Elizabeth the First Wife

by Lian Dolan

  FX turned to me and made a slight bow. “Have I fulfilled all your requirements for the evening? Or do I need to make one more turn about the grounds to satisfy the locals?”

  “We’re done here. Let’s go home.” I blushed. “I mean, you go to your home and I’ll go to mine.”

  “I figured, Elizabeth,” he said, taking my arm and leading the way to our waiting chauffeur-driven Prius. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  No, it wasn’t.

  Elizabethean Fashion

  Dos & Don’ts for the

  Modern Woman

  DO: Neck Ruffle

  DON’T: Petticoats

  Neck ruffles can hide everything from aging to hickeys. Petticoats, however, only make your hips look bigger. And no one, except Keira Knightley, needs her hips to look bigger.

  DO: Oversized Sleeves with Pockets

  DON’T: Chain Girdle

  Yes please (!) to tucking your cell phone or tablet right into your sleeve. How handy. But no thanks to weighty undergarments that will only hold you up in airport security.

  DO: Embroidery

  DON’T: Fur

  Stitchery over sable. Think gold and lush for just the right touch of luxe, not soft and furry, because that’s just asking for trouble from PETA.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I’m Rafa.”

  And I am standing at my front door in my bathrobe and it’s nearly noon, I thought, but chose not to say it out loud. My body reacted with third-degree panic, but my face must have registered nothing, because Mr. Blue Suit, in yet another fantastic blue suit, felt the need to amend his earlier statement. “I work for Ted. Bumble said I should check out the place to see if it works for the campaign. She said she’d call ahead?”

  Well, she didn’t. Or maybe she had, but I’d turned my phone off to work on my book proposal. I’d lost track of time (and fashion sense) while outlining chapter ideas. Here’s one now! “Chenille Isn’t Sexy: Why Shakespeare’s Romantic Heroines Never Wear Bathrobes.” Remember when Ophelia showed up in that nightgown? That didn’t end well. I stammered, “I didn’t get that call. I was working and I turned the phone off. Please come in. I’m Elizabeth.”

  I crossed my arms tightly against my chest, like a tween in a training bra, in a desperate attempt to keep the two sides of my robe together. My sleepwear underneath wasn’t much better: a US Open T-shirt and granny panties. Sure, the FedEx guy was used to seeing me like this, but not my brother-in-law’s chief of staff. I let go long enough to grab a belt off a raincoat in the front hall. A winning accessory choice. Bathrobe secured, I turned to face my guest.

  Rafa Moreno appeared to be a Very Busy Man, as evidenced by the constant buzzing of his Droid, but he slowed down enough to take in my living room, which I appreciated. And then I noticed the large supply of drugstore items I’d left on the coffee table, because I was too lazy to walk them fifteen feet to my bathroom the night before. Now they lay there in plain sight, creating a sort of feminine product buffet, complete with a centerpiece showcasing a canister of hair removal cream. I considered darting to the other side of the room to block the sight of the spread with my body but thought that would only call attention to my sloth. And my unwanted body hair.

  Rafa graciously pretended not to notice. “Bumble calls you Elizabeth the Professor. I saw you arrive last night with FX Fahey. You guys were married, right?”

  That seemed like an obvious question for a guy who clearly knew the answer, but he said it like FX and I might have played on the same softball team after work, so I tried to copy his tone. I covered by clearing my breakfast dishes into the kitchen and shouting over my shoulder. “Yup, we were. A long time ago. Working with him now. He’s doing a play and I’m a creative consultant.”

  “Sounds interesting,” he said, though his own disinterest was evident in his tone of voice. He was surveying the real estate, assessing the square footage. “This will work. It’s nice of you to donate it to Ted’s campaign.”

