Helen of Pasadena (22 page)

“Helen! We’ve missed you, now that you have that big job and all. We’re glad you could make it!” Room rep and avid scrap-booker DeeDee Nicholas hugged me and name tagged me in one motion. “So great about Aiden. Lauren will be at SacSisters. They’ll have dances together. How fun! Look everyone, Helen is here!”

Everyone did look. Light applause and elevated chatter followed. Mothers in their power suits and wrap dresses. The young mothers with great figures and the tired mothers on their last tour of duty at Millington. These people, my people, were really happy to see me. Not just Candy and Tina, who rushed to my side, but the dozens of mothers who had made it through nine years of too much homework, mediocre test scores, after-school flag football games, school fundraising slights, rotten teachers, middle school social drama and impossible final exams. It was great to see them!

My fellow moms showered me with love.
You are something else, everything you’ve done! You look wonderful, and the news about Aiden is so great. You deserve something positive. I hear good things about you and Aiden. You’ve done an amazing job getting through this.
So many kind sentiments, I started to think I’d made a mistake removing my name from my Millington commitments. Maybe my gut feeling that I was being ‘left off the list’ was wrong.

I belonged.

Even the sight of headmistress Adele Arnett, wearing an indestructible bouclé suit and sensible shoes, didn’t bring me down.

“Here comes Cruella de Millington,” Candy warned, in between bites of two-bite quiche. “I got your back.”

Adele sidled up to me and squeezed my arm, saying, “We are so proud of Aiden. He pulled through, didn’t he? It was touch and go. He’ll do beautifully at Ignatius, and they were lovely to give him a chance.”

Three months ago, I would have responded by screaming, “
Touch and go? Give him a chance? His father died! It wasn’t touch and go. It was tragic and awful, you boucle’d bitch!”
But I held my tongue and took a long sip of my mango-infused iced tea. Then it hit me—I really didn’t care what Adele Arnett thought of me or my son. We were done here in a few weeks. With that knowledge, I simply nodded and said, “We did it, Adele. We did it.”

And by we, I meant Aiden and me.

On the way back to our cars, Tina delivered the dress news. “It’s amazing. Vintage. Fabulous. But it’s a loaner. I did some bartering with a friend of mine in the clothing business. I’m doing some contract law; she’s giving you the dress for the night. But you’ve had your last meal, got it?”

I chuckled, but Tina did not.

“Seriously, stop eating. It’s a real couture size 8.” Tina advised. “Oh, and I made appointments for us at the Korean Day Spa on the Friday before. You’ll need some major sloughing before going to the benefit.”

Tina was a regular at the Korean Day Spa over in L.A.’s Koreatown; it was as authentic as any anything you’d find in Seoul. The place was a subterranean wonderland of small rooms, giant tubs of murky liquids, steamy showers and a very tasty restaurant. The female spa attendants, built like wrestlers and inexplicably dressed in black bras and panties, climbed on top of you and proceeded to rub and scrub
every
part of your body and then some, until it hurt so good. Then they dipped you in a giant vat of green tea, washed your hair like you were a little baby and patted you dry. Finally, the bra-and-panty brigade slathered you in oil and wrapped you in hot towels, leaving you to roast on a heated slate floor. You left the Korean Day Spa with an entirely new epidermis and an appreciation for the Korean commitment to personal grooming, all for under a hundred bucks. It was heaven—and hell—on earth.

“You’re right. I have been delinquent about exfoliation since the sudden death of my husband,” I deadpanned. Then, we both howled.

When we recovered, I asked, “Aren’t you going to tell me what the dress looks like?”

Tina smiled, “It looks like you.”

By the time I returned to the office, I was ready to face Patrick: apologetic, energized and free of Merritt flashbacks.
Patrick is not Merritt. Patrick is not Merritt. Patrick is not Merritt.

But Patrick jumped in first, as soon as I walked through the door. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back. Listen, I’m sorry about before. I will be upfront in the future. Starting right now. I can’t afford to lose you.”

