Elizabeth the First Wife Read Online Free

the Bea fell by the wayside, and she’s been Bumble since toddlerhood. Though why, at the moment, she was so intent on repositioning the objets d’art on my bookshelves, I wasn’t sure.
    â€œListen, Francis-slash-FX-slash-Icarus broke your heart. He married you and then screwed around with the first co-star he could find.”
    â€œThanks for not mincing words.”
    Bumble carried on, taking out her long-held anger on my pillows, which, frankly, didn’t deserve it. “And then he walked away without paying you a dime. Not a dime. Do you think that timing was a coincidence? Don’t you think he knew he was about to sign a three-picture deal? The ink was barely dry on your one-pagedivorce agreement that was, air quotes, mediated by whom? Some barista in the Village? And the next thing we know, there’s FX Fahey walking down the red carpet to a giant payday. He did you wrong, really, really wrong, Elizabeth. I don’t know why you care if he has professional success.” During this rant she was refolding our grandmother’s antique Hawaiian quilt.
    â€œThat was a long time ago, okay? The divorce or how it went down is water under the bridge. Yes, I’m sorry I married him at twenty-two. We never should have gotten married. Then when it ended, it would have just been twentysomethings going through the inevitable post-college breakup. But what happened happened.” That was my story and I was sticking with it.
    Bumble artfully placed the quilt over the arm of a mushroom-colored Pottery Barn couch she had helped me select. “How come Gigi left you her house and this great quilt? I think I deserved the quilt.”
    â€œBecause I gave Gigi that quilt. I found it at the Rose Bowl flea market. And you got all the artwork.” Dang, the place did look better after Bumble’s whirlwind restaging.
    â€œGood point. And now that Helen Frankenthaler is dead, those things are worth a fortune,” she crowed, pausing for dramatic effect. “All I’m saying is don’t get sucked in.” The doorbell rang and Bumble squealed a tiny bit. “He’s here. Try to impress him.”

    Pierce DeVine, nee Paulie DeVito, decorator to the stars, or at least the Pasadena elite and their adult children, could only be described as “gleaming.” Literally, he was the shiniest man I’d ever laid eyes on. His dress shirt was blindingly white, his blue blazer looked like it was sewn on him moments before walking in the door, and his pressed gray flannels must have once belonged to Cary Grant. His tanned complexion said Weekend Home in Montecito, but his blueeyes showed no signs of the fine lines that normally appear when that is the case. Were his teeth actually sparkling? No wonder Bumble felt the need to redecorate my home before his arrival.
    I was not worthy.
    Or was I? I could swear the gleaming Pierce DeVine was intrigued, despite the fact that my hideaway lacked the grandeur, formality, and property-tax bill of his usual transformations. He was taking in La Casita de Girasoles, or the Little House of Sunflowers, the moniker my great-grandparents had bestowed upon the home, with some admiration. La Casita was a classic California hacienda-style house, with wood-beamed vaulted ceilings, Saltillo floor tiles, and thick adobe walls that danced with light and shadows. A massive stone fireplace dominated the living room. Handmade square-frame windows and oversize doors drew the eye out to the courtyard, which was anchored by a mature olive tree and my humble breakfast table, where my coffee cup still sat from the morning. I hoped he wouldn’t mark me down for my sloppy housekeeping.
    â€œTell me the story of this home,” Pierce demanded, his manicured hands performing some sort of interior designer sun salutation. He nodded in my direction, summoning speech.
    It was a lecture I’d given many times since moving in three years ago, the house inspiring