Helen of Pasadena (32 page)
Authors: Lian Dolan
Subject: re: Interview/Trip
Great. Yes, of course. Yes to interview. You know about Moscow and Priam’s Treasure research. Am ready to say on camera that Schliemann faked find, all for the love of a questionably good woman. May be end of my career. Ah, well. Been a good run.
Yes to trip. I gave my word to that crazy friend of yours. I don’t want Melanie to slit my throat with her huge diamond ring if I renege on the trip. The Gambles are coming over to tour the sites—I thought they would be excellent company if I had to spend two weeks with your mother-in-law. She scared me. Sorry. So we can all travel together.
I’ve cc’d Ted. You two can coordinate your trip from there. I am at your disposal in mid- to late August. Have to be back in Athens by September 1 for classes.
Helen, come a few days early for the interview. I think it would work best if the two of us do that before the rest of Pasadena arrives in Troy. I’ll get you the name of a local crew who can shoot it for you.
Send confirmation of plans when you get them.
Best, Patrick
PS, Yes, Cassie was very sick. How could I not have told you that? Sorry. It was a crazy night when I tried to pack everything up. And get to London. By the time I could book a flight, the worst was over. Get Aiden the vaccine! You don’t want to go through that, believe me.
From: Helen Fairchild
Subject: re: re: Interview/Trip
Patrick,
We are set! What a plan. I will arrive on August 7th. The rest of the Pasadonians, as you call us, will arrive on August 12th. Aiden is flying with the Gambles. (I scheduled vaccine!) I think that should give us enough time to get in a seven-minute interview. It’s also when the best flights worked out. Feel free to put me to work on site: digging, dusting, bringing baked goods for the crew—my new specialty.
Do you need hair and makeup, Dr. O’Neill? Or a trailer with a personal trainer? How about an accent coach or on-set massage therapist? Please advise. Our budgets are modest—but for you I am sure I can arrange something special.
Yasu, Helen
From: Dr. Patrick O’Neill
Subject: Bring Cheeseburger
Dear Ms. Fairchild,
I believe I can do my own hair and makeup, but I would enjoy the Langham cheeseburger.
Hot, please.
Soon, Patrick
It was hard not to get caught up in the romance of it all. Crossing the Dardanelles by boat to get to the Turkish city of Hissarlik, the site of ancient Troy, I felt like I was traveling in the wake of history. My ferry crossed the same body of water as the ships carrying Helen and her lover Paris, fleeing a furious Menelaus, the jilted husband. These waters had transported the Greek warriors from Sparta to avenge their leader’s betrayal. Later, the dark waters of the Dardanelles would bring Heinrich Schliemann, his new bride, Sophia, and her soon-to-be lover Rudy to uncover the past and write a new chapter for the history books. I could barely take it all in, the gut-churning sensation of embarking on something momentous combined with the stunning scenery in front of me—the waves, the ridgeline, the barest outline of a city on a hill.
I felt sick.
I’d forgotten to take a Dramamine in the car from Istanbul. As if the car ride wasn’t trying enough, the boat ride was worse. I’d suffered rough Aegean ferry rides before, during my student days, so I knew I needed meds. But the excitement of the moment overwhelmed my usual common sense. Maybe the subconscious reason I abandoned archaeology was the seasickness, not the feelings of inadequacy.
Breathe deeply and concentrate on the horizon, I thought. The famous shore stood a half-mile away. Unlike other ancient sites, Troy did not have any ruins. There were no temples in disrepair or crumbling walls to remind a modern tourist what had transpired here 3,000 years ago. Only rolling hillsides and tall grasses covered the opposite shoreline, to the disappointment of the uninformed, who rated Troy “not worth the effort” on travel blogs. Most visitors to this part of the world were Australians, coming to see the nearby World War I site of Gallipoli, not Patrick’s trenches. But I couldn’t wait to see the layers of history buried in the dirt.
The thought of Patrick made me queasy again. Please don’t let him be on the dock to greet me. Green is not my color, I mused silently, cracking the barest of smiles.
