Elizabeth the First Wife (41 page)

“Look, it's my dad! He's here to watch Wimbledon, too!” I said in an unnaturally loud voice coupled with cartoonish hand gestures as I intercepted Rafa, bearer of lattes, in the front hall. Fortunately, he'd managed to shower, dress, and buy breakfast, so it looked like he was just arriving. I mouthed the words, “I'm so sorry,” as I took a coffee out of his hands and handed him his phone.

“You look beautiful,” Rafa whispered and kissed me lightly, then said for all in a three-block radius to hear, “Oh, great. I'm here to watch the finals, too. Had I known, I would have brought coffee for you, Dr. Lancaster.” Unlike my ex, Rafa was possibly the world's worst actor, but my clueless father didn't notice. He wouldn't be suspicious of Rafa's appearance at all. To him, it was perfectly normal to show up at the crack of dawn at somebody's house for possibly the last Nadal-Federer final ever.

“Rafa!” my father called out. “Good to see you. They're on serve in the first set. Elizabeth, I ran into Sarah on the way out of the hotel. She's going for a run and then she'll stop by afterward.” My father had made himself at home in the leather chair, bringing his own coffee and a single scone that he was already eating. Rafa parked himself on the couch, as if this had been the plan all along, so I flopped down next to him. “Oh, and Rafa, I don't know if you've heard, but I ran into Ted in the lobby this morning and we're, um, wings up at two.”

“It's wheels up, Dad.”

“That makes more sense,” he said, not taking his eyes from the TV. “Oh, what a forehand. Let's go, Roger. Your mother insists on
driving home with the Girls, Elizabeth, but I'll be on the plane.”

“So will I,” Rafa said, because there was no getting around it. He reached over and squeezed my hand, then quickly let go.

It wasn't how I pictured spending my last few hours with Rafa, both of us watching tennis with my dad as the rest of my family filtered in over the course of the morning, first Sarah, then Maddie, soon followed by Dylan, and, eventually, my mother and the Girls, who announced they had stopped by to leave me several half-bottles of wine and boxes of Triscuits before they hit the road, but then they decided to keep the snacks and wine for the trip home, because God forbid my mother should drive more than a half hour without provisions. There'd be no chance to talk to Rafa about what next, to answer the question, “So what are we doing here?” No walking the dog together or reading the
New York Times
in bed after who knows what. Instead, there'd be conversation, cross-talk, and noise, including lively commentary on Federer's ability to look good in everything from tennis whites to black tie, a breakdown of the gossip from last night's party, and a pledge from me to send along contact information for the cast, particularly Taz, so the Girls could send thank-you notes. More coffee and pastries arrived along with FX, who looked slightly put out when he spotted Rafa in his spot on the couch, but he recovered when my father extended his hand in greeting. Instead of a languid parting with deep silences and longheld gazes, we'd manage a group goodbye after a four-set match, and Rafa would dash to check out of his hotel and make the plane after several texts from Ted that they were moving up the departure time an hour. I wanted promises and plans. Instead, I got a text from the airport: Skype soon.

No, that morning wasn't at all how I would have scripted our first, and only, morning together, but then again, nothing about the last few months had been quite what I expected. My work, my family, my relationships—all had taken turns in directions I'd never have predicted six months ago, which was, I guess, the real reason
I agreed to come to Ashland in the first place, to make something happen. Well, that and new countertops.

Maybe the chaos of the morning was a sign, a sign that maybe this time, I was on the right track. As I'd heard dozens of times that summer:
The course of true love never did run smooth
.

Elizabeth I

WHO SHE IS:
Queen of England and Ireland from 1558 to 1603.

NICKNAMES:
The Virgin Queen, Gloriana, Good Queen Bess.

WHY SHE IS RIGHTEOUS:
Daughter of Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII, reviled by her father and later abused by her (sort of) stepfather, she nonetheless became the Queen of England. She overcame a prison stay to rule with an iron fist and usher in a new age of wealth and discovery. Noted for heeding the advice of trusted advisors, enriching her country, and founding a precursor to the Church of England. Enjoyed Shakespeare's lofty opinion of her goodness and purity. Not every ruler gets his or her own “age.”

OFFICIAL MOTTO:
Video et taceo
(I see, and say nothing).

UNOFFICIAL MOTTO:
A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

WHAT TO STEAL FROM HER:

Supported the arts and artists like Shakespeare, Spenser, and Marlowe

Didn't let the fact that she never produced an heir get in the way of a good reign

Relied on makeup, wigs, and that giant neck ruff to hide the signs of aging

Proved that men and women can be friends by keeping the love of her life, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, on as an advisor long after the romance ended

WHAT TO SKIP:
A noted anti-Catholic, she imprisoned and executed her sister, Mary Queen of Scots, as well as many others, on the basis of religion.

HER WORDS TO LIVE BY:
“Though the sex to which I belong is considered weak, you will nevertheless find me a rock that bends to no wind.”

GIRLS' WEEKEND:
Vegas with Angela Merkel and Betty White.

“So, Elizabeth, who are you taking as your date on the big night?” The question came from Candy McKenna but inspired a roomful of well-accessorized women to turn their eyes on me. Like so many times before, my sister jumped in before I had a chance to answer. This time I was grateful for the surrogate. My anxiety level about the “big night” was sky high, thanks to questions about my date, my dress, and my speech, in that order.