Elizabeth the First Wife (7 page)

“You act like I'm suggesting she fly off to Timbuktu. It's just that you could be so much more…never mind. I'm sorry I mentioned it.”

“As a matter of fact, I got a fantastic job offer this week to work in Ashland all summer with a top-notch director and cast on a very exciting new production of
Midsummer
. And I'm in discussions to write a book. I have an agent who's very interested.” I regretted my words a nanosecond after they were out. Why did I weaken?

My father perked up and my mother looked about ready to burst. “How wonderful!” Anne Lancaster was on the offensive already.

I could see the wheels spinning inside her head. This was a month's worth of Hanging Teases to use while gossiping with friends at her salon.
I suppose you heard with whom Elizabeth is working this summer? I assume you're familiar with the Taz Buchanan production of
Midsummer
in Ashland? You know my daughter Elizabeth has the book coming out?

“Let's get Ursula to bring us some champagne!” she announced, waving over the server with the grandest of gestures.

Yes. Let's.

“What you need is a husband or a dog,” my sister Sarah offered the next day while tossing her yoga mat into the back of her Volvo.
Our weekly Saturday-afternoon class at Yoga Haus had managed to fully relax her and fully rile me up. I'd filled her in on the FX situation and the aftermath. “You need a distraction so Mom doesn't focus on your work. Bumble and I have other people in our lives that she can criticize, so it's like a career-discussion buffer. She never comments on my work choices because. …”

“Because she's so busy commenting on the twins' footwear choices,” I finished. “Or the fact that your children attend an inferior version of Hogwarts.”

Sarah laughed. “Exactly. Sometimes I do that stuff on purpose to throw her off. Like the paper napkins at family dinners. I know that makes her nuts, but I do it anyway so she doesn't talk about my mediocre cooking.” Sarah had the right amount of perspective. I felt I was losing mine on almost all fronts. “You know, you don't have to go to Ashland just because you panicked and told Mom and Dad that you were. You are a grownup, Elizabeth.”

That was the problem. Ever since FX had shown up uninvited and put the Ashland offer on the table, I felt my emotional age regress to about twenty-two. An age, I might add, at which I made some spectacularly bad decisions, like getting married. The outburst at lunch with my parents was just another example of my maturity regression. I hadn't felt the need to prove myself to my mother in years, and then all of a sudden, boom! Look at me! I'm going to Ashland. I'm writing a book! What was next? A repeat of the Rachel haircut?

“What do you think I should do?” I asked with all sincerity. Sarah always had good solid advice. She was a good-solid-advice machine. Sign the divorce papers and come home, she'd told me. And that's exactly what I did. Teach what you love wherever you can get work, she'd said. The next month, I landed a gig at PCC teaching Shakespeare. Stop drinking all that diet soda or you'll pay for it in twenty years. I switched to green tea and have never felt better. Sarah would know what I should do.

“About Mom? Or FX?”

“FX.”

“You said you'd already decided not to do it, then you had lunch with Mom. So you've made your decision, right?”

Had I? I had, but it didn't feel quite certain anymore. When I told my parents about my mostly fictional groundbreaking
Midsummer/book
deal, I'd failed to mention FX. As a result, I'd started to get excited about the prospect of actually working on a groundbreaking Shakespeare production and possibly getting a book deal. It all sounded so good in the FX-free version that I felt my resolve wavering.

“Well. …”

“Elizabeth, if you want to go to Ashland, go to Ashland. You're a totally different person now than you were when you lost your mind and married your college boyfriend. You're a professor, your students love you, you have tons of friends and family who care about you. You can handle FX.” Sarah rattled her keys in her signature I've-got-to-go-and-cure-cancer move, signaling the end of the conversation.

“So you think I should do it? Take the job and go to Ashland?”

“I don't think you're as vulnerable as you think you are.” See, there was that super-solid Sarah advice. So I felt compelled to confess, “I had a dream last night and FX was in it. And he was naked.”

“Oh, that's not good. Maybe you should just stay home and get a dog.”

There were two packages at my front door when I got home, which wasn't unusual due to my Etsy addiction. But both of the boxes appeared to be hand delivered, which made me suspicious. Ever since my short fascination with all things Unabomber in college, my delight over unexpected mail was forever changed. I approached with caution.

Nothing was ticking or emitting a pungent odor, so I decided to bring them inside to extend the opening process. I enjoy practicing delayed gratification whenever I have the chance, and this seemed like the perfect occasion. The sun was setting, signaling another Saturday night alone. If I milked the gift-opening process, it could practically be considered a date. I made the most of my post-yoga glow, brewed a cup of tea, and poured a glass of wine as backup. I turned on some music and found my kitchen shears, though the ribbons looked too pretty to cut.

The first box was metallic silver with a pure white bow and a small card tucked under the ribbon. I opened it slowly. Let's light up the stage. Come to Ashland. – – FX. Also in the envelope was his agent's card again, as if I'd lost the number.

Inside the box was a beautiful hand-blown votive in a deep rose color with accent stripes of orange. Clearly, the votive was one of a kind, as evidenced by the signature on the bottom. The artist had even included a tea light. I dug some matches out of my junk drawer and lit it immediately. The votive glowed, throwing long pink shadows on my walls.

FX was wooing me. I liked it. In a professional sense, of course. But dash-dash FX? What did that mean? In a professional sense, of course.

I turned my attention to the larger, rectangular package and got excited when I saw the small logo in the corner: PDV in embossed gold. What could Pierce DeVine be sending me? My mind raced as I carefully untied the miles of gold ribbon. Antique tea towels? Heirloom tomato seeds? A photo album of himself? Unfortunately, none of the above. It was his estimate for the work.

And it was astounding.

Like fancy-sports-car astounding.

But underneath the estimate were his drawings of what my little casa would look like after it received the Pierce DeVine treatment. And those, too, were astounding. Just what I'd asked for, only better,
because it was impeccable and rendered in three dimensions. A tasteful addition, a few opened walls, and a new window to look out over my garden. Plus, the almighty dishwasher I longed for. He'd sketched in my furniture, artwork, even the antique quilt. In a short note, he wrote: We will make La Casita de Girasole bloom. You'll never want to leave home. As it should be. XOXO PDV

Ah, as it should be, PDV. Pierce had managed to capture my vision completely.

All for the price of a luxury automobile.

I went through the drawings again and again by the light of the rose-colored candle. By now, I'd settled onto the couch and moved onto the wine. I wanted to live in those drawings, to grow old in those drawings. My life would be a Nancy Meyers movie, and I'd age as gracefully as Meryl Streep. I'd spend convivial evenings in my kitchen with my attractive family and friends, who were also aging well. We'd cook elaborate meals and drink wine out of oversized goblets. We'd have erudite conversations and listen to Mozart, even though I really preferred music with words. Maybe FX would co-star in my Nancy Meyers movie, as the charming ex-husband who forever carries a torch for me. And because I was so grounded, like Meryl, I could handle his attention and still attract a swarm of charming gentlemen callers. Life was good in those drawings.

I deserved to live in those drawings. I deserved that dishwasher, that life.

So I picked up the phone and did what I had to do to make that happen: compromise my integrity and ignore the gnawing feeling in my gut.

I called FX's agent and left a message. I wanted to set a meeting for Monday.