by Lian Dolan
“Thanks, Elizabeth.”
I texted Maddie: 11:30. No drams of poison.
She replied: K. Huh?
Call? Not call? Call? Not call? I sat at my kitchen table, contemplating the blue Skype bubble on my laptop. Did I have the kind of relationship with Rafa in which I could ring him up even if we didn’t have a household situation to discuss? Maybe not, but I wanted to let him know that his strategy had worked. Plus I’d just refreshed my concealer.
I clicked on “dial” and then felt foolish. Don’t answer, I prayed, but then I heard the familiar high-pitched whoop, signaling a received call. Too late. Rafa’s face came into view. He was sitting in my living room, obviously working even though it was well past nine. There was a stack of files and papers on the desk in front of him. In the background I saw a whiteboard with names and cards, but I couldn’t make out the words. He looked pleased to see me. “Hey.”
“Hey. Hi. Hello.” Oh brother, let’s see how many more greeting variations I can come up with. “I wanted to check in and see how…all the appliances were getting along.”
“They seem to be getting along just fine. How are your appliances?”
“My appliances are good, too.” Could the concealer possibly be concealing my awkwardness? “Um, I thought you might want to know that I employed your strategy. I identified what I had to offer and offered it up to the unwilling party. I plunged right into that crosswalk.”
Rafa relaxed back against the couch and crossed him arms, “Good for you. Did the unwilling party bite?”
“He did. I think I got him.”
“I bet you did. Men have a hard time saying no to smart women. You’ve got our numbers.”
The compliment surprised me. “Oh no, we don’t. It only looks that way.” Rafa was obviously busy, and I didn’t see any cooking together in our immediate future, so I let him off the hook. “I can tell you’re in the middle of something, so I’ll let you go.”
But Rafa kept going with chief-of-staff talk. “Well, it appears that we may have to go public with Ted’s interest a little sooner than we wanted. There were some rumblings and speculation in the press today about the possibility. And some of it is not favorable. We’re getting bombarded with interview requests. So I’m trying to figure out a timeline and our staffing needs before a meeting tomorrow morning. It could be go time.”
The visual of sweaty, dirty Rafa was replaced with a snapshot of Rafa working alone in a pin-clean apartment done in tasteful muted colors but devoid of personality because he’d never had so much as a weekend off to pick up some accent pillows. I challenged him, “Is this what your life is like? The last guy up at night, the first guy up in the morning?”
“Pretty much.” He laughed. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, I love it. Okay, ninety-five percent of the time. The other five percent I wish I had a more normal life.”
“What does ‘more normal’ mean?” I was curious about his definition because I’d had the same thought so many times about what I’d be doing at a single precise moment if I were Sarah and I had twins to feed dinner, or if I were Bumble and I had nightly fundraisers to attend on behalf of a spouse. What would my life be like if it was more than just me? What would it be like if it was more normal?
“A family, a wife, a lawn to mow. You know, that sort of thing. I wonder sometimes if I don’t have those things because I have this job. Or if I have this job because I don’t have those things.”
“It’s probably a little of both, don’t you think?” Thank you, Dr. Lancaster, amateur analyst.
Rafa nodded. “Yeah. It doesn’t help that everyone I meet in Washington is a lot like me. Dedicated to the job and not that available for a lot more than. …” He paused to think about exactly what to say.
I pushed because I was curious about what he might be looking for. And, after all, I was writing a relationship book, so this conversation could also be called research. “More than what?”
“Let’s just say that the people I’m surrounded by came to DC to make a difference and get ahead. And not necessarily in that order. They have short attention spans when it comes to interpersonal relationships.” Rafa looked sheepish as he concluded, “Me included.”
Ah, work hard, play hard, and leave before breakfast. That whole scenario was totally not my issue. I’m sure Bumble and Sarah could each offer up a short lecture on what exactly my issues were, but they had nothing to do with not enough time or interest. According to my sisters, my singledom centered around a lack of self-confidence and sex appeal. (I think black turtlenecks can be very alluring in the right circumstance, but Bumble disagrees.) Honestly, I’ve never done any emotional digging on my own. That’s what gardening is for. So I tried to buck up Rafa on his self-assessment. “So the relationship thing isn’t working out. But you’re making a difference, right?”
