Elizabeth the First Wife

by Lian Dolan

  “You were right. This was a good idea,” Bumble admitted as she, Sarah, and I stood on the deck overlooking the scene. “We should have more normal family things, you know, instead of fundraisers or campaign stops or speeches.” Bumble meant that sincerely. Since she’d joined the ranks of the political spouse and my father won that Nobel, the majority of our “family’” events revolved around something other than family and usually involved a microphone, a silent auction, and/or a call to action. Even cancer researcher Sarah was constantly on the lookout for funding, relying on family to attend luncheons and rubber-chicken dinners. But tonight, even the presence of Rafa, FX, and Hank didn’t seem out of place. It was a beautiful night, the cedar-planked salmon had been perfect, and the wine FX had brought along was better than we deserved.

  “Okay, Elizabeth, you’re in charge of all events from now on,” Sarah commanded. “Especially once you get that new kitchen.”

  “Yes, because clearly I’ll never win a large prize, run a state, or need to fundraise for anything important. The new dishwasher will open up a whole frontier of event planning for me: family dinners. Unless I’m offered that chairmanship of the English Department at Redfield based on my leading-edge work on Shakespearean characters and their equivalents from the cast of Friends.”

  “Is that really what you’re working on? Friends as a cultural touchstone?” Sarah asked, looking skeptical.

  “Do not mock Friends. You know how I feel about the entire cast. Did you know you can pretty much find every character from Friends in As You Like It? Upon careful analysis, I can posit that Rachel is Rosalind.” My sisters laughed while I couldn’t help but notice the foursome in the corner of the yard. Ted, Hank, FX, and Rafa were getting along like frat brothers at a reunion. It made me nervous. I redirected my sisters’ attention. “What’s that all about?”

  Bumble nodded knowingly. “They’re plotting some endorsement strategy or something. That Hank is slick, and Rafa’s smart enough to know he can’t pass up an opportunity to connect with Hollywood. Ted will need to win some of them over, even though he’s a Republican. Looks like this might be Rafa’s last act before he heads back to DC.”

  Breathe, breathe. “Oh, he’s not staying on with the campaign here in California?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

  “No, like I said before, he prefers policy to politics,” said Bumble. “He’s a behind-the-scenes guy, making deals and working on legislation. He really doesn’t care about slogans or the ground game. Plus I think he’s a little sick of our family, and being isolated in your house hasn’t helped. He started doing weird things, like planting stuff, and making gazpacho. He needs the city. He’s going back before Congress goes into session.”

  I must have let out a tiny groan because Bumble looked over at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Just losing a housesitter, that’s all.” And all hope of a romantic future.

  “Hey, Steven’s brother Sam is coming into town for a few weeks with his kids. Maybe they can stay there,” Sarah said. “I can’t deal with three boys under five. I just can’t.”

  I envisioned my perfect August tomatoes as the weapons of choice for Sam’s brood. No way. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  On cue, Puck trotted over and nuzzled his nose against my hand, providing comfort and support. Bumble looked down. “I never really saw you as a dog person. You’re not going to become one of those sad single people who send out Christmas cards with pictures of themselves and the dog, are you?”

  Well, not if you say it like that.

  The text from Rafa came in just as I was getting into bed: Let’s meet in the park at the reading of the Declaration of Independence. Need to talk to you.

  Maybe Bumble was wrong. Apparently he wasn’t so sick of my family after all. At least, not the part with me in it.

  Friends

  vs.

