Helen of Pasadena Page 21

  The people in this room were content with their lives. What was wrong with that?

  We were wrapping up dinner when Aiden unexpectedly announced, “Thanks for finding my dad’s letterman jacket, Aunt Mimi and Aunt Mikki. My mom gave it to me the other night. It’s a little big, but I think I’ll grow into it.”

  More tears and choked-up thanks followed. Billy and Lacey hugged and kissed all the Fairchilds, including me. Then it was clear that it was time to go. But not before Mitsy got in one last request, “Helen, can I speak to you a moment on the porch? Here, have the last of the wine.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  The question was vague, but I knew Mitsy was looking for specific information. After the initial news from Billy Owens about Merritt’s financial meltdown, I’d spoken to him about not revealing any confidential information to her again. Mitsy Fairchild may be a privileged client who is like a mother to him, but she is not entitled to know my business. Billy apologized and promised to keep his trap shut around Mitsy. Obviously, he had. Tonight at dinner, he was Billy the Rowdy Best Friend, not Billy the Consigliere.

  “I’ll be fine,” I answered, nodding for emphasis. “Aiden and I will be just fine once the house has closed.”

  “You’ll stay in the area,” she stated, not in the form of a question.

  “Yes. Our lives are here.”

  “Tuition?”

  “Covered. And we’ll make all the adjustments we need to make. Thank you for asking, Mitsy.” We managed to cover a lot of ground in the fewest words possible. Clearly, she understood the big picture, but she didn’t want to know details. And I didn’t want to give them to her. “And thank you for planning today. It was lovely and just the right thing to do.”

  “Of course,” Mitsy concurred, although I’m not sure if she meant, ‘Of course it was lovely’ or ‘Of course, it was the right thing to do.’ Or both.

  Probably both.

  “Helen ” she said, pausing. “Do you need anything?”

  I studied my mother-in-law’s carefully crafted face. I think she was genuinely asking me if I needed anything. Like a hundred grand or a hit man or a prescription for Xanax. In that moment, I believed she could get any of those wish-list items and more. But despite the fact that I would soon have no home and no job, I didn’t need anything.

  “Not a thing, Mitsy. Not a thing.”

  “I understand that your little job is ending soon at the Huntington,” Mitsy carried on, oblivious to the steam coming from my ears when she referred to my “little job.” “But they consider you a hard worker. And the scholar you assist, he’s quite something, isn’t he?”

  Was she fishing for information? Had she heard some gossip or rumors? Well, this fish wasn’t biting. “Dr. O’Neill is very accomplished. It’s been a great experience working for him.”

  “What will you do when he leaves?”

  Regret that we got no further than a kiss. Eat pints of ice cream, regaining all the weight and then some. Bookmark his Facebook page and click on it a hundred times a day. What do you think, old lady? I’ll miss him in a way that I haven’t quite missed your son.

  “I’m sure Dr. O’Neill will give me a good reference. I’ll find something. I have to, so that’s what I’ll do.”

  Now it was Mitsy’s turn to study my face. “Good work.”

  Sunday morning at Bob Hope Airport in Burbank was so sleepy that even the fact that we were “very late” by my standards did not stress me out that much. My mother had taken forever to pack her potions, tonics, bangles, leather and feathers. “How did you ever live out of a van with all this stuff?” I asked as Aiden and I heaved her deep blue rollaway bag with tie-dyed ribbons onto the sidewalk in front of the Alaska Airlines terminal.

  “It’s something I meditate on all the time: Where did I get all this baggage?” My mother laughed at her own double entendre. “Just leave me. Don’t come in. I can make it through security on my own. Enjoy the beautiful Sunday with your beautiful boy! Come here, Aiden my dear.”

  Aiden submitted to a smothering hug with genuine affection. “Bye, Nell. See you this summer!” And with that announcement, he winked theatrically.

  My mother winked back, “Break a leg, kid.”

  “What was that all about?” I asked, feeling like the only one not in on the joke.

  “We have a plan we’re working on, but we can’t talk about. We need some additional intelligence, right, Aiden?”

