Helen of Pasadena (8 page)

Merritt hadn’t appreciated my creativity.

“Mexico? That’s not Hawaii. That’s not the Mauna Kea.”

“We always go to the Mauna Kea. You said, ‘Surprise me,’ so I thought we might try somewhere new, something different. Like an eco-resort in Puerto Vallarta! We might see some celebs.”

“Helen, Mexico is not America. Mexico is
Mexico
. Do you know what that means? I won’t be able to drink the water or check e-mail. What about security? What about terrorists? And I don’t want to see celebrities. What were you thinking? What’s next? A cruise?”

“You’ve been working so hard. We never see you. I thought it might be fun to have an adventure. As a family.” I did not mention the word “baby.”

“I want a vacation, not an adventure.”

We had neither, really. Oh, Aiden and I loved the place, with its slightly run-down, not-quite-America ambience. The “wildlife” promised on the website consisted of one old decrepit sea turtle that slept on the deck of the restaurant. The waiters and waitresses had “performed” the evening entertainment of bad skits that featured an unusually high number of cross-dressing sight gags. Merritt had pouted and pounded watery margaritas while 8-year-old Aiden and I did the limbo to Ricky Martin songs. Nobody got sick or attacked by terrorists, and I certainly did not get pregnant.

But we never quite recovered.

We got home to Pasadena and Merritt’s message was clear: I want a marriage, not an adventure. My unusual background was no longer an asset, it was a liability. I think those were his exact words. Asset, liability, risk, loss. That’s how he thought about our marriage.

The next year, we went back to the safety of the Mauna Kea with half the members of the Pasadena Town Club in beach lounges beside us, sucking down mai tais and talking about golf. Merritt regaled his people with tales of our “third-world camping trip in freaking Mexico!” Everyone laughed at his over-the-top descriptions of the vacation, confident in their own excellent hotel choices. Everyone but me.

He never mentioned Mexico again, not even on New Year’s Eve when he told me about Roshelle. But I know,
I know
, that was the Incident That Changed It All.

Good. Moving on.

CHAPTER 6

The long, tree-lined drive into the Huntington always filled me with pleasure. From the first time I saw the site of the
beaux-arts
mansion with the unending lush landscape, from the authentic Japanese garden to the proper English rose garden, I knew this was a special place. The fountains and sculptures tucked into sun-dappled corners all over the property always surprised me. The tasteful Galleries, once the Huntington family’s private residence, had just been restored with glorious chandeliers and gleaming parquet floors
.
Mary Cassat’s
Breakfast in Bed
and Gainsborough’s
The Blue Boy
hung on the silver-blue walls, lovely reminders of motherhood
.
But most of all, I relished the cool, dark Library building filled with treasures, from the first-edition Gutenberg Bible to Albert Einstein’s letters to an original
“
Shakespeare’s Folio.” I loved pretending to be a part of this world.

But on that Friday in late January, I was filled with dread. I had to ask someone for something. I had to ask for a big favor. I was used to being the one asked, not the asker.

Get used to it.

I met Sarah White at the outdoor coffee cart, just inside the Entrance Pavilion. Sarah White was about 50, one of those women who went gray early and still looked sexy, her hair the perfect shade of silver and her skin vibrant. She’d come from the admissions office of Wesleyan a decade earlier, venturing west to start a new life after a divorce. She rose to power as an assistant in the development office by raising millions of dollars for the new Chinese garden, thanks to the area-wide influx of people and money from China. Now she had her finger in every pot at the Huntington. As the newly named public relations director, she was the ultimate source of information.

Sarah brought that veneer of East Coast snobbery that Californians loved, her accent awash in New York’s Upper East Side and Miss Porter’s. She could drop phrases like “our summer place in Cos Cob” and “My mother had a Saturday night series at the Met” and the donors would nod their heads in solidarity, pretending to know what she was referring to. But I’d seen Sarah with her hair down on several occasions, after a little too much wine at the volunteer dinner. She didn’t scare me at all.

At least, not until this moment.

“Helen,” Sarah hugged me, giving my shoulder an extra squeeze, like she meant it. “I’ve been thinking of you.”

“I’ve missed it here. It’s good to be back.”

“I was surprised to get your call so soon. You don’t have to worry about your shifts. You know that you cannot be replaced, but Arlene in Volunteers can find the subs. Mrs. Smithson is thrilled to step in and do the lecture series.” We both laughed. Mrs. Smithson could take twenty minutes to ask you what time it was. “Coffee?”

“Great,” I said, accepting the latte from adorable little Annie, who ran the espresso bar during the week. Annie studied photography at Art Center. She’d come to the funeral, along with so many others from the Huntington. “Thanks, Annie!”