“Yup,” he sighed. “One press conference at a time.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ll check in tomorrow.” With that, Rafa clicked off, but something in me clicked on. We had moved beyond appliances.
Rosalind &
Orlando
FROM AS YOU LIKE IT
HER: One of Shakespeare’s most delightful leading ladies. Independent, fun, charming, and not afraid to go into exile dressed like a man. Has much to say about the foolishness of love, but can’t help falling in love anyway.
HIM: Forest-dwelling little brother. A gentleman despite the lack of formal education. Noble, loyal, and brave when he needs to be. No match for Rosalind intellectually, but handsome enough to compensate.
BRILLIANT RELATIONSHIP MOVE: Rosalind dresses as a man to instruct Orlando on how to woo a woman, proving you can, in fact, have your cake and eat it, too.
WHY THEY WORK: She’s smart and he’s adorable.
HIS BEST ADVICE: “Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little.”
HER BEST ADVICE: “Men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.”
SHAKESPEAREAN COUPLE MOST LIKELY TO: Co-host a morning talk show.
WHO THEY REMIND YOU OF: Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan.
CHEMISTRY FACTOR: 3.5 OUT OF 5
CHAPTER 16
The address may have been Ashland, but the opening night felt like pure Broadway. The June air was crisp and cool, a perfect night for outdoor theater, and those lucky enough to have scored tickets in the daily lottery were dressed in layers as advised by the OSF website. A film crew from Access Hollywood waited outside the theater and, no doubt, reviewers from the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times, and People were inside. The crowd was abuzz in anticipation of the production that Taz Buchanan had described at the press conference as an “in-your-face, out-of-body mind-blower.” (Oh, Taz, that’s a lot of body parts for one phrase.) But there was no doubt that the thirty-years-younger-than-the-average crowd was ready to party Elizabethan style, probably titillated even further by the show’s No One Under 18 warning. Though the details had been kept vague, clearly the feeling in the crowd was that this Midsummer would indeed include sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. Some of the audience members seemed to be dressed in costume, sporting Grateful Dead T-shirts and Indian-print skirts. Then again, that could just be what college kids still wore in Southern Oregon. It was exciting to be a tiny part of it, even if only from my house seat in the last row, view partially obstructed.
Maddie texted me from backstage: I’m SO nervous. Why?????? She was on duty in the bowels of the theater, where the actors readied themselves in a locker room–style dressing area and waited in a rundown green room equipped with a closed-circuit TV to monitor the progress onstage several floors above. No star treatment at OSF for FX or any of the actors. It was opening night and the energy in those claustrophobic spaces must be tangible. I was excited for her and a little jealous. She had become an integral part of the production team and FX’s personal assistant, handling everything from his social media needs to his green t
ea demands. I texted her back: Me 2.
I was nervous. The last ten days had been a chaotic rush of writing, rehearsal, and Rafa, plus daily dog walks, occasional yoga classes, and frequent communications from my family, who seemed to think I was right around the corner and insisted on keeping me up to date on all things Lancaster whether I cared or not about how the roses were blooming in my mother’s garden. Out of sight, out of mind didn’t really work in my family.
Every morning, Maddie and I went to Noble Coffee to fuel up and debrief on any important news. Maddie fed me daily tidbits, like confirming that Taz was indeed a beast, but a sexy beast, and the whole cast was spellbound. He was pissed because the Jimi Hendrix people wouldn’t let him use his music but thrilled that The Band would. Yes, Maddie said, the actor who plays Puck did seem to have a drinking problem, but he was hilarious. And Demetrius and Lysander appeared to be a couple, much to Hermia’s chagrin. Sometimes stage manager Lulu joined us, providing other key insider intelligence, most importantly that Taz thought FX was “hot” onstage. She agreed, which, for a lady who preferred ladies, was high praise.