  As You Like It

  AS YOU LIKE IT

  FRIENDS

  COMEDY

  LONG-RUNNING FAN FAVE

  LOVE AS MAIN THEME

  BEVERAGE OF PREFERENCE

  Wine

  Coffee

  HEROINE WHO FLEES PERSECUTION

  Rosalind

  Rachel

  NOBLE, CHARMING HERO

  Orlando

  Ross

  LOYAL FRIEND TO HEROINE

  Celia

  Monica

  SAD SACK TRANSFORMED BY LOVE

  Oliver

  Chandler

  THE FOOL

  Jacques

  Joey

  PROUD SHEPHERDESS

  Phoebe

  Phoebe

  CHAPTER 21

  “I’m glad we could squeeze this in. My wife marches in the parade with the Macaroni Noodle Band every year, and I don’t want to miss her. She plays the clarinet, and this year, they’re all wearing won ton costumes. Isn’t that great?” Duff Miller was regaling my father and me over coffee in the lobby of the Ashland Springs Hotel, his voice tinged with excitement at the prospect of people dressed as pasta. The soft, warm colors of the grand lobby were a striking contrast to the red, white, and blue crowds outside gearing up for the Fourth of July, Ashland-style. Thousands already lined the street in anticipation of the homegrown parade, which featured every Little League team in the county, a large number of dogs in costumes, and floats sponsored by places like hair salons. It was a point of civic pride. “You’ve never seen a parade like Ashland’s, Richard. Never. It’s the best.”

  We were, in fact, a family of parade snobs. I’m sure my father had never sat through what my mother would certainly call “a complete free-for-all,” not when you’re used to the majestic Rose Parade every New Year’s Day. Instead of carefully constructed commercial floats lavished in flowers and corporate sponsorships and hand-chosen bands of hundreds, the Ashland parade was a hodge-podge of ordinary citizens, a smattering of musical instruments, and a variety of livestock and people in gorilla suits. Of course, we were too polite to point out the obvious: Decorated shopping carts don’t exactly impress Pasadenans. Still, my father was enjoying reconnecting with his old friend, sharing memories and smoothing over any miscommunication, so he simply said, “I’m looking forward to it. Anne is saving us a seat.” Actually, he was headed right back up to his room to watch the women’s finals from Centre Court.

  I was just hugely relieved that Duff Miller wasn’t going to charge me with academic fraud as a result of the trumped-up curriculum vitae my mother had sent along. Really, it could have been a very embarrassing and potentially career-ending situation, if Duff hadn’t been such a good sport.

  I was honest and told him about my mother’s enthusiasm for Redfield and my own satisfaction with my position in the community college system. To clarify the depth of my body of research, I reeled off a few chapter ideas from the book, which got a laugh out of him. Truth is, Duff just wanted to meet me and have coffee. There was never any job at Redfield, and he was way too complimentary of my teaching at PCC to consider luring me away, even if there had been. “I was struck by your passion for teaching, as evidenced by that video on YouTube. Obviously, you care about your students, and I think the Summer with Shakespeare is a great idea. When does that get under way?”

  “Um…I’m not sure I know what you mean?” I said, trying not to sound too stupid, because really, it wasn’t a very complicated sentence, but damned if I knew what he was talking about.

  “The program you mentioned, Summer with Shakespeare. That’s a great idea, and if we at Redfield can be of any help administering your vision, let me know. I have connections here at Southern Oregon University, too. Maybe we can help you with dorms or faculty, anything you need.”

  For the second time that summer, I had a creative flash. If Duff thought Summer with Shakespeare was real, why couldn’t it be? I could make that happen, maybe. “I will keep that in mind. We’re in the initial planning stages,” I said, hoping he didn’t ask who “we” was, beyond me and Puck. “And I’m sure we could use support here in those a
reas.”

  “Diversity is our watchword at Redfield, and it sounds like an opportunity for us to connect with some of your students who might be first-generation college attendees. Lure them to Oregon, get them interested in Shakespeare, and maybe even our school.” Duff was one hundred percent sincere, unapologetic about wanting to recruit “diverse” students, which is admissions code for kids who don’t wear North Face jackets, hire private college counselors, and drive baby BMWs. Basically, he wanted to attract more kids like my students to the wilds of Oregon. “So when you’re ready to launch, please be in touch.”

  I looked at my dad; he completely understood the implications of Duff’s offer. I said, “We will, Duff. We will.” And my father nodded in agreement.