What am I doing here?
It had all happened so quickly—the tickets from Mitsy, the go-ahead from Annabeth and Olympia, the plan to meet up with the Gamble family to get our full tour of ancient sites. And the final detail: convincing Aiden. He hadn’t needed much arm-twisting, nor had he asked many questions. Two weeks in Turkey and Greece with the Gambles and Dr. O’Neill? Yes. Are there beaches there? Yes. Aiden was in. He would be flying over with the Gambles in five days.
I had five days alone with Patrick, for better or worse.
The phrase “what a difference a year makes” is thrown around to describe downfalls and comebacks, but I never thought it would apply to me. Once I was pretty sure I knew what the future held for decades, not just days. But I was wrong. There’s no way I would have paid a fortune teller her full fee if, a year ago, she’d intoned, “Next August, you will be sailing to ancient Troy, to connect your past with your future. You will be a widow traveling without your child. The journey will be steep and difficult, but on the journey, you will meet a very hot guy.” Ridiculous! The image made me laugh.
Which in turn, made me feel even worse.
I needed to get off that boat and onto some solid ground.
“You feel better now?” Ekram, my guide and porter, asked as I emerged from what the sign indicated was a ladies room but could have easily been a broom closet, given its size, odor and lack of such amenities as light, water and a mirror. Thank God for my packet of wet wipes!
“Yes,” I smiled.
Here’s hoping I didn’t miss my mouth with the lipstick application.
“Dr. O’Neill said to bring your bags to his tent, then bring you to his trench right away. His apologies again, he is in the middle of something, and the ferries, well, they can be not on time, yes? My car is here or you can walk a short way and I take luggage. Sometimes, that is good to clear the head.”
I must really be green, I thought.
Wait, did Ekram say he would bring the bags to Patrick’s tent?
Another positive sign! Or a language barrier. “I’ll walk. Thank you.”
Now I was grateful Tina had talked me into the Merrell high-fashion hiking boots for the trip. “Earthy but sexy,” she said. She was right about the earthy anyway; I was already covered in light dust from my knees down. I shook my head thinking about Melanie and her promise of five-star travel and accommodations. It was hard to imagine Mitsy or any of Pasadena’s potential bidders making the trek to Troy. I pushed the image out of my head and immediately felt better.
I wondered instead: How did Helen of Troy make it up this hill without ruining her gown?
The Trojan dirt is a deep gray with flecks of silver limestone, but on Dr. Patrick O’Neill, who was lightly covered in the stuff, it looked like a sheen of the finest oils. He stood in the ten-foot-deep trench, glistening. His eyes were fixed on an invisible treasure in the walls, measuring and scribbling notes. A handful of students stood nearby, taking photos and notes as well. They turned to check me out, the overdressed outsider. Patrick hadn’t heard me coming, so I could take in the familiar linen shirt, the long legs and the strength of his exposed forearms. I thought the guy looked good in front of a computer terminal, but here, in his natural surroundings, he was ... he was….
Ekram interrupted my festival for the eyes. “Dr. O’Neill. Your lady is here.”
Patrick turned and squinted up at me, my silhouette outlined by the setting sun. The shade of dust heightened the blue in his eyes, the line of his mouth. “Helen, welcome to Troy.”
As Patrick climbed up the ladder out of the trench, I had a moment to panic about the proper greeting. Hug only? Euro double-cheek kiss? Quick peck on the lips, followed by hug? I shouldn’t have worried.
Patrick knew exactly what he wanted: a deep, long, full-on-the-mouth kiss. Who cared how dirty Travel Outfit #3 got? I was overwhelmed; Patrick was not. He whispered, “You’re here. Finally.”
Yes, finally.
I think one of the female students almost passed out.
“Okay, guys, finish up without me. Don’t forget to catalogue the soil samples, Greta. Oh, Ekram, will you tell the cook I won’t be eating with the crew tonight? We’ll take something in my tent at 7. Leave some limeade and wine now, with fruit. Ms. Fairchild and I have some catching up to do.”