It relieved me to hear that Taz liked FX’s performance, because the actor himself was a bit of a basket case. I spent large portions of the day talking him down off the emotional ledge. For a guy who’d made millions at the box office, he sure had a lot of issues about his self-worth. At one point, I even called his agent Hank to say that maybe FX needed someone with more credentials than me to get him emotionally prepared to walk back onstage. Hank sent me an edible fruit bouquet for my efforts, but no psychologist. So I did my best as a stand-in for Sabrina at night when she was onstage in Cinderella and FX wanted to run lines at his Japanese spa home.
In between scenes, FX filled me in on Hollywood gossip and relived every movie he ever made. Some of the stories were riotous; others were navel-gazing road trips with little appeal. One night he said that his career was made by a single shot in the first Icarus film, the one in which he stood in a dirty alley, nearly defeated, contemplating the end of the world and his role in its demise. It was at the exact moment that his character decided to rise from the ashes and take on the bad guys that FX hit the perfect head tilt of conviction. “Less than a second, but everyone knows that shot, right? I did fifty takes and only once did I tilt my head to the left, not the right. They used the left tilt. That’s all it takes in film, Lizzie. One shot, like a great photo. But onstage, it’s so much more.”
Finally, after one of these personal pity parties, I blurted out, “For God’s sakes! You’re playing the king of the Fairies, not Richard III. Get a hold of yourself.” Slightly offended by my sudden attack, he pointed out that he was playing two roles: the king of the Fairies and the King of Athens. But I guess he understood my point, because after that, he whined less and conversed more.
Our relationship had evolved to the point where we routinely had conversations that weren’t loaded with hidden meanings or hurtful memories. We could laugh and fill in the gaps of the last ten years, even wading into the area of bad dates and even worse relationships. Most of the time we were like two old friends, talking. Until, of course, he stripped down to his swimsuit for our daily soak in his personal mineral bath—only then would a touch of longing mixed with melancholy hit me. I stuffed those feelings with the endless supply of toro maki provided by Ming. (So much healthier than my post-divorce diet staple, Mallomars, shipped to me in California by caring friends in New York City.) All physical longing aside, my soak-and-sushi regime had resulted in a five-pound weight loss and glowing skin, a confidence booster during what had become nightly video chats with Rafa.
Rafa. Sitting there in the open-air theater, waiting for the curtain to rise, I missed him. How sad. I missed a guy with whom I’d spent approximately forty-seven minutes face to face. A guy who was seven hundred miles away, worked for my brother-in-law, and, I suspected, preferred women in tailored suits with law degrees, though I had no proof. But digitally, we’d been having a rather serious relationship, which was its own kind of sad.
Our nightly Skype calls consisted of some smokescreen starter chitchat about the house or garden, as if that was the excuse for the connection. From there, the conversation could go anywhere, provided that the sometimes-sketchy connection held up. I talked him through preparing caponata with my eggplants, and he extolled the virtues of chimichurri with my parsley and oregano. I went off on reforming public education and he explained cap and trade and the capital gains tax, two concepts I only pretended to understand. We covered family, pet peeves, and our favorite movies (his, predictably, a toss-up between The Godfather and Air Force One; mine, just as predictably, Out of Africa). As I learned about his life, his transition from farm kid to sophisticated Georgetown student, and how he made the leap from local-issue campaigns to working for high-profile politicians like Ted, I realized that underneath the polished exterior and custom-tailored shirts, he was a loyal and sentimental man. He went to his high school reunions, called his grandmother every Sunday, and got choked up when they played the national anthem at Dodgers games. (I admitted to goose bumps when I heard the Masterpiece music every Sunday night, but it didn’t really resonate in the same way as his reaction to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”)
A few days ago, we figured out that we were both Skyping and watching the Wimbledon recap show on mute, so we started to “watch” the show together, commenting on the screaming Russian women and the towering Czechs. Last night, after a long conversation that had nothing to do with first-serve percentages, the time had come to say goodnight. But instead of a quick adieu, we had That Moment. Yes, that prolonged moment of silence where the conversation could go off in a whole deeper direction, possibly involving a declaration of feelings or, if more alcohol had been involved, the removal of clothing. Rafa stared into the camera, smiled, and for the first time in our brief acquaintance, didn’t look completely in control of his agenda. Sipping lavender relaxation tea and feeling a surge of romantic bravery, I almost blurted out, “You should come to Ashland.”