  As it turned out, costumed dogs do make for a terrific parade, and I regretted any smug remarks I might have made about kazoo bands in the past. Duff’s enthusiasm had rubbed off on my father and me, and we missed tennis to sit through the entire spectacle alongside my mother, Sarah, and the Girls. Like veteran parade-goers, they’d staked out a good spot on the shady side of the street near their B&B, with access to bathrooms and coffee.

  My mother’s demeanor was a cross between insanely curious about our conversation with Duff and insanely put out that she’d been left out of said conversation. I admit that I enjoyed watching her squirm before I doled out spoonfuls of information in between animal acts and baseball teams. “There really isn’t a job there. And you know, Mom, he’s the college president. He doesn’t even do the faculty searches.”

  “I think I know how academia works, Elizabeth,” she snapped back. “Although I hardly think it could hurt your chances to have the support of the man who is the public face of the school, even if he doesn’t actually check the references. Oh look, people dressed in deer heads. How…clever.”

  It was really the best of both worlds for our relationship: She felt justified forging my CV and contacting Duff Miller behind my back, and I didn’t have to interview for a job I didn’t want. We would move forward from there, but I did have to add one last point. I waited for a break in the action and got one, thanks to a stubborn mule and the 4-H club. “You know, Mom, you can’t do that again for so many reasons. Prison, for one, because I think falsifying documents is a felony. And really, I don’t know how many times I have to say it, so I’ll only say it once more: I like my job. I like my students. I like my house. I’m not going anywhere.”

  To which she responded, “Fine. I was only thinking of you, but I can see you can take care of yourself and your professional life. Look what you’ve accomplished this summer.”

  Touché, Martyr Mom, touché. I caught Sarah rolling her eyes, a rare sight for my hyper-polite sister. A few months ago, I might have blurted out the possibility of a real Summer with Shakespeare program as a defense. But I’d been down that path before, so I held my tongue and let Anne Lancaster have the last word.

  Satisfied that the conversation was over because she’d deemed it so, my mother turned back to the Girls. “Is that a Chihuahua suspended by balloons?”

  I spotted Rafa at the park bandshell, standing off to the side, arms folded over his chest, waiting for me. Okay, here we go. He said he needs to talk to me. “Needs” is a great word. I debated the greeting: Kiss on the check? Fist bump? Tiny wave? He made it easy, whipping out miniature American flags and handing one to me. “Happy Fourth of July!”

  I guess that’s what a Congressional chief of staff considers a romantic gesture. “Wow, you’re quite a patriot. Flags, the Declaration of Independence. …”

  “I love America,” Rafa said. “Look who’s reading the D of I? Your man Icarus.”

  Oh, no. “Really?” I tried to sound generous, but I was completely annoyed. Yet another one of my people falling for the charms of FX Fahey.

  “Usually the high school history teacher does the whole thing, but the mayor asked FX this year. It’s slightly controversial,” Rafa informed me in a tone that implied he had inside information.

  “You really have your finger on the Ashland pulse after only a day on the ground.”

  “That’s my job,” he concluded. “You know, FX isn’t such a bad guy.”

  “Yeah, I know.” But he was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

  “What happened to you guys?” The question surprised me, because up until this moment, we’d both gone out of our way not to mention the movie star in the room. So I told him the short version. “We were college sweethearts who couldn’t make it in the real world. It’s an old story. Can you imagine being married to your college girlfriend?”

  Rafa shook his head. “Patsy Doyle? No.”

  More surprises. “You dated a girl named Patsy Doyle?”

  “I went to Georgetown. It‘s full of Patsy Doyles.”

  Now I was curious. “And did you make it past graduation?”

  “Barely. That night, we were out at the Tombs with our parents. Her dad, this Wall Street bond trader, Big Jim Doyle, holds up a glass, nods at my family, and then toasts in the loudest voice possible, ‘Viva Mexico!’”

  “Oh, that’s bad.”

  “Believe me, it’s happened before. And don’t get me wrong: I like Mexico. But besides the obvious fact that we’re Argentine, I think my family’s been in the country two generations longer than the Doyles. It was a sign that we weren’t from the same worlds. I was from a world of good people and she was from a world of assholes. We broke up that night.”