“Look at you, Helen! Good to see you.” Annie smiled hard, her good cheer rubbing off on me. “We need you back here.” And then she winked because she’s a winker.

I winked back uncomfortably.

“Let’s walk. I have to drop off something over at the Scott Gallery,” Sarah commanded, taking long strides toward the step and pathway.

Once again, in my Banana Republic get-up, I felt like a pretender. The combination of the straight skirt and the mid-heel pumps made it difficult for me to catch the sprinting Sarah White. And goddamn, I didn’t want to spill the steaming hot latte all over my tailored shirt. Tina would kill me.

Slow the fuck down.

I panicked, attempting to keep up with Sarah Longlegs, forgetting my job pitch that I’d actually written down and rehearsed several times in front of the bathroom mirror.
(I think my dedication to this institution has been proven in deed and commitment. I’d love a chance to become more than just a volunteer. I want to be part of the team.)
In an effort to slow my companion down and get it over with, I blurted out, “I need a job. I’m not really
qualified
for anything but I would
do
anything. Anything. Do you have anything?”

Sarah turned—her stunned face, gleaming hair and just-right lipstick set off by the giant bamboo forest in the background— then she smiled. “Oh, that’s what you needed to see me about. Why didn’t you tell me on the phone? I’ve been there, too!” Sarah said, referring to her change of status after her divorce, a comparison that I was starting to resent a touch, but I let it go.

“We’d love to have you here as an employee. But it’s not the best time to be looking. Let me think. Nothing in my office right now. We’re holding on for dear life, trying to ride out this economy without losing too many people.”

“Anything in other departments? I’d dust the Magna Carta if that’s what it takes.” The Huntington did have a copy of the Magna Carta, which I do not believe they would let me dust, but I was just trying to make a point.

“There is something I just heard about. Karen in Library mentioned it to me this morning. We have a DS visiting for this semester. He needs a research assistant.”

DS was a Distinguished Scholar, and by “semester,” Sarah meant he would be staying until May or June. Perfect. My foot in the door.

“That would be perfect!” I was breathless, maybe because my binding underwear was starting to cut off the oxygen supply to my lungs, and Sarah had resumed her nine-minute-mile pace toward the other side of the gardens. This was a poor outfit choice.

Sarah laughed. “Don’t you even want to know who he is or what he is researching? Or the pay?”

All excellent questions, I acknowledged.

Sarah filled me in. The hourly pay was slightly better than Emilia’s but less than a lifeguard’s at a children’s birthday party. And all she knew about the researcher was that he was an archaeologist who specialized in Troy. He was here to catalogue some new papers that had been discovered in a Caltech professor’s attic and had to do with famed archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann and the original excavation at Troy.

“Sorry, I don’t know his name. Let me drop this off and we’ll go talk to Karen right now. Maybe he’s still here and you can meet with him.”

Meet with him? Now? Oh my God, no. I can’t work for a classical archaeologist! Anthropologist? Sure. Botanist? Great. Early American history scholar specializing in wildlife prints by that Audubon guy? Fine. I love birds. But an actual classical archaeologist? No way. He’ll bust me. I’m not smart enough. He’ll know right away that I’m a grad school dropout, that my Greek was weak twenty years ago and certainly has not improved in the last decade.
The face of every professor I disappointed in grad school flashed before me. “Oh, well…”

“Wasn’t that your field? Archaeology? It’s kismet!”

That’s the sort of phrase you don’t hear every day. Now I wanted to kill Sarah, because I was sweating right through my tailored blouse and I could feel a run in my stockings creeping up the back of my right leg. “Yes. Well, it’s been a few years. Maybe I should call Karen and come back later…”

“Helen, once this job gets posted online, you’re toast. Most of the research assistants we place are Ph.D. candidates themselves. Young, qualified Ph.D. candidates. If you want this job, you have to make a case for it now. Catch my drift?”

Catch my drift
? That’s some tough talk from a Miss Porter’s girl. But Sarah had a point, the same point Elizabeth Maxwell made. At 40 and jobless for fifteen years, I was neither young nor qualified. And I was getting less so every day I hesitated. I thought of Aiden. I thought of getting that foot in the door.

“Okay. Let’s go meet this archaeologist.”

I was still breathing heavily as I pulled up in front of the Scott Gallery and waited for Sarah to drop off her envelope and locate Karen from Library. My God, when had I gotten so out of shape? How long had it been since I’d done that Shreadmill workout my trainer had designed? Before or after Meredith Viera left
The View
? I’d really let myself go, just like Merritt had said. Put that on my list for my new life: more cardio.