“I overreacted,” I countered quickly, but not so quickly that the “can’t afford to lose you” line didn’t sink in. “There’s just a lot going on for me right now—with my life and Aiden and everything. I let it get the best of me.”

“No, I was over the line. Susanna, Cassandra’s mother, my ex-wife, still accuses me of being so focused on my work that I wouldn’t notice if the walls crumbled down around me.”

“Is that why she’s your ex-wife? The walls were crumbing and you didn’t notice?”

A smile broke across Patrick’s face. “Exactly. Literally and figuratively. The adventure of being married to a guy who was happy to live in a tent and spend hours in the dirt wore off pretty quickly. She wanted four solid walls and some attention. I didn’t get that at the time.” For a moment I thought he was going to go deeper, but then he backed off. “But I am working on the noticing part. So, we’re good?”

I was slightly disappointed. “We’re good.”

“Great. I’m going to get back to this,” he said, pointing to a screen filled with data. Apparently the conversation was over. I took off my blue blazer and rolled up my sleeves.

The end of the day surprised me. I’d delved into some research on Helen and Sophia, trying to find some cosmic connection between the two women who were separated by thousands of years. I thought it would make an interesting sidebar in the
Archaeology
article. It was another hunch I was following, but I didn’t want to give Patrick any details until I knew there was some useful information. I was deep into a doctoral thesis written by a British woman on the worship of Helen as a demi-goddess when Patrick’s head popped in over my shoulder, startling me.

He placed his hands on my shoulders. I was disappointed I’d worn a black cashmere turtleneck to work. A V-neck would have been a better choice for that particular moment. “What’s this? More revisionist history on Helen from a feminist perspective?” It seemed he wanted to clear the air of any lingering tension from the morning. A shoulder rub and flirting was a mighty fine way to start.

I met him halfway. “Do any of the women in your field respect you?” I asked, not entirely joking and leaning back in my chair just a touch.

“Annabeth!”

Annabeth. Of course. I tensed up.

“Are you busy tonight?” Patrick asked, to my shock and awe, as he removed his hands from my back. What was going on here?

“I have to take Aiden to water polo,” I answered, regretting the truth of the statement. I did have to take Aiden to water polo, a mandatory practice on a Friday night. And I had already imposed on Emilia once too often with all the work and packing. She needed the night off; things were really getting serious between Juan and her.

“Let’s trade. I’ll go to water polo and you go out to dinner with your crazy friend Melanie Martin,” he suggested, not entirely kidding.

I almost died laughing. God bless Neutron Mel. Holding an honoree hostage with dinner invitations to enhance her social standing was brilliant. Maybe it was a good thing that I’d been unceremoniously dropped from the Five Schools committee; I really didn’t have time for all that maneuvering now. “Why are you going to dinner with Melanie?”

“She called and told me she had a ‘very special live auction item’ she wanted to ask me about. You speak her native tongue. What does that even mean?”

His academic background was no match for the specialized language of charity events. A live auction item was meant to bring in thousands of dollars, not a couple of hundred bucks like a silent auction selection. The live auction was the big show at the Five School Benefit, when the partygoers were liquored up just enough to raise their paddles, but not so much that they couldn’t sign the check. Tickets to the
American Idol
finals, Golden Retriever puppies, box seats and backstage passes to the Rolling Stones at the Hollywood Bowl—those were the sort of once-in-a-lifetime items that ended up in the live auction. What could Neutron Mel possibly have in store for Patrick? Knowing Melanie, it was probably something pretty outrageous.

I wanted to tell Patrick that he had become Melanie’s trophy honoree and he should watch his back, but I held my tongue. He was a big boy. “It means she is going to ask you to donate something for the cause. Something major enough to warrant dinner, so it’s big. Your presence alone at the benefit is not enough. There is a quid pro quo, and you’ll find out about it tonight.”

“I thought I was doing her a favor by being the honoree?”

“That’s what she wanted you to think, so you’d agree. Then, she turns it around. She’s good. Where are you going for dinner?”

“I think it’s called Bistro 47.”