Ekram nodded and disappeared like magic. The grad students stared in stunned silence. My knees wobbled a touch as Patrick firmly led me toward the small tent village in the distance.
When we were out of earshot of the others, he finally spoke. “Your trip was good?”
“I don’t remember a single detail before the last two minutes.”
“Did you bring my cheeseburger?”
“They confiscated it in Frankfurt. Something about the frilly toothpick.”
Patrick stopped and pulled me close. “I’ve missed you, Helen.”
“I can’t believe I’m here. What am I doing here?”
“We have a few days to find out, don’t we?” He stroked my hair, then bent down to kiss my neck. “Do you want a tour of the site?”
“Later.” I ran my fingers over Patrick’s dusty chest, then touched the moon and the stars on his forearm. “There’s something I want to do first.”
“What’s that?”
“Take a shower.”
Hours later, relaxing on the wooden deck in front of Patrick’s sturdy white tent, I felt the strong pull of history from Helen to Sophia to me. Maybe there was something in the shining gray dirt that made women bolder. Or less inhibited. Or just plain stupid. Those Turkish sheets certainly lived up to their reputation. “I have a good idea: Let’s spend the next couple of days re-creating some of those scenes from the Schliemann Journals. You know, Rudy and Sophia and those long summer nights. Like Journal XI, page 118. That was pretty sexy. How about that one?”
“Helen of Pasadena, I’m shocked!” Patrick mocked, pouring me another glass of wine, part of the simple feast that the cook had set out for us. “I suppose you could consider re-creating certain scenes from the journal ‘research.’ I only wish I’d known of this particular academic interest earlier. It certainly would have enlivened our afternoons at the Huntington.”
“At the time, I wasn’t quite ready for that level of … commitment to the work, Dr. O’Neill,” I half joked.
“And now?”
“I think I’m ready.” The sky was a deep blue, not yet black. The ancient plains stretched out before my eyes to the sea. I felt like I’d been here before. “Can I ask you a question?”
Patrick leaned forward. “Of course.”
“That morning back in May. At the hotel. You were going to say something and I cut you off. I was afraid to let you finish. I thought I could make it easier for both of us if I came up with the usual ‘not the right time, not the right place’ speech. But I think I was wrong. Do you remember what you were going to say?”
“Yes, I do. I was going to say that I couldn’t.…” Patrick leaned back, avoiding my eyes. He seemed to struggle with the words.
Damn
. “… I couldn’t offer you what you had: a traditional life. With the house and the stability and a man who wore a suit and tie to work. But I wanted to offer you something, part of … me. I’ve been alone for years, always working. And I didn’t want to be, I don’t want to be, alone anymore. That morning, I wanted to ask you to be part of my life. You get me, Helen—my work, my life. I live in Athens, I work here, but still, I wanted you to be a part of that somehow.”
You had me at hello.
Patrick chuckled. “Wow, that sounds pretty selfish now that I actually say it out loud.”
“Does your offer still stand?”
He nodded, slightly surprised, waiting for an explanation. So I provided the best one I could. “I’m a planner, Patrick. I’ve been one my whole life. But after this last year, I understand that things don’t always go as planned. And I’m okay with that. I don’t know what the next phase of my life is going to be like, beyond getting Aiden through high school. But I’d like you to be a part of my life, too. I don’t need traditional anymore, at least I don’t think I do. We can make something work. Somehow.”
“I’ll be back in California for a fundraising dinner in December that Ted Gamble is putting together. Does that qualify as somehow?” Patrick kissed me gently on the nose.
“Yes, for now, anyway. Wait here.” I was reminded of one more item on my to-do list. I slipped back into the tent, in what I hoped was a feline maneuver, re-emerging a minute later with the pink scarf in the pocket of my linen shirt. “I think I owe you this, Dr. O’Neill.”
I held out the treasured accessory. Patrick stood, taking the scarf from my hands and gently tying it around my neck, kissing me softly.
“Come with me, Helen. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“
The earth, the heavens, the sea, the untiring sun, the moon at full.…
”
“Deal.”