend, his voice familiar from the hours of conversation earlier in the summer. Rafa returned the affection. “Hey, Puck, how ya doin’, buddy?”

  I found a glass vase, made a fresh cut, and put the lilacs in water. “These are beautiful, thank you. I’m glad you could make it. Bumble said something about work.” I covered my nerves by pouring him a glass of Prosecco. He accepted it, and I wished for the millionth time that day that my family would disappear into thin air. “Has Brian Williams called for me yet? Because I definitely want to talk to him.”

  Rafa laughed. “Public relations is really Suki’s territory, not mine. She and Rob are handling the interview requests and statements. I’ll let them know your interest.”

  “So you just came along for the private jet and the free hotel room like Sarah?”

  “I couldn’t come all this way and not see Sage Cottage.” He checked out the kitchen and refocused on me. “Well, that and a few other perks.” He held my gaze, then let his eyes wander to the island, spotting the pizza dough I’d pre-grilled. “Need help? I mean, we’ve cooked together before, right?” He put down his glass and rolled up his sleeves, then moved over to the sink to wash his hands, a protocol I appreciated. “What kind of pizzas are we making?”

  Food prep was a comfort zone. “I have red pepper, roasted eggplant, and fresh mozzarella for those with a savory palette. And marionberry, fig, and chèvre for those who want something a little sweeter. Take your pick. Which ones do you want to assemble?”

  “I’m disturbed at the thought of eating a Marion Barry pizza, so I’ll take the eggplant,” he said, like a true Washingtonian.

  “That’s kind of your veggie, isn’t it?” I said, recalling one of our first Skype conversations.

  “I think the early Greeks cultivated the first eggplants,” he mocked in return, as he expertly tossed the toppings onto the dough. I was hugely relieved that the chill I’d perceived on the phone had dissipated. In my fantasy world, where Rafa had come to Ashland for a visit, not political containment, this was how I imagined a conversation between us would be. Except, of course, that a crowd of nosy relatives was sitting fifty feet away waiting for pizza. Recognizing that it may be our only moment alone all weekend, I seized the opportunity to explain.

  “I know you think it’s unbelievable that I didn’t mention anything about the production in our conversations. I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional.” I carefully dried off the berries to avoid his eyes.

  He studied me, then spoke. “I know that. It was just a shocker to have this come out of the blue when we’d…been in contact.” Oh, so that’s what he was calling it. But he continued, “When you asked my advice about how to get what you want out of somebody, was it related to this somehow? Because I’ve been thinking that it must have been.”

  He’d been thinking about me! I answered carefully. “It was. Here’s the thing, my real purpose here this summer is to protect FX and his professional reputation. Actually, my job isn’t unlike yours. You protect Ted; I protect FX.”

  Rafa considered my analogy for just a second. “But Ted isn’t my ex-husband. Or People’s Sexiest Man Alive.” I gave him a surprised look. “I can Google, too,” he added.

  I went on to explain the whole situation, from FX’s anxiety to Taz’s demands to my own banishment. I added that, after hours of talking about FX and to FX every day, I really didn’t want to spend a lot of time talking about FX at night. “I never considered the fallout. I was so wrapped up in making sure FX didn’t make any mistakes in judgment that I made one concerning Maddie. She was so happy with her work, and it seemed so harmless.”

  “So how’d you get FX out of the—what’d you call it, gratuitous?—striptease? What did you have that Taz wanted?”

  “Um, I let it slip that FX was, um, half a man. You know, in the parts department.” I was as red as the roasted peppers and suddenly fascinated by the distribution of chèvre on the dough.

  There was silence from Rafa, then a sharp burst of laughter as the picture became crystal clear, “Wow, Elizabeth Lancaster, you are a shark! Unbelievable! You should come to Washington, because you have no shame!”

  Thrilled by his approval, but pretending to be humble, I shook my head. “I know. I’m awful.”

  “Is it true?”

  Now it was my turn to burst out laughing. “No!”

  “Damn, that would have been great inside information. Does FX know?”

  “No!”

  “You’re good.” He looked at me in admiration or maybe something stronger. Who knew subterfuge could be such as aphrodisiac?

  “Well, there’s a lot of gamesmanship in Shakespeare. Call me Iago.” And that is as close as I, Elizabeth Lancaster, could get to flirting, evoking Othello and tossing my hair, even though it was tied back in a ponytail.

  Just then the front door opened and I heard the unmistakable voice of FX Fahey. “Hello, the house!”

  Oh, for God’s sake, what was he doing here? He strolled into the kitchen like he was coming home after a day on the job, loaded down with beer, wine, and his agent, Hank. “Maddie told us to be here by seven, so we are. And look who’s here—Hank!” He announced this factoid like it was the news we’d all been awaiting for weeks. Then he noticed Rafa and our pizza making. Was that a territorial look on FX’s face?

  Hank, on the other hand, literally looked like a fish out of water in his fitted suit and his Hermès tie, not the usual backyard-barbecue outfit, in Ashland or anywhere. FX dropped the beverages on the counter and extended his hand to shake Rafa’s, clearly sizing up my company. “Hi, I’m FX Fahey.”

  I interjected, doing the introductions like my mother had taught me in middle school when I’d answer the door at her garden-club gatherings. “FX Fahey, this is Rafa Moreno, the chief of staff for my brother-in-law.” Then I turned to the bespoke Hank. “Hank Goldberg, Rafa Moreno. Hank is FX’s agent.” Rafa wiped his hands and gave both men a firm handshake.

  Hank moved in with a double kiss for me, like we were the best of friends after one meeting, several phone calls, and an edible arrange
ment, so I played along. “Good to see you again, Hank. You look like you’re headed somewhere later tonight, but my mother always says that’s the trick to partygoing: dress like you’re off to a better event, even if it isn’t true. Then you can leave if you want to.” All the men laughed.

  Then it was Hank’s chance to be overly friendly, “How big a fan are we of Elizabeth’s? You’ve done it, Professor! Created a hit play and a political controversy to boot. I had no idea the scope of your capabilities. I was skeptical when FX told me about this arrangement, but you’re the best. Unbelievable job here.”

  “Well…” I said lamely, because really, I had done nothing except be in the right place at the wrong time.

  “Are you kidding me? There’s no such thing as bad publicity, and this is no such thing as bad publicity,” Hank carried on without shame. “Who would have thought we’d get everyone from Access Hollywood to network news to cover our little summer project? Not me. Shakespeare? Who cares? But FX on the crawl? Brilliant.”

  I’ll admit I was reveling in my moment as an accidental mastermind, but it was short-lived. Hank’s agenda was not complete. “And Rafa, you’re just the person I want to talk to. FX and I have a pitch for the congressman. Or should I say governor? Let’s grab a beer and talk.”

  “Huh, okay.” Rafa hesitated a bit then wasted no time to go off and talk shop with his new best buddy. My house, my man, and yet the plan was out of my control.

  “Are those pizzas ready yet? What’s happening in here?” Mary Pat walked into the kitchen. “Oh, hello, FX!” Ever since seeing the play, the Girls had changed their tune on my ex. She gave him a big hug, scooped up the pies, and headed outside, leaving FX and me alone in the kitchen.

  He popped open a beer and leaned back against the counter. “Oh, so—Rafa, is it? Seemed very cozy in here. Chief of staff, huh?”

  “What are you? Fifteen?”

  “Some days.”