Bistro 47 was the Pasadena standard for elegant food, high-priced wine, very good service and top-notch valet parking, which was a must for the Mercedes SUV crowd that had kept the place in business for two decades. Melanie probably had a standing reservation there on Friday nights, as many similar couples did. Merritt and I had been regulars, once upon a time. “That’s a great place. Order really expensive wine. Melanie is loaded. And her husband has zero personality, so you’ll need it.”

Patrick laughed, “Good advice. Sure you don’t wanna be my date tonight? Sounds like I could use some backup.”

I blushed. “Water polo, remember?”

“But you’re still going with me to the benefit, right?” Patrick sounded as if he really was asking, not sure where we stood. “Don’t make me face Melanie alone that night!”

Are you kidding,
I wanted to scream,
I am not missing an opportunity to see you in a tux!
But I composed myself enough to respond, “Of course. You’re the boss.”

Patrick gave me an off look, “Great. I’ll be in Santa Barbara this weekend if you need me. See you Monday.”

I was so not over that kiss.

CHAPTER 17

“Excuse my French, but this is crap!” Rita the Armenian proclaimed as we stood in the kitchen of a ranch house stuck in the ’70s but priced in the mid-600s. “Somebody needs to tell these people that it isn’t January 2007. This house is not even worth a lowball offer. Let’s get out of here before we catch salmonella.”

My mother and I had been with Rita all afternoon looking at the next phase of my life: the 2 Bedroom/1 Bath Fixer in a Transitional Neighborhood phase. No wine cellar, no loggia, no Golden Arrow distinction for outstanding landscaping. With the long closing my buyers Greg and Tony had agreed to, I’d put off even looking at real estate until I knew what my financial future held. Apparently, this was it: an outdated ranch house with overgrown bushes in front, wood-paneled everything and several decades of accumulated cat hair in the carpets.

After my latest meeting with family lawyer Billy Owens, accountant Bruno and personal lawyer/shopper Tina, I had an acute understanding of my financial situation: grim, but not deadly. If the house deal went through as planned in a month and none of the shareholders from Fairchild Capital chose to hold me personally liable for their losses, then I could pay off almost everything Merritt owed with the proceeds of the house and the sale of the furnishings, paintings and the high-priced wine Merritt had bought at auction. I would have enough left over for modest shelter—by Pasadena standards—and Aiden’s reasonable Ignatius tuition. Provided, of course, that I was able to land a full-time job once my work at the Huntington was done, a provision I hadn’t even had the energy to address.

What I wouldn’t have money for: my golden Pasadena-blond highlights and lowlights; vacations to any location involving a hotel stay or plane flight; a new car in the next decade; any remodeling beyond painting and some Ikea floor rugs; and a fine college education for Aiden should he make it through high school with a high GPA.

It wasn’t the end of the world, but it was the end of my world. In my most self-centered moments, I felt bad about the college fund, but I was really mourning the highlights.

Being naïve, I’d taken for granted that I would be able to find a charming, TV movie-ready home in a decent neighborhood in my price range. I envisioned a cozy cottage built for two, like the Craftsman bungalow I’d seen on the cover of
Sunset
magazine last month. Sage green walls with crisp white trim, chocolate brown couches and splashy orange pillows, patina’d candlesticks on the mantelpiece and soft pink climbing roses peeking through the window. A Downsizer’s Dream, the headline had declared. That’s exactly what I wanted: a Downsizer’s Dream! But where was the “buyer’s market” that Roshelle Slusky had struggled to explain last week on the evening news? (She actually used to the word ‘escarole’ to describe the process of escrow. Soulmate indeed for my financially challenged late husband.) Sure, prices had dropped, but apparently not nearly enough for me.

This house was no Downsizer’s Dream. It was just a downer. Standing in the middle of the avocado-and-puke-colored kitchen, I thought I might cry for the nine millionth time since Merritt’s death. I missed my double ovens already.

