Elizabeth the First Wife (16 page)

The delay gave me an opening. “Hey, I have an extra set of house keys in my car. I was going to give them to Bumble tonight to pass along, but I may as well turn them over to you now,” I said, hoping that my legs didn't give out under the weight of his gaze.

Please let me get to the car without tripping
.

The small white Porta Viaggio bag, once home to a spectacular roasted eggplant panini, now held a set of keys, a big bunch of basil, the first of my Early Girls, and the last of my artichokes. They were all intended for Bumble, but I felt the fruits of my labor could be used for a higher purpose. I handed over the bag to Rafa. “The keys are in here, plus some things from my garden. If you're going home, take the artichokes to your grandmother. If she's still alive, that is.” Ah, a lovely gesture made awkward by the specter of death.

“She is and she'll love these. Thank you.” Oh, he had wonderful manners. “And again, thanks for letting me stay in your house.”

“I'll leave a few pages of notes in the kitchen. Local restaurants, instructions for, you know, stuff.” The small-talk portion of the evening was not going well, so I tried a different tactic. “What kind of farm does your family own? Beef?”

“I think beef farms are called ranches,” he managed to say without completely cutting me down to size.

“That is true.”
Beef farm?
I shouldn't be allowed to talk to grown men. I should stick to students and actors, period. “Does your family own a cattle ranch? You said your family is Argentine. Your people are known for their beef, aren't they?”

“They are. But the story is that when my great-great-greatgrandfather moved here in the 1880s, he worked on a ranch for a week and hated the stench, so he found a little plot of land, filed for it under the Homestead Act, and started a honey farm. He was a beekeeper. And we still keep bees. But over the years, we expanded and now we grow lilacs in the spring and pears in the fall.”

That was no beef farm; that was Marie Antoinette's playground! I was enchanted. “You grow lilacs and pears and honey. It must smell delicious!”

“It does. You should visit sometime during lilac season. You can smell the blossoms as soon as you drive into town.” Was he actually inviting me to a weekend in Lilacville? I bet he'd look amazing in a lilac dress shirt. “They have bus tours you can pick up from the Glendale Galleria.”

Apparently not. “Maybe someday. You know, I've planted lilacs three years in a row at my house, but they never make it. I think it gets too warm at night here.”

“Maybe. They do prefer nights that get below freezing and days with warm sun. But lilacs are also very temperamental. Even if the environment is right, they still may not thrive. They need to be in just the right place. But they're worth the trouble. They're much more ambrosial than cattle.” Rafa smiled, showing off his large vocabulary. “Dulce Viento.”

“‘Sweet wind'?” I was putting my limited Spanish to work. I spent twelve years studying French at the Eastmont School for Girls, because, really, who speaks Spanish in Southern California?

“Yes, Sweet Wind. Dulce Viento. That's the name of my family's farm.” Rafa was leaning against a modest rental car, but it might as well have been a white steed. His Droid bravado was gone, replaced by humility highlighted by perfect teeth. Sweet Mother of God. I was pretty much ready to throw in the towel on theater, teaching, and good sushi and head to the homestead when Bumble came barreling out of the house with a dramatically wrapped re-gift. “Wait, don't leave without a token of Congressional power! Plus I threw in fifty bucks—that's enough, right?”

The moment was over. Bumble thrust the package into his hands and headed back into the house to be the hostess with the mostest. The chief of staff responded to his boss's wife's back. “That's very generous. Anna will love this. Thanks, Bumble.”

Yes, teens do love collectible Christmas items in May, I thought, but I held my tongue and followed Rafa's all-business example. Clearly he wanted to get on the road. “Let me know if you have any questions about the house. Otherwise, mi casa es su casa. Good luck this summer.”

Just then my phone buzzed. It was a text from FX. I tried not to look, but it was like a siren song, and I took my eyes off Rafa for a second. I glanced down to read the words: Wait till you hear Taz's concept. Mind-blowing. See u Monday.

