Helen of Pasadena Read online

  Melanie’s announcement made it clear that Merritt’s death had reduced my standing exponentially. I could no longer pull in the big donors on my own. Melanie was giving me a graceful way out. And I had no option but to accept her exit strategy. My name in the program was my personal-dignity bailout package.

  I bet she plotted this at the funeral. Wasn’t Jennifer Braham sitting next to her? The Best and the Brightest.

  I had to take the deal. I didn’t have the strength to hold out until consulting with Candy and Tina. I know they would urge me to fight on, but now didn’t seem like the best time for a power struggle with Neutron Mel.

  In the same voice I used with my mother-in-law when I knew I was defeated but wanted to project otherwise, I responded, “Oh, Melanie, what a relief. How gracious of Jennifer to step in for me. She’s the best. