Helen of Pasadena (27 page)

CHAPTER 21

Laughter, music and a deep golden light poured out of In Vino Veritas. It was a beautiful May evening, warm enough to go without the lavender silk wrap, a loaner from Tina that I had carefully folded in my evening bag for later. The Gambles had invited about a dozen couples to meet at the wine bar before heading to the Huntington. I’d been so relieved to get the invitation. It was the perfect place to rendezvous with Patrick. The last thing I wanted was for him to pick me up at my house. There was too much of my old life there. With only four days left of his stay in Pasadena, I didn’t want him to intersect with Merritt in any way.

I scooted myself out of Tina and Ander’s Lexus and collected my thoughts. After our dress fitting/sex pep talk, Tina went home to get ready. Returning a few hours later to act as my chauffeur, she looked stunning in a turquoise Badgley Mischka dress and sky-high golden sandals by somebody important. She stuffed me into my McFadden and zipped me up for the night. “Gotta get those girls in there,” Tina grunted as she manipulated my C-cup breasts into the B-cup bodice. “You are now officially a couture size 8, except in the boobs. Lucky you! Turn around.”

I stared at myself in the mirror, and my cheeks went red. It had been a long time since I’d been comfortable looking at my reflection. But tonight, something felt very different. Sure, the hair, the dress and a fresh coating of Bobbi Brown “Port” made a huge difference. But it was something more.

It was confidence.

“Thank you, Tina.”

“It’s all you, Helen.”

Even Anders, Tina’s serious Swedish husband, gave his approval freely while hoisting me into the back seat. “You look lovely, Helen.”

Now, at the door of Veritas, I paused.

“You ready?” Tina asked, fluffing my flowing but slightly depoofing hair and leading me into the bar to meet Patrick. “Never mind, of course you are. Stand up straight. Relax your shoulders. Let’s go.”

And in we went.

Patrick was by himself, perched on an oak stool at a table on the other side of the room, in a proper black tuxedo with a proper white pin-tucked shirt and bow tie. He was sipping champagne and watching the door. When our eyes met, a wave of warm excitement rushed down my entire body.
Please don’t let the seams split
, I thought. I breathed in as deeply as the dress would allow, catching the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the pergola outside, mixed with the aroma of red wine.
Here we go.

I had to maneuver through a throng of well wishing and air kissing, attempting to keep Patrick in my sights at all time, like a dancer spotting during a pirouette. I prayed I could cross the room without my knees buckling, especially given the height of my heels. Fortunately, he stood up and met me in the middle of the crowd. He took my hand, brushed his lips against my left temple and said softly, “I have found my Helen. Helen of Pasadena.”

Very nice. The words Heinrich Schliemann himself had used in his journals to describe his young bride. With a twist, of course. But I had to bring it back to our common ground.

“Which version? Victim or harlot?”

“Definitely ‘the face that launched a thousand ships’ Helen.”

“Thank you.” If the evening had ended right there, I would have been perfectly satisfied. The starvation, the hair extensions, the waxing—everything would have been worth it for that moment. But it got better. “Come with me. I have something for you.” He took my hand firmly and led me across the crowded room.

After being swept away, I finally found my voice. “Did you get me a corsage, prom date?”

Patrick laughed. “Sort of. It is a gift. And I believe it will complement your dress, though maybe not as well as the pink carnations with baby’s breath I got my actual prom date in 1982.” By then, we were at his corner table, and he handed me an elegant silver bag with clouds of tissue paper peeking out the top. “For you, Helen.” He poured a second glass of champagne while he watched me unwrap the package.

The bag contained a gold-and-jewel-encrusted wrist cuff; it was spectacular. I was speechless. It was a modern take on an ancient design, dazzling with semi-precious green, blue and purple stones entwined like a snake and set off by delicately hammered polished gold. I knew exactly what it was and what it meant. “Oh, Patrick! It’s like the bracelet from Priam’s Treasure. It’s ... it’s lovely. Did you have this made?”

“I did. I wanted to thank you, for everything.” Patrick appeared to be struggling with his words. “You’ve made the last few months very, um, successful for me. In terms of research and, well, in terms of everything. Thank you.”

It was the least articulate statement he had ever made in my presence. I slipped the cuff on my wrist and held it up, Wonder Woman-style, for him to see. “Now I feel all-powerful.”

“You’re more powerful than you think, Helen,” Patrick said quietly. The warm rush returned. I reddened, sure I was sending out a strong “take me now” signal. The moment ended too quickly when Ted Gamble bounded up to us with an open bottle of Argyle Sparkling Brut.

“Any one need to be topped off? We should be going to the Huntington soon. Jan’s already there, and she said if our whole gang arrives late and drunk, she’ll kill me!” Ted said, refilling Patrick’s glass and mine. There was a slow shuffle toward the door by the other guests, reluctant to leave the convivial warmth of Veritas for the crush of the benefit. Ted turned to me. “Did Patrick tell you about our alliance?”

“No. Have you formed a softball team? Drinking club?”

“Both good ideas, but no. I’m going to be on the board of his foundation, helping to fund his work and find resources! I know people who know people, Helen.” Ted looked like he could not have been more thrilled. “And hopefully, getting in there doing a little digging myself!”

It was obvious the bromance that they'd started that day at lunch months ago had blossomed into real respect and friendship. “Now I’ve got to get this crowd going. I’m sure Jan is wondering where all the big spenders are!”

As Ted waltzed away with the last of the bubbly, I dropped my mouth wide open, cocking my head, “That is amazing. On your board and funding your research! How did that happen?”

