Helen of Pasadena (16 page)

I had plenty of sunscreen, a $12 floppy hat from Target and a Diet Coke. Life was good.

I was seated on a hot, reflective aluminum bench at the Mecca of Water Sports: the Mission Viejo Natatorium. The Orange County town of Mission Viejo turned out more Olympic swimmers and more Olympic water polo players than any hamlet in the country. It was a chlorine-fueled factory, where the local kids were genetically gifted and simply bigger, stronger and faster than other mere landlubbers. There was no way Pasadena was going to win, despite the fact that we were tied 1-1 in the first quarter. Soon, MV would open up the score and crush us like they always did.

I pretended to watch the game, our second of the day, sitting alone to avoid conversation with my fellow parents. I had no desire to keep up with the chatter: playing-time issues; the effectiveness of fitness training; the must-win situation at the 4 o’clock game to advance when we lost this one. Usually I feigned interest in these topics to play my part, but today I had no patience.

These were nice people—the Gambles, the Barneses, the Keegans, the Villanuevas. Parents who had paid their money and wanted to see the highly qualified coach, a former UCLA and US National team player, shape their children into polo-playing machines. I could see that they only wanted the best for their kids, but some of them had out-of-whack expectations.

Aiden had some talent, some drive, but probably not the size to be the “impact player” that the other parents talked about endlessly. I’d never harbored the delusion that he’d be attending USC on a Division 1 water polo scholarship, unlike many of the parents who crowded the stands that day in Water Polo Mecca.

After that interview at Ignatius, I did not harbor any delusions at all.

Then my Blackberry signaled a text. It was 1 o’clock—the open house had started. Tina, acting as my eyes, ears and security guard, was checking in with a first report. Packed. Line to get in when doors opened. Did you see pic in LA Times today?

Yes, I’d seen the full-page ad in the real estate section, touting the house, my house, as “the perfect home in which to raise a family and create memories. “A rare opportunity to own a piece of Pasadena history at an attractive price.”

And a big piece of my history at an attractive price.

I turned back to the game just as Aiden pump-faked with the ball, then let a bounce shot rip from about seven meters out. Goal! Goal! Goal!

I went wild. I may not understand the constant whistles that signals fouls, or the “five meter” call, no matter how many games I watched, but I loved seeing Aiden’s face when he scored. Pasadena up 2 to 1 at the end of the second quarter. Unbelievable.

Another ping. Emilia is in kitchen serving coffee and cookies. Nice touch. Does she come with house?

Aiden came out of the game to rest. I gave him a thumbs up for the goal. He ignored me. I should have known better. When he was playing soccer at age 6, he’d come off the field seeking my approval. Now he just listened to the coach, the guy who went to the Olympics, not his mother, who didn’t know the first thing about water polo.

Ping. Many gay couples. Did you promise martinis?

Ping. Made walk-through. Everything OK. No media if you know what I mean. Juan the painter is here with Emilia. Is something going on?

Ping. Spotted: Neutron Mel and Hubby. She is Very Overdressed in Calvin Klein suit. He is in golf wear. Hasn’t she seen your house a million times?

Yes, yes she has.
Could she actually be there to look at it, as in buy, my dream house? Melanie and her husband lived in a perfectly lovely place in the lower Arroyo, a classic California ranch with a view of the bridge and a grove of eucalyptus trees. Please don’t let me have to sell my house to Melanie. That would be too humiliating.

Ahhh! A giant air horn signaled the end of the quarter and I nearly fell off the bench. I frantically typed to Tina: Tell me how long she is in there.

“Great shot by Aiden! They are going to love him at Ignatius next year!” Chip Barnes bellowed from several rows below. I gave another stupid thumbs up to avoid crying. At six feet already, Chip’s son Randy was an “impact player,” and rumor had it he was being “highly recruited” by schools all over the area, including Ignatius. At least that’s what Marika Villanueva claimed at practice the other night, adding in a dismissive tone, “It’s a good thing he can play, because he can’t add.”

