Elizabeth the First Wife (15 page)

Congressman and Mrs. Seymour's backyard had appeared in the July 2011 issue of
House Beautiful
. The article featured the happy couple hosting their annual Fourth of July bash, complete with red, white, and blue outfits and “freedom-tinis.” (Really, if it was an “annual” party, then apparently I'd been left off the invitation list for years.) Bumble had secured the story, hired a food stylist, and artdirected the guest list to represent a Noah's Ark of Ted's supporters: two gays, two Hispanics, two Asians, two African-Americans, two Armenians, and Bumble and Ted. The feature, initially a coup for Bumble, became a headache for Ted.

Two conservative radio-talk-show hosts, Ron and Ben, made a fuss over the Pennsylvania bluestone used around the pool instead of California-mined slate, and they continued to beat that issue into the ground for weeks. Liberal newspaper editorials pounced on the enormous grill area, which was positioned as a “let them eat cake” offense, as if Ted should run a soup kitchen out of his backyard. And
the outdoor fireplace, slipped in just before they were banned for airpollution reasons, had drawn the ire of environmentalists. Bumble was furious. “The guy is a self-made man, a real estate genius. Local boy makes good. Really started from zero, not like that fake self-made Donald Trump whose dad gave him zillions. That's why they elected him! Of course he used high-quality materials! And those Brown Jordan chairs were designed right here in Pasadena! Why didn't anyone mention that?”

The whole incident had made Ted incredibly cynical about any press coverage, and he certainly wasn't going to open up his home and his life to any further scrutiny if he didn't have to. Bumble had confided to me that it was the one big stumbling block in terms of running for governor. There were so many congresspeople in California that the media spotlight was on Ted only every once in a while. But there was only one governor, and he wasn't thrilled about being a target for every pundit with a microphone or blog—not after Slategate.

But on this night, the yard looked perfectly lovely, and no one objected to the built-in wine cooler or the excessive use of pink and white balloons. Using printed invitations and the promise of paella, Bumble had gathered the family and a few friends to say goodbye to Maddie and me before our Ashland adventure. In typical Lancaster fashion, Bumble refused to stage any sort of potluck affair. Where was the control in that?

As somebody who routinely hosted student and faculty get-togethers at my house, where invariably some poetry teacher in wearable art insisted on bringing Trader Joe's hummus or two-day-old grocery-store veggie trays, I admired Bumble's stance against random contributions of food. I also appreciated that I could just show up in my new shift dress and relax after days of getting ready for my trip. I was wiped out from the extreme cleaning jag I went on before my housesitter set up camp. I think I injured my rotator cuff vacuuming.

As soon as I arrived, Anne Lancaster was on the move. Wearing
a pink and green Lily Pulitzer tunic, because dressing to match the invitation was her generational cross to bear, my mother cornered me in between the rosemary urns and the iceberg rose hedge. She quickly confirmed that my father and I had, ahem, discussed the matter. She made it sound like we were hatching a scam to import exotic animals from Costa Rica instead of sending off a resume to a small liberal arts college. I said we, ahem, had, which was true, but I left it at that, as my father and I had agreed.

Then she informed me of her plans to come to Ashland to see the play when it opened. She was bringing along Dependable Jane and Funseeker Mary Pat, otherwise known as the Girls. The trio had started the Faculty Wives Club at Caltech, now called the more politically correct Caltech Women's Union, when they were young, lonely newlyweds married to brilliant scientists. Their enviable bond had lasted almost forty years. Dependable Jane could sell real estate in her sleep, which was helpful because her husband, a geologist, liked the ponies at Santa Anita a little too much. Funseeker Mary Pat, now a widow whose husband had been a chemical engineer, was Pasadena's caterer emeritus. Her recent retirement had left the party scene devoid of mashed potato bars and salmon mousse terrines. The trio wanted to spend a girls' weekend in Ashland seeing great theater, soaking up the artsy atmosphere, and consuming crumbles made from local berries for breakfast. Maybe, my mother suggested, I could even arrange a backstage tour and a lunch with the cast.

