Free Elizabeth the First Wife by Lian Dolan

nemesis, berating her poor (but loaded, both in money and liquor) husband Tim Tanner at the Cloverfield auction after he bid ten thousand dollars for a shih tzu puppy that JLT clearly did not want. Those moments alone in front of my computer on a Saturday night convinced me that single is a very fine status.
    Bumble had spotted FX with Candy, too. “He’s in good hands. Or so I’ve heard about Candy,” Bumble quipped as she slugged back some wine. “Watch him.”
    â€œThis is a work relationship only. If he wants to be the fourth Mr. Candy McKenna, I have no problem with that. He does look good, doesn’t he?”
    â€œHe’s a movie star. That’s his job. But yes, he looks good,” she conceded. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
    â€œIt’s your fault. I’m a victim here. You know how much a Pierce DeVine remodel costs. I had to take the work!”
    Bumble laughed. “At least you’re getting something out of it this time. More than I can say for your marriage. And, speaking of marriage. …”
    Here we go. The real reason Bumble wanted to talk to me.
    â€œYou know Ted and I have been trying to get pregnant and so far, no luck. Not that it’s easy with him being on the other side of the country half the year.”
    I had to admit, being married to a congressman was not the slightest bit glamorous. Ted Seymour was a successful real estate developer who wandered into politics without much long-term planning. Good-looking, articulate, and a diplomat to the core, he stepped into a race for Congress when the chosen candidate admitted to hiring illegal immigrants for his cleaning-service empire. (Illegal immigrants cleaning bathrooms? What a shocker!) Enter Ted Seymour, fiscally conservative but socially liberal, just the kind of Republican that Californians liked. He was a single dad raising a young daughter when his campaign hired Bumble to run some fundraisers. She swears the last thing on her mind was any kind of relationship, but I’m pretty sure she gave the Seymour campaign a very low bid for her work to get in front of Ted. He was elected, and six months later, he and Bumble were married.
    The honeymoon was short, very short. Bumble immediately became Ted’s political surrogate and full-time fundraiser in Pasadena while he commuted back and forth to DC. But the biggest adjustment was becoming a stepmother to then ten-year-old Maddie. Ted could be gone for weeks at a time, and it was Bumble who held down the home front, stepping into the unfamiliar world of school volunteering, parent-teacher conferences, and weekend debate competitions. I give her a lot of credit. Lesser females would have crumbled under the microscope of Pasadena’s competitive parenting posse, not to mention the bright lights of politics. Not Bumble. She just got Botox.
    But I knew Bumble was lonely, and the stress of infertility was starting to take its toll. (The other day I caught her shoving a Ding Dong in her mouth at a gas station.) So where did I come into their infertility issues? I braced myself for the ask.
    â€œI need you to take Maddie to Ashland with you this summer.She won’t go back to camp. She doesn’t want to go on another one of those expensive fake mission programs to Guatemala. And God knows, her mother can’t be bothered to forego her very important work in Reiki healing at that commune she lives in.” Bumble was not a fan of Maddie’s birth mother, a trust-fund hippie who bailed on the family when Maddie was a toddler and moved to Sun Valley. “You know I love Maddie, but I need her out of the house. This is it. I feel like it’s our last shot at getting pregnant, and that means Summer Sexapalooza. Ted and I can’t do that if Maddie’s around.”
    Wow, I so did not want to picture Congressman Ted in a “Summer Sexapalooza.” Now that I knew about their plan, I was glad I