  “Right,” Aiden shouted, already climbing back into the front seat of the Audi.

  “Mom …”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing subversive. We’ll let you know when we have it all worked out.”

  I still didn’t like being out of the loop, but I let it go. “Thanks for coming. It was fun. I did need some company.”

  My mother gave me her “little lost lamb” look before she launched into another Joni Mitchel reference. “You know what you are, dear? Stardust, Helen, stardust.”

  I knew how Aiden felt when I sang his praises publicly: self-conscious and weird. “I know, Mom. It's just gonna take me a while to get back to that garden.”

  “I can see that,” she hugged me and then briskly turned herself around, pulling her roller bag and swinging her ginormous carry-on. “I left you the live tea culture. Keep brewing! And be grateful. Stardust, Helen! Stardust!”

  More like sawdust, I thought, as I joined Aiden in the car. “Wanna go to Ikea and get some meatballs?”

  “It’s, like, 10 o’clock in the morning,” Aiden answered.

  “You know my motto: It’s never too early for meatballs.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Keeping up with Sarah Longlegs, stride for stride, made me realize how successful my lunchtime fitness program had been. I was not nearly as out of breath as I’d been four months earlier when I gasped out my need for employment to the public relations director. Now, as we pounded around the Huntington’s walkways, past the manicured lawns, bouncing fountains and blooming camellias, I could walk and talk at the same time while wearing European comfort shoes and wielding a clipboard. “Okay, here’s the rundown for next week, Sarah. On Wednesday morning, we’ll submit the article and supporting visuals to Archaeology magazine. Wednesday afternoon, we meet with the producers from The Dirty Archaeologist for a pre-pro…”

  “Oh, listen to you. From room mom to ‘pre-pro’—you certainly have made quite a leap in a short time,” Sarah quipped a little too sharply, even for her. She slowed to a stop in front of the Japanese teahouse and waited for my reaction.

  Listen up, Longlegs, as far as I can tell, chairing the Word-Write book fair involves a lot more creativity, planning and politics than producing a TV show, I wanted to snap back. TV shows have teams of paid producers and resources to burn. School volunteers have to create something out of nothing all by themselves. This is a picnic compared to that.

  But I held my tongue. I needed to stay on Sarah’s good side for any future job references, so I pretended she’d said something delightfully naughty. “You got me. Using the lingo before I have the credentials. Let me re-phrase. Wednesday afternoon, we have a pre-production meeting to go over all the details of the shoot the next day. You should probably sit in for that. Then, of course, Thursday is the big shoot. The producers want to set up first in the Scholars’ Cottage for the morning, then do some exteriors on the North Vista lawn and along the Camellia Walkway, with the sculpture garden as a backdrop. I know you were copied on that e-mail. They expect to be done in one day. One long day. The crew call time is 7 a.m., so I’ve made arrangements with security to have the gates opened early. Then on Friday, there’s the public lecture in the Founders’ Hall. I’ll have the PowerPoint ready to go. And on Saturday, the benefit.”

  Sarah gracefully sat down on a nearby bench, crossing her legs to reveal camel herringboned trouser socks above her JP Tod loafers. How is it possible that her textures blended so well? I could never get that blended-texture thing down. She patted the seat next to her, an invitat
ion to take a load off. I did, with much less grace than she. “Helen, when I first recommended you for this job, I wasn’t sure you were up to the task. But I thought you needed a break. And look at you now. I don’t know how Patrick got along without you. That man needs a full-time Helen to keep his life in order. He’ll be lost without you when he goes back to Athens in a few weeks.”

  “Thank, you, Sarah.” Her words made me wince a little. She made me sound like a dowdy secretary combined with a doting wife. I pictured the ripped biceps and the tanned legs of the many female grad students he must have at his disposal in Athens and Troy. Not to mention the comforting presence of Annabeth, who, according to her producers, was planning a trip to Troy to shoot this summer. I didn’t think “lost” was the adjective I would use to describe a certain archaeologist. Patrick would manage just fine.

  “You’ve been a great asset on this project. You’ve really pulled things together. I’ll keep my eye out for an opportunity for you to stay with us here at the Huntington.” Sarah eyed me steadily.