Mind-blowing?

I looked up from my phone to see Mr. Manners waiting for me to finish being distracted. “Everything okay?”

“FX. Text. Apparently, the production's going to be mindblowing.” There was no explaining.

Rafa wrapped up the conversation neatly. “Sounds important, so I'll say goodbye. I see you're busy. Best of luck on your work, too.”

And then, like a sweet wind, he was gone.

The Macbeths FROM THE SCOTTISH PLAY

HER:
Loving, supportive wife with unfortunate ambitious streak. Wants to stand by her man, as long as he carries out the murder she plans and becomes king of Scotland. Known for her meticulous attention to detail. Wracked with guilt.

HIM:
A brave soldier and powerful man prone to self-doubt and vulnerable to prophecies from witches. Goes to great lengths to make the Missus happy. Wife accuses him of being “too full of the milk of human kindness,” but that changes.

RELATIONSHIP HISTORY
Literature's original power couple. A happy, lusty marriage that gets way off track when one atrocity leads to another in their desire to rule Scotland. In the end, a lot of people die, including both of them.

BEST MOMENT:
Lady Macbeth calls on the evil spirits to “unsex” her so she can commit murder like a guy. Haven't we all called on the evil spirits for unsexing at least once?

WORST MOMENT:
Lady Macbeth trash-talking her man when he refuses to commit murder. Emasculation and manipulation is never pretty, and in this case it really gets ugly.

WHY THEY WORK:
She holds the sexual power and he holds the knife.

TURN-ONS:
Joint alienation, partnership in crime.

TURN-OFFS:
Bloody hands, Banquo's ghost.

SHAKESPEAREAN COUPLE MOST LIKELY TO:
Hold office.

WHO THEY REMIND YOU OF:
The Reagans, the Clintons, the Eminems, the Jolie-Pitts.

CHEMISTRY FACTOR:
4 OUT OF 5

Ashland, Oregon, a picture-perfect town in the heart of the Rogue River Valley, was once an important railroad juncture in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Situated halfway between Portland and San Francisco, Ashland thrived on the rail trade, taking particular advantage of the orchard fruits from the valley. The wealth and power of the Southern Pacific brought with it rapid expansion, political clout, and an abundance of Victorian architecture and stately hotels. Nature also smiled on the little town at the foot of the Siskiyou mountains, blessing it with a natural spring that the Women's Civic Improvement Club developed into a lush hundred-acre public park drawing health seekers from all over. With their good fortune, Ashland's citizens aimed higher, developing a sophisticated small town with its own college and a commitment to the arts. The final jewel in Ashland's crown debuted in 1935, when college professor Angus Bowmer established a theater festival that would become the world-renowned Oregon Shakespeare Festival.

Now a high-end resort area and a haven for retirees, Ashland remains a hub of sorts, except instead of shipping magnates and timber barons, it's home to theater junkies, actors of all shapes and sizes, students from the local college, organic farmers, and those who enjoy wearing fleece year-round. Real estate costs have risen exponentially with each new wave of Californians and baby boomers. Locals and transplants alike revel in their reputation for independence and quirky politics, evidenced by the fact that the unofficial mascot is the Spotted Owl, the poster bird for endangered species everywhere that first came to fame here more than twenty years ago. The eclectic population, the natural beauty, and the abundance of artisanal coffee and craft beer made Ashland the perfect spot to spend the summer.

Maddie and I would be living in a painfully charming rental cottage on Seventh Street in the painfully charming Railroad District. Located right in the heart of Ashland, the neighborhood featured street after street of once-modest cottages built for the railroad workers between 1900 and 1910, each now worth about half a million bucks. There appeared to be some city ordinance that required at least one three-story Victorian B&B on every block. The place was lousy with accommodations called the Black Swan or Anne Hathaway's B&B, complete with mandatory white wicker furniture and flowering baskets on the front porch.