“Thanks, Chip. I think we’ve got a chance today!” I returned, as much to be social as to keep my mind off Neutron Mel going through my medicine cabinets. At least I’d hidden all the sleeping pills, as Candy had suggested.

“He’s going to do great things next year,” Chip shouted for all to hear. Since Merritt’s death, I’d noticed that the fathers on the team had rallied around Aiden, giving him extra attention after the game, taking the time to tell him how well he played even if he hadn’t. It was very sweet.

Ping. Mel still in there. Gay couple out front examining plantings. Heard them say they love the roses and the kitchen. These guys look like the real thing. Driving Range Rover. Gays are so good for property values.

Ahhh! The air horn signaled the start of the next quarter, and the Pasadena crowd stood and chanted, in an effort to whip our team into a frenzy. I applied more sunscreen and hoped that Melanie hated the wallpaper in the guest bathroom and the Gays loved the rosemary hedge and the French lavender beds.
Maybe I should have planted the tulip bulbs; they were just so expensive
. Aiden was back in the game and swimming hard. It was nice to see him work.

Ping: Mel not out yet. Maybe she is trying to hire Emilia away from you. Heard she fired another nanny. Gay couple calling friends to come over and see the place. Rita circling for the kill.

Yes. Let’s go, Pasadena! Let’s go, Gays!

Ping. OMG. News Slut is HERE. You were right. She is still wearing skinny jeans. So sad. I’m going in.

My head started to swim. The game seemed to move in slow motion. I threw myself into the action, cheering wildly for every pass, block and stop as the third quarter ended and the final six minutes of the game began. The other parents turned to look at me, surprised at my newfound enthusiasm. At one point, I even yelled at the ref, which was a huge stress reliever and an absolute no-no in the Parents’ Code of Conduct. When Randy Barnes rifled a shot past the Mission Viejo goalie to put the team up 3 to 1, I leapt to my feet and cheered like we’d just landed a man on the moon.

I decided: If Pasadena wins this game, the Gays will buy my house.

Cheers erupted again from our crowd. Randy Barnes scored again with the clock ticking down the final seconds. We’d slayed the dragons. Pasadena beat Mission Viejo in their home pool! What an upset! I climbed down to hug Chip Barnes, and there were tears in my eyes.

Ping. News Slut broke down in the living room and never even made it upstairs.

As the celebration continued around me, I read the text in disbelief. Was it grief? Or did she finally understand that Merritt’s “other life” with a wife and a son and a home was very real?

And exactly the life she had pictured for herself.

Just then I heard a familiar voice call, “Mom!” I looked down at my son, in his Speedo and cap, surrounded by his joyous teammates. Aiden gave me a thumbs up, then pointed to the sky. Our eyes met; mine filled with tears.

My phone rang at 8:30 Saturday night. I muted the volume on the TV in my suite at the Courtyard Marriott. Back in the day (like two months ago), I would have booked myself in the nearby Ritz-Carlton, but nowadays, the free breakfast buffet was a big selling point.

The hardest-working real estate agent in Pasadena, Rita the Armenian, was on the line for the fifth time in three hours. She was at a raging wedding at the Glendale Westin, but that didn’t stop my girl from making her deals. She had the other agents fax the offers to main desk at the hotel to review in between the ceremony and the reception. Then she faxed them to me at the Courtyard Marriott. I’m sure the 19-year-old at the desk thought I was quite a wheeler-dealer.

“It’s fantastic. We have two really great offers. See, I told you. The right price makes all the difference!”

“Take the Gays,” I replied.

“But the other offer from Melanie is a little stronger. It’s $69,995 more and a quicker close.”

It’s rare in life that you really get to answer the question,
How much is my dignity worth?
Here was my opportunity. Not having to see Melanie, or any other Pasadena family that bore any resemblance to mine, in my house was worth $69,995. Easy.

“I’ll take the other offer,” I replied. Over the last few hours of phone calls and faxes, I’d become very fond of Greg and Tony, who said in a personal letter to me that the house “sang” to them. How could I not appreciate that sentiment? And maybe they could become my new friends when I ended up in a tiny one-bedroom condo, home-schooling my son. “You can counter, but I don’t really care. I want Greg and Tony to have the house. I’ll make up your commission on the difference.”