  Wow, now I was officially blown away. “I would love that. That would be amazing.”

  “I’m off to meet with the director,” Sarah said as she stood up, preparing to charge off in another direction. “By the way, do you know who Olympia Sutton-Majors is?”

  Of course, what PBS Masterpiece Theatre viewer in America didn’t know Olympia Sutton-Majors? She was a lovely, pale, utterly British actress whose name was synonymous with tastefully produced costume dramas. She’d played every heroine in every made-for-TV series set in 19th-century England for the past decade. Nobody looked better in an Empire-waist muslin dress than Olympia. But recently she created a buzz when she played a brainy, sexy MI6 operative opposite Daniel Craig in the last Bond movie. Her refusal to get breast-enhancement surgery had made her an icon to less-endowed women. Plus, she was constantly in the news with one attractive actor or another. What an odd question from Sarah. “Sure, the actress. BBC, Bond, B-cup activist. Why?”

  “Well, Melanie called and said Patrick was bringing her to the Five Schools Benefit. Wanted a comp ticket for her and a seat at the head table. I guess they’re an item. Has he mentioned her to you?” Sarah asked, oblivious to my shocked face. She appeared to have no idea that I was supposed to be his date. Oh my God, Sarah must have been waiting for a last-minute invite! And clearly, she didn’t even suspect Annabeth as a romantic interest. We’d both been had.

  “No, never mentioned her,” was all I could squeak out.

  “Well, things weren’t going to work out with Patrick and me anyway. I’m here; he’s leaving in a couple of weeks. It’s for the best,” Sarah said, holding her head up high and completely misstating the nature of their relationship. There really wasn’t anything to “work out” except the occasional lunch and some one-sided delusions. “An actress is perfect for him, all drama. You know how men like Patrick want drama in their lives. Working women like us aren’t exciting enough to hold them, of course.

  Damn, I’m late.”

  Sarah rushed off as I sat glued to the bench.

  Before Merritt’s death, I used to think there were two roads you could take in any situation: the high road or the low road. But since then, I’d learned that the only two roads you could take were the slow road and the go road. On the slow road, I could stand by passively, making wild assumptions about the situation, waiting for someone to rescue me. Or I could get on the go road by taking a deep breath, gathering information and making informed decisions. See, I had learned something in my three sessions of grief recovery!

  I chose the go road.

  I started by texting Candy: What do you know about Olympia Sutton-Majors?

  Then, I followed up with a text to Tina: Please check seating charts for benefit. Am I at head table?

  Finally, I gave myself a little lecture about my unrealistic and slightly immature expectations, hopeful that berating myself would lessen my anxiety and put me in a better position to talk to Patrick minus the hysteria. He is a world-famous archaeologist. You are a lowly research assistant with stretch marks and a forehead that could use some Botox. He could have anyone; why would he pick you? That thing in the parking lot, the intimate discussions—that’s just his style. Seriously—you or Olympia Sutton-Majors? Is there really a contest?

  The worse I felt about myself, the better I felt about the situation, in the sense that I could handle the inevitable: I’d be going alone to the benefit and Patrick would be going back to Greece with a Bond girl. But if that was the case, I was going to find out sooner rather than later.

  Once you have nothing to lose, you have nothing to lose.

  I popped up off the bench and headed back to the cottage to ask Patrick one question: What the hell was going on?

  Believe me, nothing can take your breath away like the sight of a beautiful British actress in a passionate embrace with a beautiful, brilliant archaeologist. Especially when the actress is Olympia Sutton-Majors and the archaeologist is … Annabeth?

  Holy shit.

  “Oops,” I said like a moron, as I stood in the doorway of Scholars’ Cottage #7, stunned by the scene in front of me. Had I been in less of a rush to confront Patrick, I might have been able to pull off an unseen retreat once I stumbled upon the secret lovers. But with my usual lack of grace, I made a loud and unattractive entrance. Annabeth and the palest woman I’d ever seen in person separated, very slowly. These two were in love.

  Clearly, of the three of us in the office, I was the most embarrassed. By miles.

