Elizabeth the First Wife (28 page)

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 yet 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.

“Hey.” FX had snuck up on me and stood behind me. I was startled, both by the fact that he was here so suddenly and that I could hear his voice over the din. “I've been waiting for you.”

I colored slightly.
Really?
“I went home to walk the dog.” And to remove several layers of fleece and the thick socks I'd put on under my Uggs to survive the outdoor performance in comfort. For the party, I exchanged my outerwear for a cashmere wrap, courtesy of Bumble and Sarah, Christmas 2010. I'm not sure who I was trying to impress, but the night felt filled with possibilities.

Now, with FX resting his head on my shoulder, I was particularly glad I'd made time for the wardrobe upgrade. I turned, putting us
face-to-face, and felt that déjà vu again. But this time I knew why. I had been here before. “That was fantastic. You were fantastic.”

His eyes were brimming, not filled with joy like onstage but with a deeper emotion. It wasn't what I expected, and the intensity of the moment shot through my whole body.

“I couldn't have done it without you.” FX brushed an imaginary strand of hair from my face, leaving his rough left hand on my neck. He bent down and brushed my lips with his. Then he worked a little
Midsummer
magic.
“O, methinks how slow this old moon wanes. She lingers my desires.”

I was sunk by the Shakespeare. He kissed me deeper and his right hand wrapped around my waist while his left slid down my back. Oh, he felt so good, it felt so good. It had been such a long time since, well, since anything had felt like this.

He pulled back, but not too far back. His hands were still drifting slowly down my backside. There was that lime and mint smell again. I smoothed his black T-shirt with my hands, something I'd been dying to do since the day he walked into my classroom.
What was I thinking?
He nodded his head toward the door of the private bathhouse and switched on his Oberon.
“Come on. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows. Where the oxslips and the nodding violet grows, quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweetmusk roses and with eglantine. …”