Elizabeth the First Wife (36 page)

Bumble nodded knowingly. “They're plotting some endorsement
strategy or something. That Hank is slick, and Rafa's smart enough to know he can't pass up an opportunity to connect with Hollywood. Ted will need to win some of them over, even though he's a Republican. Looks like this might be Rafa's last act before he heads back to DC.”

Breathe, breathe. “Oh, he's not staying on with the campaign here in California?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

“No, like I said before, he prefers policy to politics,” said Bumble. “He's a behind-the-scenes guy, making deals and working on legislation. He really doesn't care about slogans or the ground game. Plus I think he's a little sick of our family, and being isolated in your house hasn't helped. He started doing weird things, like planting stuff, and making gazpacho. He needs the city. He's going back before Congress goes into session.”

I must have let out a tiny groan because Bumble looked over at me. “Are you okay?”

“Just losing a housesitter, that's all.” And all hope of a romantic future.

“Hey, Steven's brother Sam is coming into town for a few weeks with his kids. Maybe they can stay there,” Sarah said. “I can't deal with three boys under five. I just can't.”

I envisioned my perfect August tomatoes as the weapons of choice for Sam's brood. No way. “Yeah. Maybe.”

On cue, Puck trotted over and nuzzled his nose against my hand, providing comfort and support. Bumble looked down. “I never really saw you as a dog person. You're not going to become one of those sad single people who send out Christmas cards with pictures of themselves and the dog, are you?”

Well, not if you say it like
that
.

The text from Rafa came in just as I was getting into bed: Let's meet in the park at the reading of the Declaration of Independence. Need to talk to you.

Maybe Bumble was wrong. Apparently he wasn't so sick of my family after all. At least, not the part with me in it.

“I'm glad we could squeeze this in. My wife marches in the parade with the Macaroni Noodle Band every year, and I don't want to miss her. She plays the clarinet, and this year, they're all wearing won ton costumes. Isn't that great?” Duff Miller was regaling my father and me over coffee in the lobby of the Ashland Springs Hotel, his voice tinged with excitement at the prospect of people dressed as pasta. The soft, warm colors of the grand lobby were a striking contrast to the red, white, and blue crowds outside gearing up for the Fourth of July, Ashland-style. Thousands already lined the street in anticipation of the homegrown parade, which featured every Little League team in the county, a large number of dogs in costumes, and floats sponsored by places like hair salons. It was a point of civic pride. “You've never seen a parade like Ashland's, Richard. Never. It's the best.”

We were, in fact, a family of parade snobs. I'm sure my father had never sat through what my mother would certainly call “a complete
free-for-all,” not when you're used to the majestic Rose Parade every New Year's Day. Instead of carefully constructed commercial floats lavished in flowers and corporate sponsorships and hand-chosen bands of hundreds, the Ashland parade was a hodge-podge of ordinary citizens, a smattering of musical instruments, and a variety of livestock and people in gorilla suits. Of course, we were too polite to point out the obvious: Decorated shopping carts don't exactly impress Pasadenans. Still, my father was enjoying reconnecting with his old friend, sharing memories and smoothing over any miscommunication, so he simply said, “I'm looking forward to it. Anne is saving us a seat.” Actually, he was headed right back up to his room to watch the women's finals from Centre Court.

I was just hugely relieved that Duff Miller wasn't going to charge me with academic fraud as a result of the trumped-up curriculum vitae my mother had sent along. Really, it could have been a very embarrassing and potentially career-ending situation, if Duff hadn't been such a good sport.