My mother turned to catch my eye. Her look said it all: You could buy a stunning log home with twenty acres in Oregon for this price. But she held her tongue as I’d asked, reminding her that there were very few jobs in central Oregon, and being employed was a big part of my financial equation. Instead, she just repeated the phrase she’d used in six earlier houses: “I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”

“These people are crazy!” Rita said, tossing her dramatic mane of black hair and brandishing her wristful of gold bangles like a real estate superhero. “Come on, I have one more on my list. It’s not officially on the market yet, but I have a good feeling about it! It’s on Sunshine Street! How could it not be happy? And that’s what you need: happy, not crappy. Let’s go.”

I had to postpone the trip to Sunshine Street. We had a mandatory Fairchild event that night and I needed to steel my emotions. First a shower, then a large cup of coffee before I faced the Fairchilds en masse. The last thing I wanted was to throw my own pity party in front of Merritt’s family.

We were celebrating Merritt’s birthday. It had been Mitsy’s idea and I had to admit, it was a good one. According to my three-visit, short course in grief from the therapist Candy had recommended, the ‘firsts’ were the hardest after the death of a family member: the first Christmas; the first Father’s Day; the first graduation; the first birthday. According to my therapist, it was a year of unbearably sad family events before you could move on to the next phase of recovery. Each one was tough in its own way, depending upon your family traditions. For the Fairchilds, birthdays had always been low-key events. They were not inclined to fete individuals, but instead, they chose to make a big deal out of the family holidays. As a result of the non-existent family birthday tradition, my inclination was to spend Merritt’s birthday alone with Aiden at the movies. But now that I was standing on the porch of the Pasadena Town Club with a glass of white wine in my hand, I was grateful that Mitsy had taken the initiative.

My mother-in-law had orchestrated a family Mass at St. Perpetua’s. Aiden and I arrived early, along with the Odd Couple: Mitsy, in a simple black dress, multiple-strand pearl necklace and Hermès scarf, and my mother, resplendent in what she called her Peacock Wrap and long purple pleated skirt. My sisters-in-law, Mimi and Mikki, wore almost identical charcoal-gray suits, gray silk blouses and two-inch pumps. Their eyes welled up as they approached me and Aiden, already seated in the front row. My brothers-in-law, Lawyer Bart and Broker Ben, dressed in somber dark blue suits with striped ties, both hugged me and squeezed my hand as they slipped into the row behind us. Both men had a handshake and hug for Aiden, which I appreciated, and a polite hug for my mother, who nodded furiously with sympathy for each new arrival. Unlike other parents with young kids, Mimi and Mikki had wisely chosen to leave their collective children, five cousins under 8 years old, at home.

Mitsy included Billy Owens and his wife, Lacey, as part of the family that night. They arrived on time, with their three well-scrubbed, blond teenagers in tow. Seeing Lacey—fitter than ever with her perma-tan and short blond hair—and handsome Billy reminded me of the thousands of hours we’d spent together as a couple with them. I wondered what they did now with their weekends? I certainly wasn’t on their list. Though I was glad Aiden would have some friends his own age tonight, I was still on shaky social ground with Billy. He would spend the rest of his life feeling guilty about Roshelle. And I would spend the rest of my life embarrassed knowing that Billy knew my husband had cheated on me. We would probably never recover the ease we once had with each other.

The Mass was sober and quiet, punctuated only by sobs from the sisters whenever Monsignor Flaherty mentioned Merritt’s name in the sermon. “Let us remember Merritt Fairchild, on the anniversary day of his birth, as a man who was humble before God. Who lived the Word of God in his actions and in his deeds. And who left behind a legacy of good works.”

“Namaste,” my mother piped up, much to the horror of my in-laws and the Monsignor. I welcomed the comic relief. I bit my lip in an effort to suppress my laughter and caught Mitsy’s eye. Was that a flicker of understanding in her gaze?

Dinner followed at the Pasadena Town Club in the same room where Merritt’s memorial reception had been held. The cycle of life and gin and tonics replayed itself over and over again at the PTC: baptisms then graduations then engagement parties then weddings, anniversaries, retirement dinners and, finally, funerals. Guaranteed, like it came with the membership. The green-and-white dining room was always packed on Saturday nights with regulars and relics. For Pasadenans who didn’t want to brave the parking or the anonymity of eating at an actual restaurant, the main dining room at PTC was a welcome haven of familiarity and overcooked scalloped potatoes. Friendly faces sat at almost every table, from the Gambles to the Montagues. There is nothing more powerful than belonging, Merritt used to say whenever he pitched a new business idea to me. If you can tap into a person’s need to belong, then you’ve won their loyalty.