“If that is your decision, that is your decision. And you know what, I didn’t like the way that Melanie tried to hire Emilia at the open house. Very tacky. Okay, I’ll let you know in the morning. I have to go dance.”

Yeah, me too. I knew the reality of moving would hit me soon enough. But at that moment, I felt nothing but elation. So I did a little a dance right there in room 447, by the light of the soundless TV.

CHAPTER 12

The Fairchild Performing Arts Center was packed, a standing-room audience hanging on Dr. Patrick O’Neill’s every word. He came to life in front of an audience, his intensity turning theatrical, as he entertained the students, teachers and carpool moms with the drama of the Trojan War, the archaeological audacity of Schliemann and his own humble passion that led him to a lifetime of discovery.

Sure, the amped-up PowerPoint and the blue jeans and linen blazer ensemble helped the overall quality of the presentation. But when Patrick spoke about the great battle between Achilles and Patrokolas and their ambiguity at being “heroic,” it was like he’d witnessed the scene in person. When he described Schliemann’s determination to find Troy, despite his rogue background and lack of formal training, he made everyone in the room want to take up bootlegging or archaeology late in life. And when he waxed on about his own personal epic journey, with Homer as his constant companion as he moved from city to city as a boy, well, every woman in the room wanted to comfort him. Judging from the reaction of the students, teachers and mothers, Patrick could have been holding up a cardboard diorama and wearing a hospital gown and I’m pretty sure the effect would have been the same.

I scanned the back row, finding the familiar faces of friends and frenemies who had chaperoned their middle school students to hear Patrick’s Word-Write lecture. Tina and Candy were riveted, as if Nubby Sweater was lecturing about the
Real Housewives of Ancient Troy
. Cissy Montague looked lovely and slightly confused by all the big words. Jan Gamble was actually taking notes. Even Neutron Melanie had put aside her Blackberry to give full attention to the speaker, a first. I noticed that she and her henchman Jennifer Braham were starting to dress alike, which was good news for the shoulder-pad manufacturers of America.

As Patrick was answering questions from the animated audience of sixth, seventh and eighth graders, Word-Write Chair and Dentist of the Doomed, Dr. Natasha, caught my eye. She bowed her head, making the international “palms together, head bow” gesture to show she was forever in my debt. In her eyes, he was a rock star and I was his Penny Lane.

I’ll take that rep, I thought.

Just then, Patrick began his wrap-up from the stage, “Thank you, students, for your attention. It’s a great pleasure for me to stand in front of you and share my work. Someday, I hope you find something that you love doing as much as I love archaeology. I spend my days with my hands in the dirt, uncovering, literally and figuratively, our past. And in doing so, I glimpse into our future by working with some of the most talented students from all over the world. It’s humbling. Maybe in the future, one of those students will be you.”

Did I just hear a collective sigh from the seventh-grade room moms?

Patrick continued, “And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention one Millington student who really helped me with my presentation. Aiden Fairchild, are you here? Can you stand up, please?”

Aiden, seated about eight rows from the front, awkwardly rose, looking like his head might explode with embarrassment and pride. The other kids applauded.

My heart melted.

“Fantastic job, Aiden. You should be a film director. And thanks to Helen Fairchild, my very talented research assistant,” Patrick sought me out in the back of the room and made eye contact. The eyes of every mother in the room turned to me as well. “Thanks, Helen.”

Now my head was about to explode with embarrassment and pride.

“If you have any other questions, I’ll be here for a few minutes. Otherwise, study hard, challenge yourselves and find something you love to do.”

After the lecture, while Patrick was mobbed by slouching, shy teens wondering how they, too, could spend a life digging up clues, I stood off in the corner, receiving my share of kudos. Team Yoga Pants from the Word-Write committee rushed to my side with praise and admiration. The Chess Club moms nodded their heads and patted my arm. Even the teachers made the effort to come over and tell me how impressed they were by Patrick
and
by Aiden.

