Helen of Pasadena (14 page)

“Great place. Great guy,” Patrick said, slipping into the front seat of my car.

A budding bromance? How nice for both of them.

“By the way, you’re on your own until Monday. I’m going out of town for a few days.”

We were back in the honeymoon suite. I was packing up to leave for the day, already late to pick up Aiden. Patrick’s statement caught me off guard. I hoped my face didn’t register too much disappointment.

“Oh, okay. What would you like me to get done by Monday?”

“Let’s try to get the first half-dozen notebooks scanned and input. If you have a chance to transcribe the material, great. Your notes would be really helpful, and typed pages would be easier for me to go through than the handwriting. After five or six journals, we should have some idea if the notebooks contain anything interesting about the original excavation. Then, I’ll spend a couple of days formulating some kind of hypothesis, or people might get suspicious about what we’re doing all day,” Patrick said, a little too warmly. Maybe he wasn’t used to drinking at lunch. “I need to be ready in case Sarah starts grilling me again over tacos.”

Apparently, he wasn’t going away with Sarah White. That knowledge improved my mood. But Sarah got me this job, so I wasn’t ready to sell her out either.

Patrick logged onto his computer, clearly getting ready for a few more hours of work as I raced off. “And I was wondering if you could help me with something. I have to do a presentation for a bunch of middle school kids next week. That’s not really my usual audience. Isn’t your son about that age?“

“Yes. In fact, he goes to Millington. Your presentation is for his school.”

“Small world.”

He had no idea.

“Can you take a look at my Power Point and see if it’s something that kids his age would like? I could use a gut check. I’m worried it’s too academic.”

“Sure.” I was astonished. A couple of glasses of wine and now I was the Gut Check Monitor for Dr. Patrick O’Neill. “Let me give you my e-mail. Just send it to me. What’s the basic premise of the presentation?”

“Oh, you know, basic Trojan War history, a bit of the Heinrich Schliemann story, and then I wrap up with my work there. The subtext is that archaeology is like solving a mystery, with high-tech tools like image intensifiers and computer models, and old-fashioned grunt work.”

“As in digging in the dirt?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, teenagers do love image intensifiers! And digging in ditches.”

“I thought they liked computers.” Patrick got defensive.

“Where’s the excitement? The action? How about throwing in the fact that the father of modern archaeology, Heinrich Schliemann, was a bootlegger and con man? He made his millions trading arms. The guy was barely educated, was a pariah among the academics of the time. But he had the audacity to discover Troy. And he married a mail-order bride, Sophia, who had to take a test on Homer before he would agree to wed. How about throwing some of that in for the kids? That’s exciting. Computer imaging, not.”

“I’m a professor, not a screenwriter.”

“And I’m just a mother, not a Ph.D. But I think you should liven it up a bit. Or you may scare off an entire generation of potential archaeologists. Didn’t you get into the field because of stories like that?”

Patrick paused, thinking about my question. “No. I liked the structure of academics. The rigor. Not the romance.”

It was my turn to pause. “Good to know, Dr. O’Neill. Send the PowerPoint. Aiden and I will take a look. Here’s my cell number in case you need anything while you’re gone.” I jotted the contact information down, then lingered at his desk. What was I waiting for?

“Thanks,” Patrick said, looking at me directly and for a touch too long. “How many hours does it take to get to Santa Barbara from here?”

Santa Barbara, paradise on Earth. Who or what was in Santa Barbara? “About two, depending upon the traffic. Don’t leave at rush hour. It could be days. Do you have family there?” Fishing for facts. I hoped I wasn’t too obvious.

“No, my family’s on the East Coast now. I’m staying with a former student, now colleague. Teaches at the university, doing interesting work relating trade routes to changing religious beliefs from Bronze Age to present-day Near East civilizations. I’m going to visit for a few days. Exchange notes, that sort of thing.”

“I hope it’s sunny. Have fun with him.”

“It’s a her. And I’m sure I will.”

CHAPTER 10

“Just how many women does he have? First Sarah, then Artsy Wife in London, then Santa Barbara? How many more are there?” I demanded of Candy, as we pounded our way around the three-mile loop of the Rose Bowl. Every morning, hundreds of Pasadenans made their way around the famed football stadium as part of their daily exercise routine: the young, the old, the dog-walkers and the mom squads. Candy and I were just two of dozens of mothers, clad in black tights and baseball caps, to walk the walk that morning. We’d already seen posses from Millington (the South American moms, speaking Spanish, walking slowly and wearing full makeup), Martindale (Cole Haan “sneakers” and no body fat) and Redwood (
Who walks in clogs
?).

Candy called out to each group, addressing each woman with her signature, “Cheers, doll!” She made no social distinctions. Everyone was a friend to Candy. She literally knew everybody in town. You never know when you’re going to need somebody, she always said.

I looked over at her in her quilted silver down vest, capri tights and top-of-the-line Nikes. Was she panting?