  Decisive. I liked that. “What’s Patsy Doyle up to now?”

  “She married a bond trader from Connecticut named McManus.”

  “In other words, she married her father.”

  “Yup.” Rafa seemed rather proud of himself that he’d called that one.

  I aimed for the same light tone. “Well, our disintegration took a little bit longer and required a few more legal documents. And there were some co-stars involved—his, not mine—but at least I didn’t turn around and marry my father. Not that my mother hasn’t tried to set me up with a few physicists.” I shook my head.

  “That doesn’t seem to be your type,” he said. Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought.

  Just then, the mayor of Ashland introduced FX Fahey, who bounded onto the stage, wearing blue jeans and a vaguely Colonial white cotton shirt with a leather cord tie that I’m guessing Zadie, the costumer designer, cooked up for him. The crowd went wild and FX beamed. The poor history teacher in the cheesy tri-corner hat, who was now relegated to orating the list of grievances against the King, was completely outmatched onstage. FX took his position behind the podium and launched into a rabble-rousing version of the Declaration of Independence: “When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another. …”

  We listened for a little while longer and I noticed that Rafa was actually mouthing the words along with FX. He really was a patriot. He leaned in. “Speaking of political bands, I need to talk to you about something. Let’s take a walk.” He took my elbow gently and led me toward a stand of trees. Maybe this really was a Congressional chief of staff’s idea of a romantic rendezvous.

  He found a place in the shade that was out of the direct line of the sound system. Instead of the full effect of FX’s voice, the oration provided a sort-of soundtrack in the background. Rafa looked me straight in the eye. “I have a proposal for you, Professor Lancaster.”

  “Oh…” I said, surprised at his frankness, and then I realized those words sounded vaguely familiar. The sensory memory of my reunion with FX in my office at PCC came flooding back to me. My heart sank a little bit. “Yes?”

  “Actually, it’s more correct to say we have a proposal for you,” Rafa clarified, even more to my chagrin. “Ted, FX, Hank, and I have an idea, and we’d like you to be involved. In fact, we think your involvement is critical to the success of the idea.”

  So this really wasn’t a date at all.

  Rafa led me to the Ashland Spr
ings Hotel, where Hank was waiting in the conference room that Team Ted had booked for the weekend. Suki and Rob worked quietly on their computers, but there was no sign of Bumble and Ted. Apparently the media didn’t care about bad parenting or book banning on the Fourth of July—too many stories about the dangers of fireworks to report. The remnants of what must have been a strategy meeting—coffee, a picked-over fruit plate, and Hank’s trademark muffin basket—had yet to be cleared by room service. Once again, I hated to see those muffins go to waste, but the situation had a feeling of formality and scarfing a zucchini-carrot combo seemed ill-advised.

  Hank kicked off the conversation without any preamble. “Elizabeth, we need you to like this.” Then the two of them sprung their big idea on me: make Summer with Shakespeare a reality. Yes, a real live education foundation providing instruction and internships for high school and community college students at Shakespeare festivals all over the world. Of course, in the future, to avoid any controversy, all students would have to be at least eighteen, but that was a small detail. The foundation would be funded and chaired by FX Fahey and Congressman Ted Seymour with a board of directors that included Taz Buchanan, agent Hank, and me. If all went as planned, the formation of the foundation would be announced immediately after the performance tonight, and there’d be a kick-off event in Los Angeles, timed to enhance FX’s Oscar campaign and Ted’s gubernatorial campaign. Hank punctuated his pitch by saying, “You’ve brought us all together, Elizabeth. You’re the glue.”

  I was speechless. I had never been the glue before, of anything! Of course, the core idea was exactly what I’d been thinking about since my conversation with Duff Miller. But in my world of endless classes, limited connections, and low salaries, it would have taken me years to get it off the ground, if I ever got motivated to do anything at all. Here in this world of fruit plates, strategists, and daily polling, it took twelve hours.