Elizabeth the First Wife by Lian Dolan

ahead?”
    Well, she didn’t. Or maybe she had, but I’d turned my phone off to work on my book proposal. I’d lost track of time (and fashion sense) while outlining chapter ideas. Here’s one now! “Chenille Isn’t Sexy: Why Shakespeare’s Romantic Heroines Never Wear Bathrobes.” Remember when Ophelia showed up in that nightgown? That didn’t end well. I stammered, “I didn’t get that call. I was working and I turned the phone off. Please come in. I’m Elizabeth.”
    I crossed my arms tightly against my chest, like a tween in atraining bra, in a desperate attempt to keep the two sides of my robe together. My sleepwear underneath wasn’t much better: a US Open T-shirt and granny panties. Sure, the FedEx guy was used to seeing me like this, but not my brother-in-law’s chief of staff. I let go long enough to grab a belt off a raincoat in the front hall. A winning accessory choice. Bathrobe secured, I turned to face my guest.
    Rafa Moreno appeared to be a Very Busy Man, as evidenced by the constant buzzing of his Droid, but he slowed down enough to take in my living room, which I appreciated. And then I noticed the large supply of drugstore items I’d left on the coffee table, because I was too lazy to walk them fifteen feet to my bathroom the night before. Now they lay there in plain sight, creating a sort of feminine product buffet, complete with a centerpiece showcasing a canister of hair removal cream. I considered darting to the other side of the room to block the sight of the spread with my body but thought that would only call attention to my sloth. And my unwanted body hair.
    Rafa graciously pretended not to notice. “Bumble calls you Elizabeth the Professor. I saw you arrive last night with FX Fahey. You guys were married, right?”
    That seemed like an obvious question for a guy who clearly knew the answer, but he said it like FX and I might have played on the same softball team after work, so I tried to copy his tone. I covered by clearing my breakfast dishes into the kitchen and shouting over my shoulder. “Yup, we were. A long time ago. Working with him now. He’s doing a play and I’m a creative consultant.”
    â€œSounds interesting,” he said, though his own disinterest was evident in his tone of voice. He was surveying the real estate, assessing the square footage. “This will work. It’s nice of you to donate it to Ted’s campaign.”
    Donate it to the campaign? “Well, Ted is a good man, and my sister literally doesn’t take no for an answer,” I responded, because, clearly, trying to explain that I hadn’t quite agreed a hundred percent to this arrangement seemed like a waste of time. Classic Bumble. Rafathought he was checking me out, not vice versa. Dear Bumble, thank you for sending me the attractive housesitter that I wasn’t really sure I wanted. I’m sure everything will work out great, even though it freaks me out that a stranger will have access to my underwear drawer. Especially one who looks so good in a blue suit. Love, your sister Elizabeth . “Why don’t you look around to see if the place suits the campaign’s needs, and I’m going to get out of my bathrobe.”
    Oh my God.
    â€œThat came out. …”
    Rafa put his hand up. “No need. I’ll go look around your garden. You can give me an official tour when you’re dressed. In actual clothes.” Then he smiled for the first time, and it was unnerving.
    â€œGood plan,” I whispered.

    â€œYour garden is amazing.” I found Rafa wandering around the backyard with a cup of coffee that he’d helped himself to. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but I let it go. “Must be a lot of work.”
    Three years earlier, before Urban Homesteading became a regular blog at the New York Times , I tore up half the backyard and created a starter vegetable garden. At