Elizabeth the First Wife (31 page)

Anne Lancaster was dressed for battle in what I believe Eileen Fisher calls “soft suiting.” Surrounded by the Girls, Funseeker Mary Pat and Dependable Jane, my mother was already commanding the conversation. And even though it was only four in the afternoon, the Girls were already drinking Modest White Wine. (The trio had upgraded from Cheap White Wine about a decade ago.) As I approached their makeshift party on the deck outside their rooms at the Anne Hathaway Garden Suites, I was glad of two things: that I had taken the time to blow-dry my hair, and that I was bearing goat cheese. The former meant that my mother couldn't comment on my need to “pull myself together.” With regards to the latter, I've found that good hors d'oeuvres can diffuse almost any tense situation. And if all else failed, I'd brought along Puck. I squared my shoulders, a new pregame ritual I'd picked up from FX, and called out, “Hello!”

“Cheers!” my mother responded, affecting a quasi-British accent,
a common side effect of staying in a B&B named after Anne Hathaway.

There was excitement and kisses all around, Mary Pat and Jane hugging me with genuine affection. Because my mother was an only child and my father's family didn't believe in frequent contact, Mary Pat and Jane were like aunts to me, warm and familiar. It was good to see them. They had been stalwarts at graduations, birthday parties, and family weddings. They'd been there to snap pictures on prom night when I'd donned a Jessica McClintock emerald green pouf dress I'd spotted in the late, great
Sassy
magazine. I have almost no memory of my date, David Something, but I remember Jane and Mary Pat fawning over my dyed-to-match shoes
just like the ad
. They had hosted a rip-roaring You Won the Nobel Prize Party with Swedish-themed food and drink, and even my father danced to ABBA. And about twenty minutes after I married FX and realized how furious my mother was going to be, I'd called Jane to seek her advice. She ran the situation past Mary Pat and got right back to me.

“Rip it off like a Band-Aid,” Jane said. “Tell your mother right now, the minute you hang up with me. Agree to a lovely cocktail party in your honor over New Year's that Mary Pat can cater, and then go enjoy your honeymoon. I'll swing by your mother's in about a half hour. With martinis.” I followed her advice to the letter.

After the dust cleared and my mother was speaking to me again, Mary Pat sent a beautiful silver tray from Greetings, the Pasadena standard bearer for wedding gifts, and Jane sent Tiffany crystal candlesticks. I still use both items regularly, as they graciously urged me to keep the gifts after the divorce.

The Girls brought a sense of fun to every event they attended, and I was hopeful they could keep my mother in check. They seemed at home already. Dependable Jane cooed about the magnificent red and gold OSF banners that hung on Main Street and the inn's scented bath amenities. Mary Pat went to work setting out my basket of farmers' market finds: the herbed goat cheese, raspberries, bread,
basil, and several varieties of tomatoes. They chattered on about the two-day drive, their overnight stay in Redding, and the effect the altitude was having on their appearances. (I hated to break it to them, but I didn't think the extra thousand feet of Ashland altitude was the cause for their lackluster Pasadena wash-and-sets.) I had to say, though, that even my mother seemed to be floating in particularly high spirits, and it wasn't just the chenin blanc.

“I can't wait to hold my own press conference,” she said, eyes sparkling at the thought of making a statement on behalf of the family. I wasn't sure that the two phone calls Bumble had set up really constituted a press conference, but I didn't want to burst her bubble.

Having been the wind beneath my father's wings for so long, it was clear my mother loved getting a solo mission, Anne Lancaster's own personal Stockholm 2008. While I was suspicious that my mother and her friends were really the best defense against a political takedown, I trusted Bumble. My goal was to lay low and get my mother back to Pasadena as soon as possible with no further damage to Maddie's reputation, or Ted's. Just then, my mother noticed Puck, who'd been sniffing around the other side of the courtyard. “Who's this adorable thing?”

“My dog.” All eyes were on Puck, and he was thrilled to get some attention, greeting the ladies with a wagging tail and wiggles. They cooed in response. I explained that he was a stray that found me instead of vice versa. There was unanimous approval, though my mother did express some concern that not all men love dogs. But Dependable Jane, the group's needlepoint-pillow philosopher, retorted, “Dogs come into our lives for a reason.”

So true! One dog and my mother had turned into a pussycat. Not a single comment on my clothes. Or how pale I looked and was I getting enough iron. Extra string cheese for Puck tonight. He'd earned it.

Once the dog was sufficiently praised, we settled around
the table to discuss the next course of action. My mother took out a leather-bound monogrammed book that served as her calendar, address book, and notes to self. The pages were jammed with articles she had clipped, business cards, and dental appointment reminders. She was not in any hurry to go digital, but she was quick to assess blame. “Let me say, Elizabeth, that no one thinks this mess is all your fault.” The Girls nodded. And I nearly choked on a cherry tomato.

All my fault? I wasn't the one with the radio show or the political ambitions! My eyes teared up a bit as I tried to work the fruit down my throat. My mother misread my blocked airway for emotion. “Don't cry, dear. We're here for you. We know you didn't intend on ruining Ted's career. Let's face it, whenever FX is involved, it's not good for you. But we'll fix it. We'll go to the show. We'll love it. I'll tell the reporter how wonderful the play is and how Maddie is thriving and Ted and Bumble are wonderful parents, and no one will blame you anymore.”

My mother's pseudo-sympathetic version of the situation was harder to hear than Bumble's sarcasm. “Can I get a glass of that wine, Mary Pat?”