Then, Headmistress Adele Arnett made her way to my growing circle, clearly determined to reach some kind of détente after our face-off.

“Helen, what a thrill it must be to work with such a scholar. I’m sure his research keeps you very busy and stimulated. How satisfying it must be to have the time to devote to such important work. And to be able to include Aiden is a wonderful benefit for his academic future.”

“Yes, it is. But Aiden has always been interested in history, so it’s no surprise to me. You heard what the man said! Aiden could be
a film director!
” I said formally, with what I hoped was a touch of insouciance. “And Adele, I’ve always been able to multitask. I care deeply about the work I do, be it volunteer or paid. Assisting Dr. O’Neill doesn’t preclude me from doing other things I’m passionate about.”

Yummy, that felt good. I turned my back on her to face Candy and Tina, who had finally recovered from the post-lecture coma.

“Okay, let’s review. You work in a small, confined space with that man?” Candy jumped in.

Tina laughed. “We need to work on your whole undergarment situation, just in case there is some ‘emergency excavation’ going on in the office.”

“You are bad. Shut up, here he comes. Remember, this is my boss, not some guy I met on Craigslist, like the men in your life, Candy. Please try to be appropriate.” I turned to face Patrick, who appeared a tad flushed himself from all the attention. I couldn’t help but smile. “That was really great.”

To my surprise, Patrick leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks to you and Aiden. You really made the visuals ‘rock,’ as the kids say.”

Was it me, or was he still holding onto my arm?

Candy mouthed, “Oh my God!” Then she rebounded with her Rose Queen-turned-gossip-columnist charm. “Dr. O’Neill, you were fabulous. Where has Helen been hiding you? You can’t spend all your time in the library, digging up things.”

I rolled my eyes, “Patrick, these are my dear friends Candy McKenna and Tina Chau-Swenson. Dr. Patrick O’Neill.”

Sadly, he released my arm to shake their manicured hands. “It’s good to meet you. Helen’s been keeping me very busy, staying on task. She seems to think I should be spending my sabbatical working, not socializing. She keeps giving me notes, reworking my presentations, making epic discoveries. Is she always such a slave-driver?”

Just then Neutron Mel busted into our happy circle, sucking the oxygen out of the atmosphere. I’d been trying to avoid eye contact with her all morning, terrified she was going to shake me down for details on the house deal. Surely, she thought she’d been outbid. If she knew that I simply didn’t want her to have the house, she could make life very ugly for me.

Please, Melanie, no real estate talk.

I was hugely relieved, and slightly breathless, when she embraced me as if I had just found her the nanny of her dreams. “Helen, I am so carried away with inspiration by your Dr. O’Neill. You
must
introduce us.”

Why was she talking like a Masterpiece Theater production? And why was Jennifer hovering two steps behind with a clipboard and a pen at the ready?

“Of course. Patrick O’Neill, this is Melanie Martin. Patrick, Melanie is …”

All eyes turned to me. Melanie is what? A force of nature? A blood-sucking vampiress? A frustrated marketing exec who should just go back to work and leave the child-rearing to a lovely woman from Guatemala?

I was in a generous mood. “Melanie is a mover and shaker here in Pasadena. Nothing happens without Melanie’s knowledge. Patrick, I’m sure she’d be fascinated to hear about your foundation.”

I didn’t even bother to introduce Jennifer. It was my own passive-aggressive payback for the fact that she took my spot on the Five Schools committee.

Melanie stepped right into the middle of the action, commanding the moment with the confidence of a women who had run a giant marketing team. “Dr. O’Neill, I would love to hear about your foundation. Really. In fact, I have a proposal.”

Patrick didn’t miss a beat. “I was married once and I think that’s my limit. But best of luck to you.”

Candy almost fell off her inappropriately high platform shoes. And I laughed a little too loudly.

Melanie was unperturbed. “Please, Dr. O’Neill. Once is my limit, too. And I just happen to have him around still, making the situation that much more complicated. I’m talking about a business proposal of sorts.”