It had never crossed my mind that my mother, or any of my family, would follow me to Ashland. But of course she wouldn't miss an opportunity to take her moment, even if it was really my moment. Honestly, as immature as it sounds, I hoped that if I didn't directly respond, her plans would evaporate. So I deflected any further questioning. “Talk to my assistant. She's doing my calendar.” Yup, I threw Maddie under the bus and exited to the bar. I was beginning to understand the benefits of having an assistant.

Maddie had invited a few friends, all of whom were named
Emma. Maddie and the Emmas were huddled by the pool, texting and laughing at each other's texts. All the girls were wearing bikinis and tiny shorts, but it was clear they had no intention of actually swimming. The late-May pool temperature and their general self-consciousness would prevent them from diving in. But ever since Maddie had signed on for the Ashland trip, she seemed to be walking with a little swagger. It was nice to see her come out of her shell. I only hoped she didn't come too far out of her shell on my watch.

I staked out a position on the patio, within striking distance of both the tapas and the sangria. I knew I should mingle with Bumble's friends, mostly parents of the Emmas, who stood on the far side of the lawn. But those Brown Jordan chairs from the classic Summit collection were so cozy, I couldn't bear the thought of walking across the lawn and engaging in small talk. I knew they'd be yakking nonstop about college admissions, as the parents of rising seniors. (Unless, of course, one of the Emmas was bleeding from the head, at which point they might stop, toss her a tourniquet, and then resume talking about SAT prep.) I was saved from pretending to care as Sarah plopped down next to me, positioning herself with a clear view of the pool to watch her girls. Younger and impervious to public opinion, Hope and Honor jumped into the pool with no hesitation. Sarah noted, “They feel no cold. How is that possible?”

“Kids never get cold. I think the act of ‘bringing a little shawl in case it gets chilly' is some sort of dividing line between youth and not youth. I don't go anywhere without a fake pashmina. I freeze in my classroom while my students are barely dressed,” I said, pouring Sarah a glass of Bumble's white wine sangria, hesitating a moment while handing it to her. “Are you on call?”

“No, free as a bird all weekend! But Steven is, so he can drive home. I may have two glasses of sangria!” Sarah lifted her glass in a toast. “To escaping! So—are you ready?”

It was a loaded question, of course. My bags were packed, the car was serviced, and all female-related products, battery operated
and otherwise, had been removed from my bedroom, just in case my houseguest breached the perimeter. Plus I'd purchased a generous supply of Target sundresses and secured an excellent haircut and fresh highlights from my stylist, Begonia, at Joseph Josephs Salon. So in theory, I was ready. But did I really know what I was walking into? Definitely not.

“I guess so. It'll be great, right? And if it isn't, it'll make great material for my book. How perfect that a
relationship expert
like myself should enter into a completely ill-advised relationship with her ex-husband. I can do a whole chapter on why not to work with your ex. I'll call it Why Exes Aren't Sexy or. …”

“I hope you come up with better chapter titles than that!” Bumble interrupted, sneaking up on us with bacon-wrapped figs. She passed the platter of tapas and joined the conversation. “How about The Shaming of the Shrew? Or A Midsummer Night's Merde Storm!”

That made us all laugh. It might have been the French or the sangria, but nobody could crack us up more than we cracked each other up. And once we were on a roll, watch out. So Sarah added, “As You Liked It…But Not So Much Anymore.”

I tossed out, “All's Well That Ends…in a Divorce and a Decade of Resentment.”

“The Merry Wives of Windsor…Weren't Married to FX Fahey.” Bumble snorted, most unattractively. By now I was having trouble breathing. Sarah wasn't faring any better, choking on her fig and her laughter. Nothing bonded my sisters like mocking my potentially humiliating situation.

Then a different voice joined in. “Somebody's having fun. What are you playing?”

We all turned to see Rafa Moreno, in a close-fitting white button-down and tan linen pants, holding a bottle of beer in one hand and files in the other. His hair had lost its perfectly groomed quality and his clothes were slightly wrinkled, as if he'd been sporting and gaming in
the open air like some sort of minor Royal. His gray complexion had turned a sun-kissed olive, and his green eyes appeared to have been highlighted with liquid gold. What a difference a few rounds of golf (or a quick game of polo?) in the California sunshine could make. I was really regretting that open-mouthed guffawing with my sisters. How long had he been standing there? I tried to recover my dignity. “Just batting around some potential campaign slogans for Ted. How about ‘Sey-mour, Pay Less'?”

