Elizabeth the First Wife (19 page)

“What exactly does Taz think I'm doing here?” I tried to keep the negativity out of my voice, because I was acutely aware that FX was both my idiot ex-husband and my boss.

“It doesn't matter what Taz thinks. You work for me. Can you slow down?”

I slowed my race walk to a stomp to allow FX to catch up with me. We were on our way back to my cottage. I thought my head might explode. “I'm not that comfortable with vague job descriptions and undefined relationships. Ever. I need to know the plan. The whole plan. And where I fit in.”

“I respect that. But Taz is Taz, and I have to respect him as well.”

“What?”
I stopped stomping long enough to call FX out on his human-resources mumbo jumbo.

“Here's the deal. If Taz knew that I was more concerned about my reputation than his artistic vision, he'd never have agreed to work on this. Taz is all about Taz, and you gotta get on board the whole way. No questions asked. He doesn't tolerate, you know, the riskaverse.” FX was clearly struggling to not look like a complete wimp. “I told him you were helping me with the text and the lines, as a Shakespearean scholar.”

“But not that I was your ex-wife here to make sure you didn't humiliate yourself prior to an Oscar campaign?”

“Right.” At least he was being honest with me now. I flashed back to the conversation I'd had with my father near the fountain. He thought FX wasn't being honest. How had he known?

“So now what's the plan? I just stick around, show up at rehearsal and insinuate myself into the production? Keeping one eye on Taz and the other on details like making sure you don't look like a fop in a Nehru jacket?”

“Yes!” FX was thrilled that I'd come up with the exact right wording to complete my job description. “Nice use of the word fop!”

“I was kidding.”

‘Well, I'm not.”

I took a deep breath and started walking again, slower this time, more resolved to my predicament. There was nothing I could do. “I wish you had told me.”

“Then you wouldn't have come,” he said. That was true. I would have stayed home with my beets and my kale and my crappy kitchen. But I'd already cashed the first paycheck and, back in Pasadena, Pierce DeVine had pulled the permits, so I'd just have to play along.

“Tell me what to do.”

FX casually put his arm over my shoulder. “You just said it. Watch rehearsals. Keep a low profile. Give me your notes. That's all. And don't worry, everyone will just assume you're there because we're sleeping together. You won't have to explain much.”

Really?
Would the cast and crew actually think I was the followup to a Brazilian supermodel? My green tea regimen must be working. Much to my chagrin, I was tickled by the thought and oddly comforted. He may have worked the old bait and switch on me, but apparently I still had it going on. “Fine.”

We arrived in front of my cottage, and the screen door opened. Maddie stepped out on the front porch and waved. Puck headed down the stairs and trotted out to the sidewalk, circling me like I was his long-lost BFF, even though we'd been acquainted for less than twenty-four hours.

“Who's that?” FX asked quietly, pointing to Maddie.

Now I had an omission to confess. Oh well, mine seemed insignificant in comparison. “My assistant Maddie. Thanks for approving her via Angie. She's also my seventeen-year-old niece. So do not even look in her direction or my sister Bumble will beat you.”

“Say no more. And who's this?” FX leaned down and rubbed Puck's belly.

“My assistant's assistant. Puck. He's on your payroll, too.”

FX stood up and looked straight into my eyes. For one second, I thought he might kiss me, but instead he gave me a light punch on the shoulder, brother-style. “We're quite a team. Goodnight, Lizzie.”

When the phone rang about fifteen minutes later, I was already in bed enjoying several Anthropologie catalogs I'd packed for just this purpose. I loved spending my last few waking minutes in a fantasy world of home products and flowing skirts, especially tonight, when the situation with Taz looked so grim. I couldn't even bear to mention anything to Maddie, who was chomping at the bit to meet the Great Oz. I'd exchanged a few pleasantries, thanked her for the tip on the sheath dress, and headed to my room with Puck, who must have really disliked his former owners, because he'd certainly made himself at home at Sage Cottage over the last sixteen hours.

I picked up without looking at the number, assuming it was FX. “Yes, dahlink,” I said, using an extravagant Zsa Zsa Gabor accent.

Silence, then a voice that was definitely not FX's responded. “I am wearing your bathrobe, but still it feels a little soon for ‘darling.'”

Oh, no
. “Rafa? My mistake. I thought you were…never mind.” My face was suddenly flushed and I felt the urge to put on lipstick. How did my hair look? “Is everything okay?”

“Sorry to call so late.” He sounded genuinely sorry. “You're obviously expecting someone else, so I'll be quick.”

No, nobody else
, I wanted to shout.
Who else would call after 10 p.m.?
I haven't gotten a call after 10 p.m.
in years!
Except for that one creepy student in 2011 and why bother Rafa with that? Instead of responding, I managed a sad little gurgling sound, which he politely ignored.

“I'm trying to do my laundry,” he said.

“Is this a first for you?” I was trying to get a handle on the conversation, so I overcompensated with sarcasm. If only my brain would stop picturing him in my house in my robe. Any robe. Or no robe. “Do you need me to talk you through separating the colors and the whites?”

Rafa was up for the challenge. “Hey, I know how to do laundry. Although, I admit, I've been a fluff 'n' fold guy for about the last decade.”

I pictured him walking out of a DC dry cleaners with an armful of blue suits and stacks of crisp white shirts and ironed Brooks Brothers boxers. “Fair enough. You're a busy man. You're entitled to fluff 'n' fold. What's the problem?”

“I can't seem to get the water to go into the machine. All the right buttons are pushed, but the water refuses to cooperate.”

I laughed. “Apparently you didn't get to page ten of the manual I left in the kitchen: Helpful Hints for Living in an Old House.”

“I only made it to page eight before the wax candles burned out.”

“You have to turn on the master water first, then you can run the washer. In the back of the washer, to the left, look for a green handle. Turn it a half turn and then wait like ten seconds. Then the water will fill when you push ‘on.'”

“That's convenient,” he replied, obviously not amused by my inefficient system and slightly embarrassed that he didn't figure out this simple system himself. “Can I ask why you just can't leave the handle in that position all the time?”

“Oh you can.” I paused for dramatic effect. “But then you wouldn't be able to run the shower. Laundry or shower, take your pick.” Please pick shower. Please pick shower.

I could hear him straining as he reached behind the washer. “I could put on my dirty clothes and wear them into the shower.”

My face flushed again. “That's another way to save time and resources.”

“Got it. Thanks. Anything I need to know about the dryer? Is it connected to the TV or the coffeemaker?”

“The dryer is an independent. I think that's what your people say. But don't overload it and don't mind the loud noises during
the final minute. It's possessed by a cat in heat. Seriously.” It's true. Almost weekly, I was startled by the high-pitched wailing that the dryer let out. “But feel free to dry your clothes and brew coffee at the same time.”

“Next time I'll consult the manual before calling.”

“I don't mind.” Really. There was a pause and I had to quell the urge to ask him about his day. Or tell him about mine. But it was 10:30 and the guy was doing laundry. He didn't want to hear about my life; he wanted to wash some white T-shirts, have a beer, and go to bed. “Call any time.”

Rafa paused. “Thanks, Elizabeth. I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing. Oh, and I'm not really wearing your robe.”

“I know. I am. Good night.” Sweet prince.