“Let me guess. Helen of Troy mud masks made with actual dirt from Troy?” Candy piped up. There’s nothing like a love/hate relationship for generating cattiness on a grand scale.

“Oh, Candy. You are too funny. And I’m sure you’ve tried every product on the market to look younger, so you know where the gaps are in the beauty category. But no, not that,” Melanie struck back. “I am talking about the Five Schools Benefit. Wouldn’t Dr. O’Neill be the perfect honoree? Think of it! ‘The Best and the Brightest’ is our theme. Who is better or brighter than Dr. Patrick O’Neill?”

Tina and Candy looked stunned, as if Melanie had just announced that she was changing the event to benefit graffiti “artists” and their contribution to the community. The benefit honoree had already been chosen, a beloved public high school chemistry teacher and track coach who was retiring after 45 years of service. Melanie wouldn’t dare drop Mr. Thurmond, would she?

On top of that, you can’t change the theme of a huge event eight weeks from the date. Thanks to Tina, the invitations were on the way to the printers. Candy had already issued the press releases. A sub-committee of ten had chosen the menu. And poor Leonora Dillard on the decorating committee! Her idea of “Best and Brightest” was lots of white lights and some big metallic stars. She was going to have a fit over re-creating an ancient city in two months.

Most important, committee members had already bought their dresses! How were they supposed to interpret “The Glory of Troy” in an evening gown with only two months lead time?

Patrick turned to me for support, “I’m not sure I follow.”

I tried to fill in. “We have a big benefit here in town to raise money for the public schools. Every year, an educator or artist or philanthropist is honored for his or her work. Melanie thinks you would be, um, great. It’s just … Melanie, I know I’m not on the committee anymore, but what about Coach Thurmond? Isn’t he scheduled to be the honoree?”

Melanie flashed her Blackberry at me, as if it held the answers to all the questions in the universe. “You didn’t hear? Just got a text this morning. Coach Thurmond is not going to be available. Something about steroid use in his sprinters. Seems the chemistry teacher knew his way around the lab. Very messy. But it explains all the record-breaking performances. Anyway, we’re moving on. And you, Dr. O’Neill, would be a heroic honoree. Get it? Heroic?”

Here comes The Branding. I could tell from previous experience with Melanie
(Don’t think of this as a playgroup. This is The Pathway to a Shining Future!)
that she’d re-thought the entire benefit while Patrick was lecturing. That’s why she wasn’t checking her Blackberry; she was brainstorming with herself!

“We could use Troy as a leitmotif for invitations, decorating, food. We could create a Greek temple at the Huntington. Huge swaths of white fabric billowing in the wind. Golden accents, glorious food from the Mediterranean. And Dr. O’Neill accepting the honors on behalf of schoolchildren everywhere, for his inspirational work. And here’s the business part—it’s a chance for Dr. O’Neill to meet eager donors for his foundation. It would be spectacular.”

I had to give it to Melanie—other than the fact that the Trojans weren’t actually Greek, it would be spectacular. One look at Candy and Tina told me that they were blown away by the speed at which Melanie operated. This morning? Local hero Rex Thurmond. By lunchtime, Melanie was riding in on a Trojan Horse.

And she was right. I had to back her up on this one. Patrick needed the exposure. And I needed a cause.

“Melanie, that is a wonderful idea.” I turned to a skeptical Patrick. “The event draws everybody. And generates a ton of press, national press even—
Town & Country
and the
New York Times
. Great visibility for your work and your foundation. You might want to do it. I mean, you might want to
accept the honor
.”

Patrick looked around at the circle of eager committee members awaiting his response. “I have two questions. When is it?”

“The end of May. Plenty of time to get your tux. Will you still be in town?” Melanie cooed.

Patrick nodded.

“What’s the second question?”

“Helen, will you be my date?”

I’ve never liked convertibles with the wind, the noise and the constant need to replenish sunscreen on my Oregonian skin. But I enjoyed the ride to Laguna Beach with Patrick in his rented Pontiac Solstice. It was the most spontaneous thing I’d done since the latter days of the Clinton administration. And it involved bikini waxing, which I discovered was quite painful.