Elizabeth the First Wife (23 page)

Now I understood why dogs have been so valued across the span of history: Nobody was ever as happy to see me as Puck was when I arrived home. I was dejected and bitter; he was ecstatic and nonjudgmental. He'd been holed up in the crate we bought the first day he arrived and was clearly ready for company, food, and a little walk. His tail wagged like crazy as he slipped in and out and around my legs. Frankly, his unjustified but unbridled love was exactly what I needed. I hugged him with abandon.

Well, this is really working out, I thought as I let Puck out the back door and opened a can of dog food. I'm home alone with a stray dog while my niece has already worked her way into the inner circle. Then it dawned on me that having Maddie on the inside would be incredibly helpful. I couldn't sit through every rehearsal. Taz's disdain made that clear. But Maddie could. Everybody loves somebody who's willing to go for sandwiches. At least now I'd have some eyes and ears in the room.

Of course, I'd have to come clean with Maddie and give her the scoop on FX's concerns and my situation vis-à-vis Taz. After watching her handle herself over the past week, I was pretty sure she could keep my status as an outsider a secret from everyone in Pasadena. It wasn't quite the same as being in the room, but having her there was as close as I was going to get. I let Puck back in the house. He looked up at me hopefully, and I rewarded him with dinner. It was nice to be needed.

One trip to the Ashland Food Co-op and I felt like a new person. Puck and I made the six-block walk together with our reusable shopping bags. First, I was relieved to see that no one had ripped a tag with my phone number off the bottom of the lost-dog poster Maddie had hung up on the community board next to the flyer with the headline “Global Peace through Inner Peace.” (The healer promised to align your chakras, enhance harmonic resonance, and donate all fees to support women in war zones. Win, win, win.) I was beginning to think that Puck had arrived through a spiritual portal and intended to hasten my own chakra alignment. Every time I saw his tail wag, I felt my own personal harmonic resonance.

I tied him outside to a post, next to the water bowl the co-op provided, and dashed into the store. I went for the basics: local produce, a sampling of soft cheeses courtesy of the goats of the Rogue River Valley, and a few prepared foods, including quinoa nut loaf. Nut loaf!

Back in my tidy yellow kitchen, I was reheating the co-op's local summer squash with bagna cauda and fried capers. Normally I wasn't a fan of prepared foods, being slightly suspicious of foodborne illnesses. But Ashland was so clean, and a bagna cauda—a “hot bath” of olive oil, anchovies, and garlic—struck me as exactly the sort of thing that a single girl with dog could eat without worrying about
breath issues. And who can say no to fried capers?

June in Oregon meant long days and lovely evenings, like this one, with its pinkish sunset glow on the mountains, moderate temperature, and night-blooming jasmine just beginning to burst. Now that it appeared the rehearsal period would be, umm, less intense than I'd anticipated, and my evenings might be free, I'd make plans to take in the other OSF shows already up. But there'd be time enough to get tickets and immerse myself in culture later. After the stress of the day, I was happy to jump into my cozy clothes, pour a glass of wine, and study the Food Co-op event calendar. (Yes! A mixer at the end of the month!)

My cell phone rang and Rafa's name popped up on the screen. More questions about laundry! I took a deep breath, waited another ring, and answered, trying to simulate a “just picking this up and not knowing who's on the other end” quality in my voice. “Hello. This is Elizabeth.”

“Hey, it's Rafa. Sorry to bother you. Is this a bad time?”

“No, I'm just cooking dinner.”
Too domestic?
Too domestic.

Or maybe not. Surprisingly Rafa responded, “Me, too. It's just that I can't turn on the stove. I keep turning the knobs and nothing happens. And I checked your manual. Nothing in there at all about the stove.”

I defended myself. “I thought you weren't ever going to turn on my old stove.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I discovered that no restaurant in Pasadena delivers, except Dominos. You live one mile from civilization, but restaurants act like it's Timbuktu.”

The shock in his voice made me laugh. “That's true. It's not New York or DC. There aren't sesame noodles a phone call away.” I relaxed into the conversation. “You can go pick up food. You're in California. We drive.”

I could tell he was wandering around the kitchen, getting out pots and putting away dishes.

“Here's the thing, I don't really feel like getting in my car at the end of the day and standing in line somewhere. Why engage with people when I can just stay here?”

A chill ran through me. That's exactly the sort of thing I say. Once I'm home in my casita, I never feel like leaving. “Then you're going to have to learn to turn on my stove. Do you want me to talk you through it?” I pictured him in his gleaming white shirt approaching my 1952 four-burner-plus-griddle O'Keefe & Merritt range like it was a bucking bronco. But this was no bronco—it needed a gentle touch. “Approach with caution,” I said.

“Can I just ask, what's the deal? Why can't I just turn the knobs and see the flames, like every other stove in America?” Oh, Mr. Type A was a little impatient.

“It has a double pilot system. That's what my grandmother always told me. One pilot is lit all the time, so you don't smell gas. But to fire up the burners, you need to hand light the second pilot. Not exactly professional grade.”

“Or really that safe.”