“Helen, let’s back off the pace a little. You’re a maniac this morning.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just in a hurry. I have to get to work and everything.”

We rounded the final corner, Candy’s big Lexus in view. She slowed considerably and put her hand on my arm to get my attention. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you need some therapy.”

I did take it the wrong way. Totally the wrong way. “I spent my whole childhood watching my mother try consciousness-raising and primal screaming. So no thanks. I’m fine. Or I’ll be fine. I just need some time.”

We were in the parking lot now. Candy spoke to me with a genuine concern, “Helen, usually this walk is when I gossip and you nod and laugh. I was all set with a great Neutron Melanie story from the last Five Schools meeting, but I couldn’t get a word in. You just spent the last three miles going off on Adele at Millington, high school admission counselors, real estate prices, your accountant, the water polo coach and some woman in Santa Barbara that you don’t even know.”

“I needed to
vent
my feelings. Not get in touch with them.”

She reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a fully-loaded Louis Vuitton key chain. “I’m not a big fan of self-reflection, either. That’s what vodka is for. But honey, you are angry. I love anger. It serves a purpose. But not forever. I think you need to talk to somebody. This is not about a high school interview or the board of trustees. This is about Merritt. You’re pissed off he died and left you to deal … with everything.”

For someone with multiple ex-husbands and personal scandals attached to her name, Candy was surprisingly free of issues. If she thought I needed help, maybe I did need help.

Damn.

I had been so focused on Aiden, I never thought to consider myself. I’d even tried to talk Aiden into a summer camp for grieving teens but he smirked, “Yeah. Sounds fun, hanging out with a bunch of kids with dead parents.”

Maybe I was the one who needed a summer camp? I didn’t even know where to start. I leaned up against my car and pretended to stretch out my calves.

“Merritt’s sisters are cleaning out his closet today. I can’t even face his blue blazers. How can I face all …” I hung my head. “… all the rest of it?” “I’ll call around and get some names. Somebody good and experienced in grief counseling.”

It surprised me that she would use that term. Candy had been so harsh about Merritt and the affair. It was almost like she was admitting that she had judged the situation too quickly. Had I, too?

“Just talk to somebody a couple of times. It couldn’t hurt. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Candy climbed into her SUV and started the engine. Beyonce came blasting through the speakers. “You wanna be my date at the Symphony Gala this weekend? The PR person gave me an extra ticket. I bet Mitsy will be there. And maybe some nice older single gentlemen. And I do mean
older
!” Candy back to being Candy.

“Darn. I’ll be at a water polo tournament. Have some sherry for me.” Me back to being me.

“Will do. Cheers, doll.” And off roared my good friend.

The office was quiet except for the low hum of the scanner and the sound of the radio in background. With Patrick out of town, I used the opportunity to wear jeans, listen to NPR and think about what Candy had said. Normally I was the type of person to over-think every decision, researching and mulling over a situation ad nauseum before acting.

But since Merritt’s death, I’d done the complete opposite, reacting quickly, even rashly. I thought that was what I needed to do. Get the finances in order now, grieve later. Was I wrong?

Maybe I
should
talk to someone. Just because my mother made a full-time job of therapy didn’t mean that I had to spend the next two decades finding myself. I bet a few quick sessions would do the trick. Or, I could start by opening up a few of the books about grief that Monsignor had sent over. I was a freshman in college the last time I read Kübler-Ross. I was lost in thought, completely ignoring Document Scanning Protocol Rule Number One: Focus on the work.

That’s when I heard a terrible tearing sound.

Oh, shit. I’d turned Page 122 of Notebook VI too quickly and torn it slightly. Okay, maybe more than slightly. Maybe three-fourths of the way down the page. Damn, damn, damn.

What if Karen from Library checked the pages every day when I returned the notebooks? Please, please, please don’t let Karen from Library check the pages. I don’t want to lose this job.

I don’t want to lose my
life
!

Once, when I was 13 and was cat-sitting for our next-door neighbors, I locked one of the cats in the basement for a week by mistake. I made the illicit trip to the basement to check out the rumor that the Mills family grew shrooms down there. I expected to find boxes of dirt and fungi under Gro-lights. Instead I found the traditional crap stashed in basements: broken ornaments, old luggage, rusting barbecue grills. The Mills family did not appear to be shroom farmers, just pack rats.

After my sleuthing, Snowball went missing. Six cats accounted for, one cat MIA. I just kept putting food in the Snowball bowl and pretending that he was eating, because I was too terrified to tell anybody that I’d lost Snowball. When the neighbors returned, they heard him mewing wildly from the basement and found an emaciated Snowball curled up with the Christmas decorations. I played dumb, as if Snowball had been bouncing around all week and must have just gotten trapped in the basement on his own.

It was such a mystery, Mrs. Mills kept repeating. How did he get in the locked basement? Despite the clear trauma to Snowball, they bought my story. Stupid hippies. Maybe they
were
growing shrooms. I have felt guilty ever since.