“I'll make you a deal. You stick to teaching, I'll stick to politics,” Rafa replied, reaching for the tapas platter and popping one of those bacon-wrapped figs into his mouth. Then he directed his gaze at Sarah, who was clearly wondering about our mystery guest's identity, judging by her wide eyes and slack jaw. He was smooth. “Hi, I'm Rafa Moreno. I work for Ted. You must be Sarah, taking the night off from curing cancer. Honor to meet you.”

Sarah was charmed. “Well, this is an emergency of sorts. Our little sister needs some help. We really were brainstorming, just not political slogans.”

Bumble couldn't resist, “Yes, Elizabeth is writing a self-help book on contemporary relationships. Based, of course, on the romantic ideals established four hundred years ago by a guy named William Shakespeare.” I was as red as the roasted-beets-with-goat-cheese skewers that Bumble offered to our new guest. She continued because she had the floor. “Of course, lately, Elizabeth's own personal experience in this area has been restricted to singles' night at Whole Foods.”

I took the bait. “There are a lot of single men there. They're not straight single men, but they're single.”

“Moving on from artichokes, I see,” Rafa said as he turned to me, and I made a mental note: Remove those Anaïs Nin books from the home bookshelves stat. This man must not know my secrets.

Artichokes? Bumble and Sarah looked at me suspiciously, so I covered flawlessly. “Yes, I've completed my Shakespearean produce research, so now I'm moving onto people. There's a lot of Shakespeare
going on all around me.”

‘Really? Like what?” Rafa asked.

“Well, for instance, after some careful analysis, I posit that Bumble and Ted are remarkably similar to the Macbeths.” This got a rise out of Bumble, so I continued. “They had some hot moments before things started to get, you know, bloody. They worked as a team of equals, the wife was a valued advisor in the husband's work, and they liked to socialize with the peasants, I mean, the people. Together, they amassed a lot of power, and that created a very sexy, intense relationship. Just like you and Ted, Bumble!” The image struck everyone's delight: Bumble and Ted and their witches' brew of politics, publicity, and power.

Rafa jumped in. “Then what happened?”

“Lady Macbeth's ambition outgrew her husband's. Their communication devolved into manipulation. Passion gave way to paranoia. And they started murdering people.”

“That's never a political strategy I recommend.”

Sarah piped up, “I'd keep your eye on Bumble, Rafa. If she suggests knocking off the Democratic challenger, you may have a situation on your hands.”

“Or as my man Will would say,
‘Their hands and faces were all badged with blood
.' Not a good photo op.”

Bumble was not amused. “We are not the Macbeths.”

It was rare that I got the best of her. “You are so going in the book. I'll just call you the Clintons! But you'll know it's you.”

Rafa finished his beer. “Would you mind keeping that theory to yourself for, say, eighteen months or so? The attack ads could be pretty rough.” He was obviously ready to hit the road, and I felt surprisingly disappointed. “I'm off. Headed home to Acton. My niece's Fiesta de Quince is this weekend and for once I'm actually around to play the good uncle.”

“Is that like a
quinceañera?”
I asked, wanting to extend the
conversation.

“Yes, but the Argentine version. Less pink, more dancing. I have to learn some kind of minuet tonight.”

“Your family must miss you,” Sarah said. “Do you see them much?”

“Well, my mother's learned to use Skype, so you never know when they're going to drop in,” Rafa said, but clearly he didn't mind too much. “I'll be back Monday and, I think, moving into your house that day, Elizabeth. Great meeting you, Sarah. Thanks for the hospitality, Bumble.”

Bumble had moved on from Lady Macbeth to Lady of the Manor. “Wait! I don't have a gift for your niece. Do you think she wants a Congressional Christmas Ornament, circa 2009? I have a stash of those. Let me grab one!” Again, there was no saying no to Bumble. Even Rafa knew that.