  “Helen! You caught us!” Annabeth giggled.

  “Annabeth, I’m sorry, I didn’t …” I started to apologize, but she didn’t let me finish.

  “I didn’t mean you ‘caught’ us. I meant, whoops, you caught us, ha ha! Nothing to hide in here!” Annabeth gushed, pushing the ghost-like Olympia toward me. “Olympia, this is Helen, the one I was telling you about. Helen, this is the love of my life, Olympia Sutton-Majors.”

  Olympia, in head-to-toe cashmere, embraced me like a long-lost sister and planted a euro-kiss on both cheeks. “Helen!” Olympia sang. “Wonderful!” Oh, she was so soft and smelled like the Cotswalds.

  “Welcome to Pasadena!” I was so overwhelmed with relief, random phrases were just flying out of my mouth for no reason. “You’re lesbians. That’s fantastic!” Olympia was Annabeth’s date, not Patrick’s! What great news! Patrick wasn’t going to the gala with a gorgeous actress; he was going with me. I continued to smile like an idiot. Annabeth and Olympia seemed a little taken aback by my enthusiasm. I tried to explain in my best suburban mother, I’m-an-Ellen-fan manner: “It’s just great that you’ve found someone to love. To have in your life. Someone so … special. You two look very happy. And that makes me so … happy.”

  “We haven’t made it public or anything. It’s complicated,” Annabeth explained while gently patting Olympia’s arm. Olympia finished the thought, “We’re just waiting for the right time to tell people. You understand.”

  “Yes, I understand. Life is complicated. Don’t have to tell me. And you are …” I could barely carry on a conversation with the spectacular Ms. Sutton-Majors. Thank God, she was a lesbian. I didn’t stand a chance against her with Patrick. “You are … my favorite British ... person.” That was awkward. Then, it dawned on me. The Dirty Archaeologist was being produced by Aphrodite Productions in association with the BBC, according to all the press releases I’d seen. Duh! Aphrodite must be Olympia! “Wait! Is Aphrodite your production company?”

  “Yes! Well, it’s ours together. Annabeth’s show is our first production. It’s so exciting and Annabeth says the whole first episode would be rubbish without you. You’re a wonder, she says.” Now I get it, Annabeth’s whole faux-British accent. It wasn’t from Annabeth’s post-doc years at Oxford; it was from her years with Olympia. Lover-ly.

  And though I enjoyed the props, I was still trying to wrap my head around the happy couple. Where did that leave Patrick? On the inside of this twosome, possib
le threesome? Or just a willing beard?

  “I’ve enjoyed it,” I said, brushing aside Olympia’s compliment for now, circling back to the really important stuff. I faced Annabeth. “And here I thought that you and Patrick were a thing!”

  “Oh, no. A million years ago, but that’s all water under the bridge now,” Annabeth confessed, with both she and her co-star gazing at each other, laughing. “Really under the bridge, in so many ways. Plus, Patrick is all work these days. For the last decade, really. The fact that he’s still single is one of the great archaeological mysteries of our time. I think he’s waiting for someone he can share his work with. He only uses me for my research.”

  I could live with “a million years ago.”

  Olympia chimed in, “When he comes to Santa Barbara, he retreats to the guest house with his laptop or the beach with his books and only emerges for cocktail hour.” So Olympia had been hiding out in Santa Barbara this whole time and Patrick never said a thing?

  And then the movie star and the archaeologist filled me in on their whole romance. Where they met and how (On Crete almost two years ago, with Olympia researching a role as a 19th-century female explorer and Annabeth providing the tutoring), how they settled into their bi-continental relationship (“Santa Barbara sunshine is the perfect antidote to London fog!”) and what their plans for the future included (The Dirty Archaeologist, a miniseries about Marie Curie and two children by 2014). The two of them prattled on forever, thrilled to be sharing their story with someone.

  I barely noticed the time, until Patrick walked through the door in the late afternoon. If he was shocked to see us cozied up on the couch together, drinking tea and swapping stories, he didn’t show it. “Well, here’s a powerful triumvirate. Did I miss anything?”