My plan with the ripped notebook page would be the same as the Snowball Incident. Play dumb. Deny all allegations. The notebook was already ripped when I scanned it, that was going to be my line. Wait? Can they do carbon-testing to determine the age of the tear? I was so screwed.

Just then somebody knocked on the door and I was 13 again. The irrational thought of Karen hearing the rip clear across the Huntington grounds zoomed through my stressed-out brain.

“Umm, just a second,” I yelled in a shaky voice. I knocked over a tasteful leather pencil holder and a box of extra-large paper clips in a rush to hide Notebook Number Five. I shoved the notebook under the couch pillows, readjusting the fleece throw to hide the bump. My heart was pounding.

Relax, relax. Was that breathing at the door?

Another knock, this time louder. “Helen, are you in there?’

Thank God, it was Sarah White, not Karen. I could feel my heart rate slow. I flopped down on the couch, hoping Sarah would buy my casual repose. “Oh, sure, Sarah, come on in!”

She entered cautiously, looking around the cottage for signs of Patrick. When it was clear the true objective of her visit was absent, she focused on me, lounging on the couch in the middle of a workday, no work nearby. Her face registered disgust. “What are you
doing
?”

I popped up, praying that the notebook did not fall to the floor. “Just taking a break. Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks.” That was a relief because I didn’t have any made and my hands were shaking so much, I wouldn’t have been able to measure out the beans. “I’m looking for Patrick. Is he around?”

So, Patrick hadn’t told Sarah about his trip to Santa Barbara? Perfect. Now I was on the hot seat. “No, he isn’t. I don’t expect him in for the rest of the week.”

Yes! That was good assistant language. Very neutral, but indicating that I am not at liberty to discuss.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why? Where is he?” Now Sarah White wasn’t playing fair. Conundrum. If I told her where he was and she tried to track him down, he might get annoyed. But if I pretended I didn’t know and Sarah found out that I
did
know when he returned, she would get annoyed. So, I opted for the halfway solution.

“He’s working in Santa Barbara. He’ll be back on Monday. That’s why I have to get back to work.” I loosely pointed my desk, hoping Sarah wouldn’t notice that there was no actual work on the desk because I’d stuffed my one allowed notebook under the couch to hide its disfigurement.

“What is he working on in Santa Barbara?”

I shrugged my shoulders in a dramatic fashion, “Bronze Age trade routes. He has my cell phone for an emergency, but I don’t have his.” There, I think I shut down that line of inquiry.

Not so fast. Sarah did not seem entirely satisfied. She moved in closer. “I noticed you two were gone all afternoon yesterday. Field trip?”

Was Sarah White stalking my boss? “Lunch, a long lunch. Patrick has been filling me in on all his research so I’m up to speed. Helps me to put this project in context,” I explained, quite satisfied with my tone. “It’s taken a few days, but now I’m fully on board.”

Lots of good mumbo jumbo in there. I sounded like a pro.

Sarah was now circling Patrick’s desk, pretending she wasn’t reading the few papers left there. “You know, we’ve been out a few times. Has he mentioned me”

Now it was Sarah’s turn to act 13.

“We’ve just been talking about Troy. I don’t ask a lot of personal questions. That’s not the relationship I have with Patrick.”

“Of course not,” Sarah bristled, brushing imaginary lint off her tailored cream-colored suit. “I thought I just might come up, you know, in the course of conversation.”

If this is going steady in midlife, it doesn’t seem much different than going steady in middle school. That depressed me. “He doesn’t say much about his private life.”

“You know his ex-wife is Susanna Ashford, the fabric designer? Marimekko and Laura Ashley rolled into one? Apparently, they fell madly in love for about six months and had a child, but then she fled back to London when she realized that Patrick cared more about his work than her work.”

Of course he’d been married to Susanna Ashford! Why wouldn’t he have a fabulous first wife? That explains the dirt and the creature comforts comment to Ted at the bar. Still, I was shocked that Patrick would reveal something so … so
self-aware
to Sarah over tacos. “He told you that?”

“Oh, not all of it. Just that he had a daughter. So I googled Cassandra O’Neill, the daughter, which led me to Susanna Ashford, which led me to an interview with her in
The Guardian
. She didn’t mention Patrick by name, but when she said ‘my first husband, the archaeologist,’ I knew it was him. Apparently he inspired her new line of bedding. The ancient design, I mean, not the concept of sheets.”

That was a relief. I didn’t really want Patrick opening up to Sarah, but I didn’t know why. I felt a little disloyal, so I added, “He’s an interesting man. I’m sure you have a lot in common.”

That was nice of me.

Apparently, Sarah didn’t think so.

“I’ll let you get back to your
work,”
Sarah said
.
My loyalty dissipated.
“
If he calls, can you tell him I stopped by?”

And once Sarah White made her exit, I got back to my “work,” trying to minimize the damage I’d done to the notebook. I remembered what Patrick had said: objects are not inherently valuable because they are old. Or something like that.

Maybe these notebooks would really turn out to be useless. That would be great.