Yes, please come to Ashland.
Then Puck started barking at an innocent pug out on the street and I was forced to sign off, saving me from taking a chance. As I removed the light makeup I always put on for our chats, I admonished myself. Rafa is my housesitter. We are bonded by Bumble. There isn’t going to be an In Real Life relationship; we’re Strictly Skype. By the time I returned to Pasadena, he’d be back in Washington. It would just be me, the dog, and Sunday nights with Laura Linney.
The bells in the theater brought me back to the present. They signaled the audience members to take their seats. Here we go. Don’t suck. The house lights came down; the curtain went up. The sound of Richie Havens’s Woodstock performance of “Strawberry Fields” blasted through the speakers. The big video screens lit up with images of verdant, mud-free landscapes. And FX Fahey stepped onto a stage for the first time in a decade, this time wearing a Nehru jacket.
The applause was thunderous. You could barely hear the last few lines of Puck’s famous soliloquy because the audience was already on its feet, dancing to the Grateful Dead’s “Turn on Your Love Light.” The production was brilliant: the music, the big-screen stadium-rock-show effects, the hint of nudity that revealed picture-perfect glutes on the men and equally top-notch toppers on the women. It all worked to create a magical, sexy fantasy world. Sabrina was mesmerizing as the queen of the Fairies, and Puck was a comic evildoer. The audience had been enraptured by the lovers’ entanglements, the sensuous music and dancing, and the Rude Mechanicals’ merriment, but there was no doubt: FX was the unquestionable star.
And he knew it. As he took his bow to adoring hooting and hollering, he was the king. Or Kings, as it were. The look on his face was one of pure joy. I’d seen it before—it was the expression he wore in our one remaining wedding photo. I was happy for him, to feel like that again. I held up my cell phone to capture the moment. It was easier to watch from behind a lens.
As the cast took y
et another curtain call, I sent the photo to his agent, Hank, with the message: Fifth curtain call. We have a hit.
If the theatrical experience felt like Broadway, the after-party was as close to Hollywood as it was going to get in these parts. FX’s temporary home at Chozu Tea Gardens had been turned into a sparkling party venue after some long-distance event planning by Angie, who apparently had commandeered every little white light in Ashland, along with half a dozen food vendors and a deejay playing Motown hits. Several bartenders were on hand, as were enormous bottles of flavor-infused Skyy vodka on ice. In a beer and coffee town, the showy vodka product placement, which the company had no doubt paid for, looked wildly out of place, but the high-spirited actors didn’t seem to notice the incongruity. The noise level from the music and enthusiastic conversation was just short of calling-the-police levels. The guests were flying, and not from the vodka or any other substance. It was the intoxication that comes from being part of a hit.
I secured a passionfruit cocktail and stood in the shadows surveying the scene. I caught Maddie’s eye and she waved in my direction. She was standing next to FX, his arm around her shoulders, while Dylan and several professional-looking photographers snapped photos. No doubt Dylan’s shot would go up on the show’s Twitter feed, an account that Maddie had created. Taz was holding court center stage, several females on either side. He was back in his sarong, probably planning on soaking a bit later and not alone, from the way he was eyeing two young actresses.
There was a crowd at the buffet, mostly the character players, scarfing down sushi like they’d never eat again, and maybe some of them wouldn’t if they didn’t get asked back to be a part of the company next year. And, predictably, a small group of women, not actresses, maybe wives, danced together in bare feet and flowing skirts, somehow turning the slow, sexy beat of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” into hippie-chick freeform movement with a touch of whirling dervish. I had a strong sense of déjà vu, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.