“I’ll tell you in the car,” Patrick answered, draining his glass. “But you really should have warned me. I almost blew it.”

“Warned you about what?”

“I thought the guy was a bartender, Helen. A well-educated, well-read bartender. Hours of conversation over lunch and he never mentioned that he was that Ted Gamble, gentlemen proprietor with a very healthy trust fund and then some. I almost started laughing when he offered to underwrite the next three years of research.”

“That could have been awkward.”

“Yeah, thanks for the heads up.” He laughed.

“Well, you’ve learned an important lesson about Pasadena. No one here is what he or she seems at first glance. And it only took you several months to learn that. It took me years.”

“I’m a quick study.” Patrick offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

The Huntington was dazzling. As beautiful as the magnificent grounds were during the day, by night, especially on this night, it was like being in another world of wealth, privilege and excessive landscape design. The labor of a thousand leaf blowers and temporary workers on ladders had transformed the gardens into Ancient Troy: A full moon, thousands of twinkle lights and a phalanx of potted olive trees leading to a dazzling white tent inspired by a Gehry building. The piece de résistance? An enormous Trojan Horse standing guard at the entrance to the gala, a movie prop generously donated by Warner Brothers, secured by the beaming and exhausted Leonora Dillard, chair of the decoration committee.

“Wow. I’m impressed. I had no idea it was going to be this … glamorous. Is it always like this?” Patrick asked, fidgeting with his tux for the first time. He led me by the elbow up the walkway into the flashing bulbs and electric energy of the band in the tent. I was glad he didn’t take my hand. Someone might have seen us.

“Yes … and no. Usually there is press and hoopla, but not like this. There’s
Entertainment Tonight
!” I lost my cool, then recovered. “But I think they’re here for Olympia and Annabeth, um, not you.” I tried to soften the blow.

Patrick let out a giant guffaw. “Helen, do you really think my ego is that big?”

“No, no, not at all. As far as TV-star archaeologists go, I think you’ve got yours in check. I just didn’t want you to be
disappointed
if nobody takes our picture. I think the only archaeologist ET appreciates is Harrison Ford.”

“Then it’s a good thing I brought my bullwhip.”

“You did not!”

More laughter. “No, I didn’t.”

The long walkway up to the tent was lined by earnest young musicians playing the theme from
Ben Hur
. Close enough. I waved to Tran and his wife, standing off in the shadows behind their son Bernard. Tran gave me the thumbs up and Mrs. Tran waved and smiled. I waved back just as Sarah, in Armani and a head set, appeared out of the shadows.

“Finally. We thought you’d never get here,” Sarah snapped, giving me the once over, then turning toward the man of the hour, Dr. Patrick O’Neill. “I got him, Melanie. He’s here. We'll do the press. then I’ll send him in.” Sarah barked into her headset, obviously relishing the telepathic communication she and Neutron Mel were sharing. I was surprised that Sarah would get so involved, but then I realized that in the midst of all the press attention on Olympia and Annabeth, Sarah, ever the public relations maven, did not want the Huntington’s message points to be overlooked. She stepped in between Patrick and me, relegating me to third-wheel status. “Okay, Patrick, I am going to walk you through the press gauntlet, let them know who you are, and you do your thing. Be charming and mention the Huntington every chance you get, okay? We’ve got the
L.A. Times
, the
New York Times
,
Town & Country
, various local news organizations, and then ET, TMZ and that little Candy. Even
Archaeology
magazine sent a photog. Are you ready?”

Patrick looked to me for guidance. “I bet you wish you had that bullwhip now!” Sarah gave me a funny look. I took the hint. “I’ll see you inside the tent.”

Off he went to have his moment of fame while I strode up the rose-colored carpet alone, hoping my solo entrance didn’t have a Sally-Kellerman-at-the-Oscars feel of desperation. Thank God for Candy! There she was, shining in a low-cut black pleated number that looked like an evil Angelina in Alexander the Great. She was waving me over to her prime candysdish.com spot just in front of the tent entrance. I smiled and focused on her, ignoring the press that were ignoring me. Candy made a scene. “Helen Fairchild! Helen Fairchild! Over here, please! Is that vintage McFadden?”

I felt a few camera lenses turn my way, not that I cared. Finally, I reached Candy. “You look amazing! Where’s Dr. Dig? Ah, that she-devil has him. Well never mind, you’re getting a prime spot on my page. Below the lesbians, of course, who just called to say they will be here any minute. And let’s face it, this town would have a field day if you showed up hand-in-hand with a guy that attractive. Why do you want all those rumors? But, look at you! My God, what is that bracelet?”

I explained the gift from Patrick. Candy said, “That’s an impressive gesture. That’s good. Have the best night of your life, please, for me? Enjoy yourself and for once, don’t overthink everything. Tonight, underthink everything. But don’t drink too much. If something happens, I want you to remember every detail. You know, so you can tell me!” Candy’s phone buzzed and she checked her text. “Oh, Annabeth and Olympia are here! I’ve got to focus. Find me later, doll?” And with that, my dear friend of fourteen years practically shoved me into the tent.

I took the opportunity to re-do my lipstick and overthink one last time.

Candy was right. The last thing I wanted was Aiden or anybody else to see “couples photos” of me and Patrick and start to gossip. Frankly, there was nothing to gossip about. I didn’t deserve to be grist for the mill for one kiss and several close encounters. That being said, she was also right about the over-thinking. I needed to let go of the worrying for one night. Could I do that?