Helen of Pasadena (30 page)

Before he returned, I’d been responding to the texts from Tina from last night, each one getting progressively more frantic, then accepting:

Where r u?

OMG, Shelley Sleazy.

OMG, WTF Mitsy?

R u still here?

Do u need ride home?

OK? Guess not. Good luck.

Call in morning.

Candy had sent just one: Holy Crap. You deserve best night of life.

Go get it.

And finally, one text in from Rita the Armenian: Have found your house! 1112 Sunshine St. Perfect. Meet me at 1.

To Tina I responded: Am alive and well. Very. To Candy, I responded: I did.

To Rita, I responded: See u at 1.

I had just put away my phone when a sweaty Patrick walked through the door, in running shorts and an Arsenal T-shirt. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Apparently time and life experience have not made this portion of the morning after any easier. I was looking for just the right mix of warmth and cool. “You’re quite a provider: food, shelter, toothbrush, velour sweatsuits. Thank you.”

“Good thing the spa shop opens so early. I thought that number was slightly better than the fuzzy bathrobe. Though personally, I like anything fuzzy,” he said, grabbing a nine dollar bottle of water from the minibar and taking a big swig. “I didn’t think you’d want to be waltzing through the lobby in your dress. Half the people arriving for Sunday brunch were at the party last night. They recover fast!”

Of course! The brunch at the Langham was the classic gathering spot for party postmortems! “Well, the Langham has a new executive chef, and he is really superb,” I said in my best lock-jawed Mitsy imitation. Then I added in my own voice, “And I think you’re fully integrated here if you actually recognize people in the brunch line at the Langham.” It was the perfect opportunity to let him off the hook. “It’s a good thing you’re leaving before Pasadena sucks you in.”

“Thanks for the warning. I think I’m getting out just in time,” he laughed, and then the easy conversation ended. He seemed to be searching for a way into the inevitable. “Helen, you know, I don’t have the kind of life that makes for great relationships. Up until now, my work has been everything. I live in Athens part of the year, then Turkey in the summer. I travel in between. I live on next to nothing…”

My turn to be the hero. I put my hand up. “Patrick, I had a wonderful time last night. But, I understand the reality of your life. Mine isn’t any more relationship-friendly. You don’t have to explain anything. Please. I know what this is. I get it. It stays here. Nothing more.”

Our eyes met and held for an uncomfortable moment.

“Oh, okay,” he agreed tentatively, seemingly surprised at my preemptive strike. Did I throw him off? Was he headed in a different direction? “I was just … never mind, you’re right. We do have very different lives to get back to, Helen. I guess that’s just the way it is. But last night, I, um, enjoyed your company.” He breathed deeply, as if that portion of the conversation was over and he was relieved. And then a long pause. “So, what’s next? I mean today, what’s next today?”

I almost blurted out, “Come see a house with me!” But I managed to contain myself. If this were a normal relationship, if Patrick weren’t leaving in two days, never to return, and if I weren’t still supposed to be in mourning for my dead husband, there would be nothing sweeter than spending the day with my new man. A personal fantasyland: a long, lazy lunch; house-hunting for an adorable cottage; dinner around the table with Patrick and Aiden getting to know each other better.

But this wasn’t fantasyland. And trying to integrate Patrick into my life here in Pasadena would only make Tuesday more terrible.

So I put him off with a complete lie. “I have something really important to do later. You know, with Aiden. It’s a Fairchild thing. And …” the babbling started. “You must have packing and all kinds of craziness going on. Wow, you’re leaving in two days. I can’t imagine everything you have to do. It’s too bad about.…”

It’s too bad about
what?
That I didn’t meet Patrick twenty years ago?

“… the timing.”

“Yes, it is too bad about the timing,” he gave me a long look. “I do have a few things to do. But any chance you can grab lunch first? Something quick. Tacos?” There was that smile.

“Sure.”
Tacos or cardboard, whatever you want.

“And a shower?”

I cocked my head. “I just took one.”

“I think you may need another,” said the archaeologist, removing his shirt. “I know I do.”

Maybe I could learn to like this no-expectations thing.

The house was never quieter than that night. I’d gotten into the habit of turning on the TV, the radio, the stereo—anything to make noise to cover the silence—since Merritt’s death. But that night, I sat alone in the living room embracing the quiet, even ignoring the buzz of my cell phone. A call from Annabeth. Then another. That’s odd, I thought. I’d listen to the voicemail tomorrow.

Aiden was up in his bedroom, slogging through history homework without enthusiasm, trying to grind out the last few weeks of Millington. Just pass the classes, I begged. Get out clean and then you’re free! He was putting in just enough effort to keep the Ds at bay.

I was nursing a glass of wine and staring at the school calendar, my last vestige of an undigitized life. Everything I needed to do in the next six weeks was scribbled on the appropriate day, old school: Patrick leaves, visit performing-arts school, last day at Huntington, Mother’s Day with Mitsy, final artwork auctioned, antiques dealer comes for dining room set, exams for Aiden, meeting with accountant, Aiden’s graduation, movers arrive. I added a new scribble on moving day: Close on Sunshine Street house?

As Rita had promised, the Sunshine Street bungalow was perfect, a jewel-box example of Craftsman architecture typical of Pasadena, just like my
Sunset
magazine fantasy. It was small, cozy and in my price range. It had two bedrooms, one bath and a tiny attic where Aiden could escape from my constant gaze. The kitchen was as neat as a pin and about as big as a postage stamp. The living room had a fireplace; the dining nook had a stained-glass window. Outside was a porch wide enough to hold two chairs and a table, so we could sit out front, watching the traffic or the toddlers across the street. The garden was drought-tolerant and guilt-free, and there was a firepit and an outdoor shower in the minuscule backyard. The house was move-in condition in a wash of blues and greens. If my life were a Reese Witherspoon movie, this would be the set.

“If you don’t make an offer, I will kill you,” Rita had said after our private showing, just before the agent had an open house. “Do it now, the open house starts in an hour. I want you to have your offer on the table when they throw open the doors to the rest of these people,” she said, waving her hands around, vaguely indicating the masses that would soon be my Bungalow Heaven Adjacent neighbors. “You’ll be happy here for a few years. You’re young, you’ll meet a nice man, maybe he’s a widow or divorced, and you’ll be back in a bigger house in no time. Don’t worry. This is not forever. But it’s perfect for now.”

This is not forever. But it’s perfect for now
. That should be my new mantra. And, in fact, the house was perfect for now. Move-in condition and a relatively good street, except for the Tanzou Chicken restaurant on the corner. (Silver lining! We’d always have something to eat.) And it was walking distance to the train, the one into downtown that Aiden would need to take to school. He could come and go on his own, an advantage if I was going to be stuck in some office somewhere.

When I told him about Sunshine Street, Aiden simply said, “Good. I can’t wait to move. Our house doesn’t feel right anymore.” He nailed it. It did feel like we were living in somebody else’s home: Merritt’s home. I couldn’t wait to move, either.

I offered full price.

Now I sat staring at my calendar. After the move date, I had nothing written down. Not a single thing.

I arrived at work on Monday morning with one thought on my mind: Do not cry.

Do not become a blubbering idiot when it is time to say goodbye to Patrick at the end of the day. Hold it together, Helen. You did it at the funeral, you can do it now.
That’s quite a pep talk.

I took my time in the morning, not wanting to be early. Better if he arrived first and I made a dramatic entrance. I put on jeans and a fitted V-neck T-shirt. I thought my outfit said, “I’m here to pack you up and send you off to Moscow” without being too obvious, despite the fact that at the correct angle, anyone could see right down my shirt. I put on some perfume and lipstick. I was a basket case.

Coffee and scones were my big idea. Hoping to avoid the awkward moment when it was clear that the physical relationship between Patrick and me was over, I thought props would help. The hotel had been great, really great, especially the shower bit, which was so,
so
sudsy. But that was 24 hours ago. By my assessment, we were colleagues again. I figured having full hands when I arrived would take care of the “should we kiss” moment. Everybody knows you don’t embrace someone holding a tray of coffee. Solid planning, I thought.

One look inside the office and it was clear—as usual, I had overplanned.

Patrick was already gone. His desk was cleared. Files were boxed. Post-it notes with addresses and instructions dotted the room.

He was gone.

And I thought I was bad at goodbyes.