  Donate it to the campaign? “Well, Ted is a good man, and my sister literally doesn’t take no for an answer,” I responded, because, clearly, trying to explain that I hadn’t quite agreed a hundred percent to this arrangement seemed like a waste of time. Classic Bumble. Rafa thought he was checking me out, not vice versa. Dear Bumble, thank you for sending me the attractive housesitter that I wasn’t really sure I wanted. I’m sure everything will work out great, even though it freaks me out that a stranger will have access to my underwear drawer. Especially one who looks so good in a blue suit. Love, your sister Elizabeth. “Why don’t you look around to see if the place suits the campaign’s needs, and I’m going to get out of my bathrobe.”

  Oh my God.

  “That came out. …”

  Rafa put his hand up. “No need. I’ll go look around your garden. You can give me an official tour when you’re dressed. In actual clothes.” Then he smiled for the first time, and it was unnerving.

  “Good plan,” I whispered.

  “Your garden is amazing.” I found Rafa wandering around the backyard with a cup of coffee that he’d helped himself to. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but I let it go. “Must be a lot of work.”

  Three years earlier, before Urban Homesteading became a regular blog at the New York Times, I tore up half the backyard and created a starter vegetable garden. At the time I was involved with yet another closeted gay colleague, Mark. (Seriously, the man was in his thirties. Wouldn’t he know by now?) I needed some place to put my pent-up sexual frustration that didn’t involve romance novels and nachos, so I started mulching. That first summer, I experimented with a few dozen tomato vines and some basil. The plants flourished, I coped, and, by August, Mark came out to me over a caprese salad. I really wasn’t that surprised about him, and the tomatoes were delicious, so the relationship wasn’t a complete loss. Now the garden was a multiple-bed extravaganza with a wide variety of edibles, including an entire row of rainbow chard. I was on the verge of getting chickens.

  “I spend a lot of time out here. My grandmother was the great gardener. I’m just trying to maintain her vision but add my own twist. My goal is to be completely self-sustaining in two years. If I could only figure out how to grow Oreos. Do you garden?”

  Now I was the one asking a question I obviously knew the answer to. Despite his heritage, he had the pallor of a man who spent sixteen hours a day at the office and the other eight thinking about the office. “First circle” was the term Bumble had used to describe Rafa’s relationship with Ted. I didn’t think first circles were allowed hobbies. Or exposure to sunlight.

  “I grew up on a farm, so I like tending things. But my job doesn’t allow me time to get dirty. In that way. But maybe this summer I can get back to the land.” Not likely in that suit, I thought. He changed the subject. ”I assume you have WiFi here? And my cell reception seems good.”

  “In the main house, yes. But not in the guest house. …”

  “Great, I’ll set up in the main house,” he informed me. Not exactly what I had envisioned. “Anything else I need to know about? Ghosts? Spies? Nosy neighbors?”

  “Is that why you won’t be working out of Ted’s field office? Nosy neighbors?”

  “We want to keep this as quiet as possible for as long as possible. The election’s still twenty months off. Other items I need to know about?”

  Clearly, he was use to working off an agenda. “I don’t have a dishwasher.”

  “I don’t really generate any dishes. I mainly eat out of Styrofoam containers. Don’t tell the environmentalists that.” Rafa was distracted by my thriving artichoke plants, which were ready to be harvested. I only had half a dozen plants, but they made a big statement. “My grandmother grew artichokes, too,” he said. “I’m so used to seeing them on a plate with butter, I’d forgotten how much the plants look like science fiction. I wonder who the first guy was to pick one of these and try to eat it.”

  “The Greeks,” I blurted out like a contestant on Jeopardy. I immediate
ly felt idiotic, but that didn’t stop me. “The first written references to artichokes come from Greek mythology.”

  He clearly didn’t expect an answer to his semi-rhetorical question, so I carried on, circling the plant as I told him the story. “According to Aegean legend, the first artichoke to be picked was actually a young girl named Cynara. She lived on an island that Zeus and Poseidon visited. Cynara was completely unafraid of the gods, so Zeus took the opportunity to seduce her, good guy that he was. He was so pleased with Cynara, he made her a goddess and took her to Olympia. But Cynara got homesick and ditched Zeus for a few days to visit her homeland. Zeus was furious at the affront, so he hurled her back to earth and turned her into an artichoke.”