“That's true. And don't get me started on the fact that the oven doesn't hold heat. Do not attempt Christmas cookies; you'll be disappointed. When I re-do the kitchen, the stove goes. Somebody will want it to restore, but I need to move on. Our relationship is too unstable.” Maybe I should write a relationship book about appliances instead of Shakespeare? I was definitely more skilled at working with inanimate objects. But I kept that to myself as I gave the instructions. “Okay, find the long-handled lighter in the drawer on the left next to the stove. Grab it and take a big step back.”

“That sounds ominous.” It was. I didn't want singed eyebrows or other disfiguring accidents on my conscience.

I guided Rafa through the procedure, carefully describing the secret opening of the mysterious second pilot. He managed just fine, thanking me for the excellent verbal directions. He sounded as if he was about to sign off, but I wasn't quite ready to say goodbye. “So
what's for dinner?”

He balked a second, then admitted, “I picked some of your tomatoes and the basil. I'm making a simple uncooked sauce for pasta. And one of your eggplants looked ready, so I thought I'd sauté it up in some olive oil. Want to see the eggplant? It's a beauty.”

I thought he was kidding, about his cooking skills and my vegetables, so I played along. “Oh, yeah, what a gorgeous eggplant! And is that Kraft Mac & Cheese for dessert?”

Rafa wasn't kidding. “You don't believe me? I'll show you the eggplant and my skills. I never said I couldn't cook, I said I didn't cook. Big difference. What's your Skype handle?”

Total panic shot through me on every level. First of all, I had the lamest Skype name of all times, created during an academic conference when it seemed charming and quaint. And second, I was wearing a very unflattering mock turtleneck and a scrunchie from the mid-'90s that was not for public consumption. But I didn't want the guy to think I was intimidated by a little video chatting. “Okay, give me five minutes while I…”
Apply lipstick. Throw on camisole and V-neck sweater. Switch to white wine to prevent teeth staining. Secure flattering lighting in kitchen. Ditch scrunchie for good
. “… log onto my laptop. I do need to check out your eggplant. I mean, my eggplant.”

Then I confessed my Skype name: Elizabeth.The.First.

“That is huge.” I was, of course, talking about the eggplant, but I could have been talking about any aspect of the evening: I was video chatting with an attractive single man, who was in his trademark white dress shirt but had rolled up the sleeves to expose some fine-looking forearms. I sprayed on a shot of Coco perfume, an oldie but goodie, for my own sort of
courage liquide
, as the French would say. And I used dry shampoo for the first time in twenty years and it worked like crazy. My hair looked fantastic. Mental note: Get
more Pssssst. But even in stop-motion Skype, I could tell Rafa had a curious look on his face, so I tried to make it clear I was talking about eggplant. “The eggplant. It's so purple and ripe. You've been there less than a week and already the vegetables are growing bigger for you than for me. What's your secret?”

“I sing to them at night when the moon is full,” he said in a fake Euro accent, as he picked up my large knife and prepared to slice the eggplant. He had positioned his laptop on the counter, allowing me a wide-angle shot of the kitchen, his haul from my garden, and his workstation. I wish I had a slightly closer view of him, but I took what I could get. “Actually, I wander around the garden talking on my cell phone to potential supporters. I think the plants think I'm talking to them. They like the attention. Did you have any final thoughts for the eggplant before it meets its demise?”

“Just make it quick. I don't want him to feel any pain.” And Rafa did just that, proving he had some knife skills to go along with those forearms. He salted the slices to draw out the water and fired up the olive oil and garlic. I liked watching him cook in my kitchen. Really. “How's your work going?”

“It's early, but I think your brother-in-law is going to be the next governor of California. A lot of influential people on both sides of the aisle respect him. That's a good sign.” He blotted the eggplant slices with a paper towel and laid them in the pan to brown. I could hear the sizzle. He opened a bottle of red wine, no fear of teeth staining, and looked into the screen again. “How are things there?”

I almost punted with a pat answer but decided to take advantage of a political strategist as long as I had one on the line. I figured if Rafa could manage a ravenous press, a hostile environment in Washington, and my sister Bumble, he could help me manage Taz. So, emboldened by distance and Viognier, I asked, “In politics, when you have to win over somebody, what do you do?”

“Identify what you have to offer them first.” He didn't ask for details, just went straight for results. I appreciated that, but I didn't
quite understand his point.

“What do you mean?”

“I'm assuming you want to win them over because you need something from them, like an agreement or information or access. You're not trying to win them over because you want to be liked or get votes to be prom queen, right?” He expertly turned the eggplant slices in the pan and moved on to testing his pasta while I thought about his question. He stared into the screen, waiting for my answer.

Well, yes, I did want to be liked and I would have enjoyed being prom queen, but those weren't my immediate needs. Rafa was right. I needed access to do my job. “So, you're suggesting I figure out what I have to offer before I can get what I need out of the, let's call him, unwilling, party?”

“Yes. What can you provide that nobody else can? So the unwilling party wants to work with you. Trust is a two-way street, and sometimes you have to be the one in the crosswalk first.”