There was a note on my desk. And a bag from the Huntington’s gift shop! Well, fuck him, I didn’t need a decorative paper weight. Oh my God, I was so angry I wanted to scream, but I didn’t, fearful of the excellent hearing of Karen from Library. I smashed the scones into the desktop instead.

How could he just leave like that? What a coward.

Then I read the note:

Helen,

My plans changed at the last minute. I had to work in a stopover in London to see my daughter. She is fine, but I need to be there. I didn’t want to bother you at home last night, as you said you had a family obligation.

I hope you understand.

I did my best to clean up after myself, and I hope the instructions
are clear about what to do with all the boxes. I will send additional instructions. E-mail if you have questions.

I never expected my time in Pasadena to yield so much for me personally or professionally. Helen, you are part of that unexpected pleasure.

Please open the bag. I kept up my end of the deal.

Patrick

I reached into the bag and pulled out the Nubby Sweater, still smelling of lemon verbena, of Patrick.

That’s when I started to cry.

CHAPTER 23

Our footsteps pounded around the Rose Bowl. Was this the four hundredth time Candy, Tina and I had walked these three miles? Or the four millionth? Who knew? I only knew that it felt good to be up early, beating the blistering July-in-Pasadena heat.

“So that’s the story,” Candy recounted. “Candysdish is exploding, I may get a regular gig on Access Hollywood, and still my daughter refuses to go to Raleigh. Turning down a waitlist spot! I’ll be over there with the exhausted Catholic moms at Sacred Sisters. At least I won’t have to get dressed up for the Mother’s Club meetings! I guess when it’s your fifth time through high school, you don’t give a shit what you look like. It’s so refreshing to be in a roomful of women where nobody is a single-digit size. Who would have thought a year ago that my daughter would be going to a school with kilts and your son would be going to the
Fame
school, dancing in the lunchroom? Okay, what’s next?” True to form, Candy was a fine moderator, guiding our conversation on the walk, letting each of us talk and vent before moving on to the next person or topic.

Already, Tina had updated us on her vacation plans: The La Jolla Beach Club, of course, and then a week in Minnesota with Anders’s family at some “godforsaken lake house with spiders and mold. Ten thousand lakes and we go to the same miserable place every year.”

Tina also filled us in on the Spanish immersion camp that Lilly would be attending soon, followed by a week at Girls Rule Leadership Camp. Then a stint of community service that included “playing chess with poor kids.” The college resume-building had begun in the Chau-Swenson household.

Then Tina shocked both Candy and me by announcing her new career. After her experience pulling me up by my bootstraps emotionally, sartorially and legally, she had an epiphany. Her particular set of skills was gold to women recovering from divorce or the death of a spouse. She was marketing herself as a lawyer/life coach, specializing in “Post-traumatic Reinvention of Spirit, Closet and Contracts.”

“Tina, that is brilliant niche marketing,” Candy gushed, and I agreed. “I’ll feature you on the site. Helen, you’ve got to blurb Tina. You are the poster child for post-traumatic reinvention!”

Tina looked extremely pleased with herself. “Thanks, you guys. I was worried you might think it was a really bad idea. But I think I have a gift! Sometimes that starts with a divorce settlement. And sometimes that starts with your wardrobe. And let’s face it, after a decade of doing volunteer work, I want to get paid for my time!”

“Amen to a paycheck!” Candy witnessed. She was in an insanely great mood. It must be her new romance with the recently single top dermatologist in town. Forget Dr. Feelgood—Candy had found Dr. Lookgood. She’d bought a series of Botox injections at the benefit silent auction, and one shot was all it took for the relationship to blossom. Though she swore she’d never get involved with another doctor, dermatologists apparently didn’t count. For the past two months, they'd been hot and heavy, but on the down low. The less she talked about a relationship, the more it mattered. And in the case of the distinguished doc, she’d barely breathed a word, except to say, “Best charity donation ever!” Could he be Husband Number Three?

“Candy, you better watch all that interaction with Hollywood. You’re starting to talk like a fake person. Blurb is not a verb,” I said. “But of course, I will write a ringing endorsement of your work, Tina. Do you want before and after photos, too?” “I love it!” Candy cried. “And hey, Ms. Hollywood Producer, glass houses. You’re the one with the fancy title, not me. And I'm pretty sure I heard you say “up fronts” the other day, so you’re busted.”

