by Lian Dolan
“I have to head home and protect my dog,” I said by way of explanation, not really caring if the Bald One understood. I considered saying goodbye to my sisters and to Maddie, who was spending the night at the hotel with Bumble and Ted, but I didn’t feel like getting waylaid in a sea of hugs and kisses. I’d only be gone for a bit anyway.
“Hurry back. I’m in the soaking tub later.” Taz did a little shuffle for my benefit. Yeah, definitely nothing under that sarong.
“Where are you going?” Rafa caught me on my way out the door, his hand catching my forearm and his gaze taking in my red cowboy boots for the first time.
“I don’t want to leave Puck alone during the fireworks,” I explained, hoping I didn’t sound like one of those me-and-my-dog-on-a-Christmas-card people that Bumble warned me about. “The local paper ran all these articles about how dogs go nuts on the Fourth of July. I don’t think I should leave him alone.”
“Want some company?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Beatrice &
Benedick
FROM MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
HER: Smart, good-looking gal who mocks marriage whenever she gets the chance. Never met a pun she didn’t like and is always ready to engage in a battle of wits. Underneath that tough exterior is a vulnerable heart.
HIM: Smart, good-looking guy who mocks marriage whenever he gets the chance. Never met a pun he didn’t like and is always ready to engage in a battle of wits. Underneath that tough exterior is a vulnerable heart.
RELATIONSHIP HISTORY:
They had a moment in the past, perhaps even a one-night stand Elizabethan-style. But it appears that he led her on and then let her go. And she has not forgotten.
RELATIONSHIP HURDLES: Both are subject to gossip, innuendo, eavesdropping, disguises, false accusations, and fear of commitment. Plus she’s not crazy about his beard.
MEET CUTE: He returns from war, triumphant and cocky. She re-engages in what observers call a “merry war” of wits. His first words? “What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?” And it is on.
HER SIGNATURE LINE: “I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”
HIS TRANSFORMATIVE LINE:
“I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me because I have railed so long against marriage. But doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.”
WHY THEY WORK: Both are unwilling to “settle” just to be married. And they engage in really sexy pillow talk.
SHAKESPEAREAN COUPLE MOST LIKELY TO: Celebrate their golden anniversary.
CHAPTER 23
I was much more nervous than the dog. Puck couldn’t have been more relaxed, lounging on the bent willow love seat, oblivious to the booms and the bursts of red, white, and blue. Honestly, he could barely keep his eyes open, the sound of the fireworks acting like a canine sleep machine. I was the jumpy one. Rafa and I sat on the front porch steps of Sage Cottage, taking in the pyrotechnics, which were slightly obstructed by the huge trees on my street. The fireworks peeked over the tops of the branches—enough magic to cast a spell over the evening, but not so much that I could hear violins (selfconsciously) in the background. For that I was thankful; I still had no idea where all this was headed.
Normally, I was an “oooh-er” and an “ahh-er,” but that seemed too goofy for the moment. After all, I was trying to impress a guy who I’d spied lip-synching the Declaration of Independence; maybe he wouldn’t have minded my enthusiasm. Still, I tried to keep it in, but one gasp escaped my lips after a giant burst of stars. “I love fireworks,” I explained.
“I’d expect no less,” Rafa said, not taking his eyes from the sky. Another giant burst of color, this time blue to hot white. “You like the dramatic.”
“Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises. Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not,” I quoted from The Tempest, regretting it immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s a terrible habit that I picked up this summer. It’s how people talk here. I used to be normal.”
“Don’t apologize. Most of the people I hang around with quote from the quarterly economic indicator reports, so I’m happy to listen to a fresh source.” Now a red explosion with screamers, my favorites. We sat in silence, watching the blazing tails trail off. The air was cooling off from the heat of the day.
“I have something to tell you.” Rafa turned to me, now our knees grazing, his hand resting gently on my thigh. An accident? “I have to go back to DC in a few days. For good. The office there needs me.”
I need you. “I figured something was up. You were on the phone all night.” Another burst of light illuminated his face, intense and focused.