Commander Anne flipped a page in her notepad, revealing her well-ordered checklist. “Now, have you arranged for us to meet the cast after the performance tonight? Bumble needs a photo of us all backstage. She's hired a local photographer, I believe.”

I was completely prepared for this. In the middle of the night, after I'd spent a good hour lying in bed analyzing the Rafa text (he was busy, stressed; he'll come around, right?), I'd moved onto Misconceptions I'd Allow to Go on for the Sake of Self-preservation. The idea that I was intimately involved in a smash-hit play was one such misconception. Sure, Bumble and Rafa knew the truth, but there was no reason to come clean with my mother. She'd be gone in thirty-six hours tops, and I could continue with the rest of my summer.

I responded, “Here's what I thought. Maddie is really close to the
cast, and she's very proud of her work as a production assistant. She secured you three great seats for tonight, and I gave her the task of arranging the meet-and-greet after the performance. It'll be a chance for you to see how much she's grown and matured. I think observing her in her role will help inform your statements to the press.” I was borrowing the language that Rafa used on the conference call. My mother was hanging on every word. “I'll be there, of course, and we'll get our multigenerational photo.”

The idea was roundly applauded. My status as advisor to the famous director was preserved. This wasn't going to be so bad. Funseeker Mary Pat stood up and expertly refilled the four glasses, draining the bottle and immediately opening another. I added, because I could, “Mom, you might want to slow down on the vino. It could be a long day.”

My mother's nose was a touch out of joint.

When the phone rang and Rafa's name popped up on the screen, my heart did a little flip-flop.
He was calling me!
See, we could work through this minor misunderstanding. I let it ring two more times before I answered, buying time to compose myself. Deep breath. “Hello, this is Elizabeth.”

“And this is Bumble, Miss Sexy and Sultry. Who were you expecting on the other end of the phone? Wait, Rafa?”

“I didn't know who it was,” I lied. “I'm a little out of breath. Running home to get changed before tonight.” Actually, I was sitting in the front seat of my car checking Wimbledon results, responding to a text from Pierce DeVine about countertops, and drinking a cup of strong coffee to counteract the effects of the late-afternoon wine. “Why would Rafa call me? Is something wrong at the house?”

“I don't think so, other than this mess. The house looks fine,” Bumble said, giving me nada about Rafa. I had no doubt her list
of action items was long and her patience for small talk was short. “What's Mom's status? Is she up to the task?”

Now the whole family was using military jargon. Well, I'd buck the trend. “She's grand. I just left them at the B&B. She and the Girls are freshening up, as they would say, and then they'll head over to the play. Believe me, she's ready for her closeup.”

“Well, keep her contained, Elizabeth. I really think we'll be able to ride this out. Ron and Ben only did one segment today on Ted. And Fourth of July weekend is coming up. People don't care about this stuff over a holiday. Ted's confident, I'm confident. But I think it's scared Rafa off.”

Again with the irrational physical reaction to the name. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he's really Ted's chief of staff, a policy guy, and this aspect of politics is not really his thing.” Oh good, nothing to do with me, and yet I was a little disappointed my name hadn't come up in their discussions. “Ted was hoping Rafa could be persuaded to run the campaign because of his strong California connection. But I don't think so now. Rafa can't wait to get back to DC after this.”

I took this news personally, even though I had no reason to assume that any percentage of Rafa's decision was because of my lapse in disclosure. Is that a thing, lapse of disclosure? It should be. “Well, maybe he'll change his mind.”

“Hmmm.”

“I am sorry, Bumble. I had no idea anything like this could happen.”

Bumble softened for the first time in twenty-four hours. “It's not your fault. I begged you to take Maddie. And really, if it wasn't this issue, those vultures would have found something else to attack. They can't stand Ted. Remember Slategate? How ridiculous was that? Ted can't win with these two. Even more reason to let this thing go. Once you start feeding their hate machine, they'll never stop. How is Maddie?”

“Righteous. Really. She may not be Lancaster flesh and blood, but some of our appreciation for martyrdom seems to have rubbed off. She's ready to go up in flames for what she believes.” I told Bumble about the line of Free Maddie T-shirts that Maddie and Dylan were designing last night at Sage Cottage. A quote from Shakespeare's
Cymbeline
was to be emblazoned on the front:
Boldness be my friend
.

“What exactly is it that she believes in so deeply?”

“That she should be allowed to stay in Oregon with her boyfriend for the rest of the summer.”

“Everybody needs a cause. Okay, I'll let you go. Check your e-mail for names and contact information in case the cell phone connections are bad and you have to call them back,” Bumble instructed. “Remember to tell Mom to stick to the script.”

“What script?”

“The script we gave her about how much she enjoyed the show, how important exposure to the arts is, blah, blah, blah. The script!” Down-to-business Bumble was back. Her tone suggested I was a low-level intern who was also hard of hearing.
Dear Bumble, thanks for treating me with such contempt. I've learned a valuable lesson from this and I'm sure someday I'll be able to identify what that lesson is. Your sister, Elizabeth
. I could never work for Bumble.

Still, I seized the opportunity to improve my standing in the eyes of Team Ted. At no point in my mother's review of the plan did she mention a script. I was worried Anne Lancaster was going rogue. “You'd better e-mail me the script, too. I'll make sure she sticks to the talking points tonight.” Then, adopting the language of my mission, I signed off, “Over and out.”