“How is work?” Tina asked as we rounded the far northwest corner of the Rose Bowl, the conversation turning to me.

“Still a dream! It’s great.” My dream job had started the day after the Patrick departure nightmare. Annabeth and Olympia insisted I come to lunch in Beverly Hills, despite the fact that I was having trouble even thinking about, never mind dressing for, a Hollywood lunch. I was a victim of Paralysis of the Heartbroken. But I forced myself out of bed and into Work Outfit #5, updated khakis and V-neck cashmere sweater. Lunch at the venerable Ivy turned into a three-hour affair with wine, laughter and a Julia Roberts sighting. During lunch, Team Aphrodite offered me the position of executive producer of
The Dirty Archaeologist
. I almost fell off my chair into a potted plant.

Olympia, with her flawless diction and equally flawless complexion, insisted that they simply could not imagine doing the show without my steady, knowledgeable hand. I had proven to be the perfect candidate for the job while helping with the Patrick segment: researching topics; scheduling crew and locations; interfacing with the director; writing questions for the host; rehearsing answers with the interviewee; securing coffee for all involved. Apparently, that qualifies as producing! Olympia finished by saying that only I understood their language
and
had the practical work ethic to get the job done.

Annabeth chimed in with more ego stroking. I’d shaped the Schliemann Journals segment, gotten the best out of Patrick
and
managed to get all the production details right, down to the flower arrangements in the cottage. That’s exactly the type of academic approach combined with an entertainment instinct that the show needed.

When I protested that I’d never executive-produced a television show before, they both howled. Olympia said, “Neither have we, and that hasn’t stopped us! Television is full of people who only know television, not real life. You know something critical, Helen. You know how to get things done.”

Though I tried to come up with any excuse not to take the job—the fifteen-minute commute, the hours, the potential for travel—there was nothing really solid stopping me. I had to take it. Right then. So, fifteen years after my last paying job, six months after my husband’s death, and one day after Patrick left town, I became the executive producer of
The Dirty Archaeologist
.

For the last month, I had to pinch myself as I headed into work every day. I held down the home office in Burbank, spending my days suggesting segments, booking guests, pre-interviewing guests and making decisions about music, visuals and artwork. The kind of stuff I’d done for years as part of my volunteer work or to help Aiden with his projects. I loved every aspect of the job, especially working with Olympia and Annabeth, who were flying all over the world, shooting at archaeological sites from Peru to Stonehenge, constantly calling me for input.

“Feel free to treat the rest of the production staff like your teenage son. Repeat everything ten times, expect attitude and yell if necessary. That should work. They’ll do all the nitty gritty stuff—the schedules, travel details, filming visas. We need you for the big picture,” Olympia had advised, adding with a stage whisper, “And to keep Annabeth sane.”

That’s exactly what I did, minus the yelling at the staff. That wasn’t my style. Too many years of Fairchild restraint under my belt to start screaming now. In truth, being the executive producer of a television show was not that different from chairing the Word-Write festival.

It might even have been easier.

But I didn’t let on to Tina and Candy. I was enjoying the fact that people in town were impressed by my job, not my spouse’s job, as had so long been the case. Plus, I needed some advice. “So here’s the deal: Annabeth and Olympia want me to go to Turkey, to the Troy site, to do a follow-up interview with Patrick. They think we need it for the pilot episode. What did Patrick learn in Moscow? Is Priam’s Treasure a fake? Did he prove it? You know, basic stuff. In terms of the interview, anyway. I just don’t think I can do it. I’m not sure I can face him in person. I don’t know what to do.”

“Go!” Tina and Candy said simultaneously.

“But what if I get there and it’s all wrong? What if it’s weird and awkward? I keep thinking that maybe I imagined us.”

Candy had the answer. “You did not imagine the night at the Langham. First of all, more people saw you leave that hotel than you think! And second, you deserve some fun. So why not? Go to Troy and have an amazing adventure. What’s wrong with that?”

“It feels like it’s done, it’s over.” At least according to Patrick, judging from the business-like tone of his communications. He updated me on research, sent photos from the site, and requested press releases and documents about the TV show, but he made no mention of any personal relationship. He was friendly and warm but not the slightest bit suggestive. He seemed to have erased our night together.