  “Now that’s a bad breakup,” Rafa said. He was touching the artichokes but examining me.

  I felt a giant wave of self-consciousness wash over me, just like when I spotted him at the party. What was it about this guy? To cover my discomfort, I explained, “There’s a vague artichoke reference in Hamlet. Shakespeare uses the phrase ‘heart of heart’ to describe the depth of his feelings for his dear friend Horatio, who is ruled by reason, not passion, a quality Hamlet admires to his core.”

  “Heart of heart,” Rafa repeated slowly, as if he truly understood the phrase for the first time. His face lit up. I’d seen that look before with my students, when I’d touched something deep inside their intellect. But it had been a long time since I’d seen it in a man’s face. “Free reading in your spare time?”

  “I wrote a paper on it once.”

  “The Importance of Artichokes in Shakespeare’s Hamlet?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That’s vital work you do, Professor,” Rafa mocked. Then his voice softened. “I’ll never eat an artichoke the same way again. And I’m pretty sure we’ll use that heart of heart bit in a campaign speech. It’s good.”

  “Another donation.” We both laughed.

  His Droid went off, but he didn’t look down to acknowledge it. “Sorry I have to rush, but we’re flying back to Washington this afternoon. Can I see the rest of the place, so I’ll know what I need in terms of office supplies and tech? Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Speaking of hair, Rafa had good hair. A thick, full head of black hair. “Sure. It has three bedrooms, including the master. I’d prefer if the master wasn’t ‘donated to the campaign.’ But the guest room is available, and you can use the third bedroom as your office. That’s what I do.”

  “Got it, your bedroom off-limits. Any other restricted areas?”

  I bet that line worked on interns. “The air conditioning is a little quirky. Good news is that the adobe walls keep the house cool even on hot days. The stove has its own personality—it’s an old O’Keefe & Merritt—but it sounds like you won’t be turning it on, so no worries. The yard guy comes on Monday and the trash guy comes on Friday.”

  “Anybody else show up around here?” Rafa said from underneath the desk in my office, where he was checking out the outlet situation.

  “The meter reader shows up once a month. Other than that, it’s just me.” I tried not to sound too pathetic. Or defensive. Or eager.

  Rafa stood up and wiped his hands on a handkerchief he produced from his pocket. Who carries a handkerchief these days? Then he dipped into his coat one more time, “Here’s my card with all my contact information. Can I get yours in case I have any other questions? I’ll confirm my arrival date with you and Bumble, of course.”

  I looked down: Rafael Moreno. Chief of Staff. Giant Congressional seal. And I had nothing. So I scribbled my e-mail address and cell number on a Post-it and made a mental note to get actual cards before I headed to Ashland. “Don’t hesitate to call.” Whoa, definitely too eager. “Anything for the campaign.”

  I texted Bumble: Don’t think chief of staff interested in watering my plants.

  She replied: Metaphor?

  I answered: No, literally.

  The phone chimed with a text from an unfamiliar number. I tapped the screen: Rafa here. Do you have cable?

  I replied: Yes. C-Span?

  He responded: Wimbledon.

  I saved his number to my contact list.

  Another chime. It was FX from New York: Having Indian at that place on Essex Street. Reminds me of you. Want something?

  I replied: We have great Indian here in Pasadena.

  Juliet

  Capulet

  FROM ROMEO & JULIET

  WHO SHE IS: She’s Juliet, the Juliet. Innocent, obedient teenage daughter of the Capulets who takes one look at Romeo Montague, sworn enemy of her family, and that is that. Goodbye arranged fiancé Paris. Goodbye controlling mother. Hello womanhood.

  WHAT TO STEAL FROM JULIET:

  Determined, strong, sober-minded personality

  Loves to read

  Great fashion sense

  Totally fakes out her parents and her nurse

  Matures with grace and wit

  WHAT TO SKIP: Definitely the suicide. And really, stabbing yourself in the heart? That is brutal.