He nodded, “Making arrangements. I’ll go back to Pasadena tomorrow and pack my stuff. Then I’ll eat all the ripe tomatoes in your garden with a little bit of olive oil and some really good salt. I’ll spend exactly twenty-four hours with my family so my mother doesn’t disown me and then catch a flight home.” He let his hand drift up and down my leg as he spoke, smoothing the fabric of my dress against my skin. There was nothing accidental about his actions.
The heat was immediate. I dipped my head to compose myself. Home. His home, on the other side of the country. “That’s a tight schedule. But it sounds like you’re free tonight?”
“I am. Wide open.” His hand gently pushed the hair out of my eyes.
“Me, too.” Rafa leaned in and kissed me, his white linen shirt grazing my bare shoulders, his lips soft and dry. I brushed my hand against the side of his face, slightly rough with stubble, then ran my finger across his jaw line and down his neck. I heard an easy intake of breath as he pulled back. I kept my right hand on his chest and combed through his hair with my left. His eyes were closed, but mine weren’t. My god, he was a handsome man.
Then I felt a wet nose.
It seemed Puck wasn’t too keen on someone moving in on his girl. Rafa laughed, the moment gone. He stood up, his athletic body moving gracefully, and he reached for my hand, “You smell good. Him, not so much.”
“I think he’s jealous,” I said, as I let Rafa pull me up next to him and wrap his arms around me, his own scent a mix of pine and warm earth. As his hands found their way down my back, he said, “Well, by my calculation, I got here first. Remember the day you answered the door in your bathrobe? All professor-y with your glasses on and your hair up, talking about artichokes? That’s the day I marked my territory. Remember, I gave you my card? That dog didn’t show up until weeks later.”
That day? In my fleece bathrobe and camisole? Not exactly a top choice for my get-the-guy outfit. That’s something for my book, I thought, as I absorbed the sensation of his body so close to mine. “Marked your territory? I guess you win.” Rafa bent down and kissed my collarbone once, twice. Oh, poor Puck, trying to wedge himself between Rafa and me on the steps, unaware that he had no chance, despite his adorable face. Now it was my turn to breathe deeply. “Okay, dog, you’re going to sleep in the crate,” I said, as I reluctantly freed myself from Rafa’s arms and grabbed Puck’s collar, heading into the house. I turned back to see Rafa, watching my every move. “And you, lucky dog,” I said, “get to sleep on the bed tonight.”
This never gets any easier. I scrambled around my bedroom, lighting a few candles and contemplating musical choices while Rafa bought some time in the kitchen opening a bottle of wine. Is Alicia Keyes setting the bar too high? Should I go with alt country to match my boots? One of the great benefits of being in a marriage or any long-term relationship would be never having to go through these awkward first encounters ever again. At least, I imagined that to be true when I weighed my makeshift life against Sarah’s or Bumble’s. They knew what would happen when the lights went out, for better or worse. My own marriage was so short, we never really achieved a familiar bedtime rhythm. And the few relationships since had never even come close to settling into a routine. I know this was supposed to be the spice of s
ingle life, but I lacked the “go with it” attitude of those girls I read about in Cosmo. Definitely alt country tonight. I put on Allison Moorer and waited. Please, please, let this be great.
“Here you go,” Rafa handed me a glass of pinot gris and took quite a slug of his own. Is he nervous, too? That surprised me. He seemed in control on the front porch; now, as he stood a little awkwardly in my bedroom, a kind of shyness had crept into his manner.
“Are you okay?” I asked, setting the glass on the bedside table after taking a sip.
“Of course, Elizabeth, it’s just…” he trailed off, reluctant to complete the thought. “You know, you’re. …”
“Your boss’s sister-in-law?”
“Yes, but that’s not it.”
“Bumble’s sister?”
“True, though she doesn’t scare me. Much. Anymore.”
“Still, we should probably not mention this to them. Or anyone, right now.” He shook his head in agreement. But he still looked uncomfortable, which I’d never seen before. “Then what is it?”