But not me. In the eight weeks since his departure, I had not stopped thinking about him, despite my constant attempts to get him out of my head by creating enormous work and life distractions. I threw myself into planning a graduation party for Aiden and braced myself for Mitsy’s reaction to Aiden’s new high school plans. I packed and moved from one house to another. I watched Emilia marry Juan and go to work for the Gays with my blessing. I put Aiden on a plane to spend the summer working on the river with my brother and living with my crazy, adoring parents. I worked every free moment, trying to get up to speed. I even signed up for another round of grief recovery therapy to make sense of the last year.

And still, I couldn’t get Patrick out of my head.

I thrilled at his every mundane e-mail. I blushed over the simplest instant messages. I went over the night at the Langham—hell, I went over every interaction we ever had, again and again and again. “I think I need a sign, something to tell me that flying halfway around the world and showing up on Patrick’s dig site is not going to be a giant act of personal humiliation. I need an auger like the Greeks. Someone to read the birds and tell me what to do.”

“You really need a flock of birds to tell you what to do? Sometimes you are more like your hippie mother than you think!”
Don’t I know it.
As we rounded the northeast corner of the Rose Bowl and headed for home, Candy asked, “What does Life Coach Tina say?”

“Yeah, if you want that blurb, tell me what to do.”

“Helen, take what you’ve learned this year and apply it.” Tina said in her most obtuse Life Coach Speak.

“
What
? Is that what they taught you at Life Coach School? That’s no good. Be Tina, not Life Coach Tina.”

“Fine. Go. Get on that plane tomorrow. That’s what I’d do,” Tina said, snapping her fingers for emphasis. “But if you need some sign from the universe, then wait for a sign. Just don’t wait too long! The summer will be over soon. And I don’t think you want the proverbial dust to settle that long.”

“Go, Helen,” Candy agreed. “Be brave. And then you’ll know.”

That’s the catch, I thought. Then I’d know.

There was no mistaking the elegant figure or the dynamic pace. Sarah White was marching toward me, signaling with her hand that she either needed a cab or wanted me to wait. Since there are no cabs roaming the streets of Old Pasadena, I assumed she wanted to talk to me. Damn. I was caught red-handed with a large pomegranate frozen yogurt with kiwi and almonds. Eating in public, on the street, in my velour hoodie ensemble, was something the well-bred Sarah would never do.

Oh my God, did Karen from Library discover the ripped page in the journals? I was dead meat!

“Hello, my long-lost friend!” Sarah bubbled, moving in for a social hug while trying to avoid my fro-yo. “You must have the day off. Look how casual you are. What a treat. How are things? How’s TV Land?”

“Great.” Hallelujah, not the ripped page. What a relief! I’d barely seen Sarah since the night of the benefit. My sudden departure from the Huntington to produce a TV show coincided with her annual pilgrimage to the Smith reunion, so our goodbyes had been hasty. There had been a few e-mails back and forth, but no face-to-face meetings. As usual, she looked like a page out of the Saks catalogue in a short black pencil skirt and shiny gray top, continuing to make me feel short and underdressed. “I’m hanging in.…”

“Super. Well, things are just fine at the Huntington. We miss you, of course, and we can’t wait to see the Schliemann episode. And I’m sure you heard about Melanie coming on board as the new director of development. She’s a powerhouse! She’s going to make my job in public relations so much easier. She creates magic!” Sarah said, with complete seriousness.

“I heard. You two are some combo. Watch out!” Good for Melanie! She’d found an outlet for her ambition that did not involve firing nannies, terrorizing committee members or spending more of her husband’s considerable fortune. She would be an asset to the Huntington, though the sudden early retirement of the former development director at the age of 52 was suspicious. My guess? Melanie offered him a “package” and he took it. “Melanie must be fun to have on board!”

I got the sense Sarah had something else on her mind. She did, as she explained quite dramatically. “
And
we have an exciting new Distinguished Scholar. Milton Westbrook. Of Swarthmore. He’s a Professor of Lithographic History and Ephemera. His specialty is the 19th century. He is a genius when it comes to color lithography and the impact on the social fabric of America. He’s wonderful.”