  DEFINING MOMENT: She walks the walk. After begging Romeo to deny thy father and refuse thy name, she does just that and leaves all that she knows to follow her heart.

  HER BEST RELATIONSHIP ADVICE: “Well, do not swear: Although I joy in thee, I have to joy of this contract to-night; It is too rash, too unadvised; too sudden; Too like the lightening, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, ‘It lightens’.”

  WHAT SHE MEANS: Romeo, stop right there. This is too much, too soon. (Oh, if she had only paid a little more attention to her own advice.)

  WHO JULIET WOULD HANG OUT WITH AT THE COFFEEHOUSE: Emma Watson.

  CHAPTER 7

  Maddie stood in the doorway of Smiths Coffee, searching for my table and the iced mocha latte I’d ordered for her. Tucked into a table for two in the back of the warehouse-like space, I’d been watching the door and waved her over enthusiastically. With her short, dark bob and hipster-dorky glasses on top of the distinctive plaid skirt and blazer from the Eastmont School for Girls, Maddie almost looked like a character from a CW show. Almost, because she lacked the sophistication needed to pull off her look with irony. She had been wearing the same uniform skirt to school since she was five. She felt so cursed with dark hair in a sea of blond ponytails that she simply cut it off. And she wore glasses because she needed them, not because they made her look like Zooey Deschanel. She was a work in progress but she was years from completion.

  Even though she was nowhere near her adult self, Maddie already had an impressive resume that included a half dozen AP classes, a GPA of over 4.0, the mastery of a sport and/or musical instrument, and the standard travel-abroad experience that typically blossomed into a fully funded 501(c)3. At school she excelled in languages and the arts, so her schedule was packed with classes like AP Studio Art, a concept that struck me as a crime against creativity. After a family safari/humanitarian mission to Kenya, she started an organization that supplied sanitary napkins to schoolgirls in East Africa so they could continue with their education after they reached puberty. It was called the Big Red Tent and she’d received several national commendations for her work, though I suspected the Congressman might have had something to do with that. On the athletic front, Maddie had zero skills, but she was the manager and token white girl on the school’s all-Asian table tennis team, a nationally ranked powerhouse. To top it all off, she played the flute. The flute!

  But in the high-stakes world of trophy teens, Maddie was just another super-smart, super-talented supergirl. Girls like Maddie were a dime a dozen, according to every parent who ever said the words “college” and “admissions” in the same sentence. (Believe me, as a college professor at a community college, I’d heard the same story a million times about the brilliant kid who got in nowhere and ended up in my class. Thanks, Mom and Dad! Insults all around.) As a congressman’s daughter, Maddie would be an excellent candidate at many fine colleges by her senior year, but she had her heart set on Swa
rthmore. She followed the acceptance rate like others follow the stock market. She put so much pressure on herself that sometimes I wondered if she might implode. Or develop an eating disorder and simply fade away. But Maddie continued to thrive, despite her stunning success.

  Sometimes I felt sorry for high school boys. How could they compete with this whole new brand of girls? The Alpharellas, I’d heard them called by the proud parents who pretended to be at the mercy of daughters who combined the traits of academic and social Alpha Girls with the personal grooming standards of Cinderella. The poor boys in my classes were outmatched in almost every area except one: confidence. Apparently, confidence paid off in the end, because men were still running the world and making more cents on the dollar. How was that possible? I was rooting for the girls of Maddie’s generation, but I feared they’d be too burnt out from achieving by the time they reached their twenties to muster the energy to upset the status quo.

  “Hi, Elizabeth!” Maddie dropped her ninety-pound backpack and plopped into the well-worn club chair next to me. “I love your scarf! Is that H&M?”

  Good eye. “Yeah. I was out to lunch the other day and spilled something down the front of my shirt right before class. So I bought this to cover up the damage.”

  “So funny. It looks great. Thanks for this,” she said holding up her drink. “I wish we had a coffee bar at school.”