“This is dumb,” he said, letting out a sigh. “But you were married to FX Fahey. Icarus. Sexiest Man Alive. That’s a little intimidating.”
My jaw almost dropped open, because he was clearly serious. “Rafa, you really don’t have to worry.” Have you seen your forearms in those white shirts with the sleeves rolled up? Believe me, FX Who?
“You must have heard this before.” He sipped his wine again, this time with less urgency.
“Actually no,” I said gently, recalling the motley collection of divorced lawyers, depressed colleagues, and closeted gay men that made up my romantic history, a half-dozen lesser specimens who’d never uttered my ex-husband’s name. Thank God it had never come up before this, I thought. My sex life would have been even grimmer. That Rafa was the one with insecurity issues almost made me laugh out loud, but I tried to be sensitive. “The men I’ve dated since FX never met him like you have. In fact, I probably never even mentioned him, so it wasn’t an issue. He’s not the kind of ex you talk about on a first date. Or a twelfth. And, honestly, it’s been almost fifteen years since…that part of my life.”
“But I saw him onstage tonight.”
“Onstage, he’s a star. But, remember, that’s not who I fell for. I fell for the cute guy in my dorm freshman year. He’s my Patsy Doyle. And if there’s anything I’ve learned this summer, it’s that I still think of him that way. As a friend, a really charming friend, a guy I used to be crazy about, but not anymore.” Rafa’s vulnerability gave me confidence. I took his hand and led him over to the side of bed. I lifted the wine glass out of his hand, set it on the table and unbuttoned his shirt like I’d wanted to do for months. My lips brushed his temples. Oh, those cheekbones. His shoulders relaxed, then the rest of his chest, his hips. I felt my own hips go with his. “Besides, I can tell you this, from the preview downstairs, you’re better at this than he is.”
That perked him up. “Really?” Rafa kissed me deeply, then deeper. I responded with my whole body.
“Much better,” I said, as he opened the top buttons of my dress, one at a time, exposing my bare skin underneath. His hands felt warm, exploring.
“Is this better?” he whispered into my neck.
“Uh-huh.”
He flicked his finger across my breast and followed with his mouth. I closed my eyes. After a short while, he raised his head slightly. “And this? How’s this?” he asked. “Is this better?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good morning!” A voice woke me and it took me a few seconds to shake off the night. Is it possible to be both a tiny bit embarrassed and proud at the same time? My face was flushed. The cotton sheets felt crisp against my skin as I rolled over and spied the empty pillow next to me. Empty except for a note: Went to get coffee. Rafa.
What a good man.
“Elizabeth? Hello!” a voiced boomed out from downstairs.
Wait, that wasn’t Rafa. It was my father, my freaking father. What the hell? I squinted at the clock. 6:32 in the morning. 6:32!
“Breakfast at Wimbledon. Let’s go. The match has already started. How do you turn this TV on?” Freaking Nobel Prize and he can’t even work the remote.
Good God, I couldn’t get one morning to myself? How about a few more hours to be a grownup, making omelets for the attractive man I managed to lure back to my cottage after months of self-improvement and carefully applied natural-look makeup? “I’ll be down in a second,” I yelled through gritted teeth. I scrambled to put some clothes on, detangle my hair, and text Rafa a warning. Ping! His phone was still on the bedside table next to the empty glass of wine. Not ideal, of course, but it did amuse me to think that he might be having his own out-of-body experience. I’d never seen him without his phone.
“Look, it’s my dad! He’s here to watch Wimbledon, too!” I said in an unnaturally loud voice coupled with cartoonish hand gestures as I intercepted Rafa, bearer of lattes, in the front hall. Fortunately, he’d managed to shower, dress, and buy breakfast, so it looked like he was just arriving. I mouthed the words, “I’m so sorry,” as I took a coffee out of his hands and handed him his phone.