Stop! This was exactly the kind of pathetic mind-babble that I should be stomping out. Focus, focus. Try to remember anything you ever learned about Troy.
Made famous by Homer in the Iliad. Scene of ten-year siege in, like, 1200 BC Bronze Age, just say Bronze Age, that works. Helen of Troy, wife of what’s-his-name, most beautiful woman on earth, abducted by Orlando Bloom. Spartans try to get Helen back. Achilles, blah, blah, blah, greatest warrior. Big horse, Troy falls, Spartans win, Helen goes back to what’s-his-name. Menelaus, that’s his name! Much debate among scholars: Did Trojan War really happen or was it just Homer’s fiction? In 1800s, German businessman slash amateur archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann uses his wealth to prove Troy really exists. Finds site in northern Turkey. Calls it Troy Something. Troy 1. Troy 2. Okay, pretty good. It’s all coming back to me.

A voice interrupted my History of Troy for the Academically Inept. “Excuse me. Can you tell me…”

Automatically, I reverted to docent mode, even before I turned to face my inquisitor. I was standing in front of the famous bronze statue
Diana the Huntress
by Houdon, a stop on the Huntington audio tour, but not one of my personal favorites. Diana, or Artemis to the Greeks, had been my area of study in grad school; this stuff I knew cold. I felt like I had to defend her legacy.

“This Diana was sculpted by Jean-Antoine Houdon in 1790. It is admired for its fine musculature and the beautiful depiction of the face of the powerful Goddess of the Hunt. But really, this poor goddess couldn’t kill a rabbit with that tiny bow, not to mention a charging boar! Furthermore, she’s buck-naked, which is not helpful when riding through the forest at top speed. Talk about chafing. And let’s face it, it’s hard to fight off an unwanted paramour when you’re nude! Obviously sculpted by a man.”

Oops, that’s not in the official script.

“Actually, I just wanted to find a water fountain.”

I turned to face the bluest eyes I had ever seen on a man. Along with the eyes, there was a deeply tanned face, a great head of dark hair and a very amused smile. Must be mid-40s, good height, nice, nice nubby chocolate-brown sweater. He wore a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and had a guide to the grounds curled up in his right hand. No ring. He looked like a very thirsty Gerard Butler, and there I stood, sweating and blushing and speechless. If I could have strangled myself with my kicky scarf, I would have. Seriously, I would have squeezed my own head off.

“Oh, I’m sorry. So many visitors ask about the Diana statue, so I just assumed that was your area of interest and I expounded without thinking,” I babbled on, sounding like a Japanese tour guide on speed. “But really, you just wanted a water fountain. I can do that, too! The water fountain is near the Garden of Flowing Fragrance. Just follow the path along to the left, beyond the camellias. May I help you with anything else?”

Please say no and just back away while I try to regain my dignity.

“No, though I have to agree. She is seriously disadvantaged with that weapon. And I hope she’s wearing a lot of sunscreen. You’re right to be up in arms.”

“Thank you. I’ll take it up with a curator.”

“Oh, you’re not one? You seemed to really know what you were talking about.”

Was this guy flirting me with? Or just trying to smooth over my obvious embarrassment? Really, it had been so long since I’d had a conversation with a man that did not involve business, golf or Merritt, I had no idea what was happening. On the other hand, I recognized my feelings of inadequacy from high school and college, so maybe he was flirting with me. But then again, why would Gerard Butler in a nubby sweater be flirting with
me
?

“No, I’m a … well, I’m hoping to work here, but right now, no. I’m a … just a freelance, volunteer docenting person.”
What? What does that mean?

Just then Sarah and Karen from Library came bursting through the double doors. Karen was a Master Librarian, a term I thought existed only in children’s books, but no, Karen was the Queen of the Dewey Decimal System. She knew every volume, every document, every drawing in the Huntington’s collection—a walking card catalogue. She wore the same red blazer every day of the year, even when the temperature hit the triple digits in August. She claimed it was the “insane air conditioning”; I thought
she
was the insane one. But I liked her intensity.

“How great. You’ve met!” Karen shouted, nodding at me and Nubby Sweater. I was confused and so was Nubby Sweater. Karen from Library was oblivious to most human emotion, preferring pages to people, but Sarah was not. Sensing our confusion and noting Nubby Sweater’s tall, athletic build, she stepped up to correct the situation, using her best public relations voice.

“Dr. O’Neill, so nice to meet you. Heard just great things about your work. Welcome to the Huntington. I’m Sarah White, in charge of public relations, for all you see before you.” Dramatic hand gesture combined with humble head bow. “I’d be happy to help you with
anything
you need.”