The dinner that followed at the club was about as much fun as the Fairchilds allowed themselves to have. Billy Owens stepped into the role of host and MC, not allowing the conversation to turn maudlin. Toasts were made in Merritt’s honor, but then quickly, the focus turned to Aiden and his admission to Ignatius. Billy stole the show with lots of stories about Merritt’s high school days at Ignatius, from skipping school to pranks to swimming victories. Mimi and Mikki recounted the dozens of girls Merritt dated in high school, from Rose Princesses to softball players. Even Mitsy joined in the journey down memory lane with some rather bawdy tales of her own, about finding a stash of
Playboy
s under Merritt’s pillow and a flask of whiskey in the glove box of his Toyota Celica. I doubted the veracity of some of the stories, but didn’t question Billy, Mitsy or the sisters.

They had their memories and I had mine; theirs were sweeter and unspoiled. And that’s where I wanted to be after a day of looking at real estate wrecks: in Denial Land. I’d heard all the stories before, but seeing Aiden’s face as he listened for the first time gave me hope. “

What a bon vivant!” my mother would cry after each new revelation about Merritt’s high school and college exploits. I knew she thought the stories sounded rather tame compared to her hippie past, but she was in a fine mood, so I didn’t discourage her.

Well-wishers came over to the lively table all night long, to pay homage to Mitsy and raise a glass to Merritt. Watching the Fairchilds, so at ease in this room with all these people, even at an event like this, made me appreciate the certainty of their lives. Yes, tragedy had struck them, with their father’s death at an early age, then Merritt’s, but the family would carry on. As it always had. It was why I wanted to marry Merritt and why I couldn’t conceive of moving Aiden away from all this.

The people in this room were content with their lives. What was wrong with that?

We were wrapping up dinner when Aiden unexpectedly announced, “Thanks for finding my dad’s letterman jacket, Aunt Mimi and Aunt Mikki. My mom gave it to me the other night. It’s a little big, but I think I’ll grow into it.”

More tears and choked-up thanks followed. Billy and Lacey hugged and kissed all the Fairchilds, including me. Then it was clear that it was time to go. But not before Mitsy got in one last request, “Helen, can I speak to you a moment on the porch? Here, have the last of the wine.”

“Will you be okay?”

The question was vague, but I knew Mitsy was looking for specific information. After the initial news from Billy Owens about Merritt’s financial meltdown, I’d spoken to him about not revealing any confidential information to her again. Mitsy Fairchild may be a privileged client who is like a mother to him, but she is not entitled to know my business. Billy apologized and promised to keep his trap shut around Mitsy. Obviously, he had. Tonight at dinner, he was Billy the Rowdy Best Friend, not Billy the Consigliere.

“I’ll be fine,” I answered, nodding for emphasis. “Aiden and I will be just fine once the house has closed.”

“You’ll stay in the area,” she stated, not in the form of a question.

“Yes. Our lives are here.”

“Tuition?”

“Covered. And we’ll make all the adjustments we need to make. Thank you for asking, Mitsy.” We managed to cover a lot of ground in the fewest words possible. Clearly, she understood the big picture, but she didn’t want to know details. And I didn’t want to give them to her. “And thank you for planning today. It was lovely and just the right thing to do.”

“Of course,” Mitsy concurred, although I’m not sure if she meant, ‘Of course it was lovely’ or ‘Of course, it was the right thing to do.’ Or both.

Probably both.

“Helen ” she said, pausing. “Do you need anything?”

I studied my mother-in-law’s carefully crafted face. I think she was genuinely asking me if I needed
anything.
Like a hundred grand or a hit man or a prescription for Xanax. In that moment, I believed she could get any of those wish-list items and more. But despite the fact that I would soon have no home and no job, I didn’t need anything.