“You look beautiful,” Rafa whispered and kissed me lightly, then said for all in a three-block radius to hear, “Oh, great. I’m here to watch the finals, too. Had I known, I would have brought coffee for you, Dr. Lancaster.” Unlike my ex, Rafa was possibly the world’s worst actor, but my clueless father didn’t notice. He wouldn’t be suspicious of Rafa’s appearance at all. To him, it was perfectly normal to show up at the crack of dawn at somebody’s house for possibly the last Nadal-Federer final ever.
“Rafa!” my father called out. “Good to see you. They’re on serve in the first set. Elizabeth, I ran into Sarah on the way out of the hotel. She’s going for a run and then she’ll stop by afterward.” My father had made himself at home in the leather chair, bringing his own coffee and a single scone that he was already eating. Rafa parked himself on the couch, as if this had been the plan all along, so I flopped down next to him. “Oh, and Rafa, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I ran into Ted in the lobby this morning and we’re, um, wings up at two.”
“It’s wheels up, Dad.”
“That makes more sense,” he said, not taking his eyes from the TV. “Oh, what a forehand. Let’s go, Roger. Your mother insists on driving home with the Girls, Elizabeth, but I’ll be on the plane.”
“So will I,” Rafa said, because there was no getting around it. He reached over and squeezed my hand, then quickly let go.
It wasn’t how I pictured spending my last few hours with Rafa, both of us watching tennis with my dad as the rest of my family filtered in over the course of the morning, first Sarah, then Maddie, soon followed by Dylan, and, eventually, my mother and the Girls, who announced they had stopped by to leave me several half-bottles of wine and boxes of Triscuits before they hit the road, but then they decided to keep the snacks and wine for the trip home, because God forbid my mother should drive more than a half hour without provisions. There’d be no chance to talk to Rafa about what next, to answer the question, “So what are we doing here?” No walking the dog together or reading the New York Times in bed after who knows what. Instead, there’d be conversation, cross-talk, and noise, including lively commentary on Federer’s ability to look good in everything from tennis whites to black tie, a breakdown of the gossip from last night’s party, and a pledge from me to send along contact information for the cast, particularly Taz, so the Girls could send thank-you notes. More coffee and pastries arrived along with FX, who looked slightly put out when he spotted Rafa in his spot on the couch, but he recovered when my father extended his hand in greeting. Instead of a languid parting with deep silences and longheld gazes, we’d manage a group goodbye after a four-set match, and Rafa would dash to check out of his hotel and make the plane after several texts from Ted that they were moving up the departure time an hour. I wanted promises and plans. Instead, I got a text from the airpor
t: Skype soon.
No, that morning wasn’t at all how I would have scripted our first, and only, morning together, but then again, nothing about the last few months had been quite what I expected. My work, my family, my relationships—all had taken turns in directions I’d never have predicted six months ago, which was, I guess, the real reason I agreed to come to Ashland in the first place, to make something happen. Well, that and new countertops.
Maybe the chaos of the morning was a sign, a sign that maybe this time, I was on the right track. As I’d heard dozens of times that summer: The course of true love never did run smooth.
Elizabeth I
WHO SHE IS: Queen of England and Ireland from 1558 to 1603.
NICKNAMES: The Virgin Queen, Gloriana, Good Queen Bess.
WHY SHE IS RIGHTEOUS: Daughter of Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII, reviled by her father and later abused by her (sort of) stepfather, she nonetheless became the Queen of England. She overcame a prison stay to rule with an iron fist and usher in a new age of wealth and discovery. Noted for heeding the advice of trusted advisors, enriching her country, and founding a precursor to the Church of England. Enjoyed Shakespeare’s lofty opinion of her goodness and purity. Not every ruler gets his or her own “age.”
OFFICIAL MOTTO: Video et taceo (I see, and say nothing).
UNOFFICIAL MOTTO: A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.
WHAT TO STEAL FROM HER:
Supported the arts and artists like Shakespeare, Spenser, and Marlowe
Didn’t let the fact that she never produced an heir get in the way of a good reign
Relied on makeup, wigs, and that giant neck ruff to hide the signs of aging
Proved that men and women can be friends by keeping the love of her life, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, on as an advisor long after the romance ended
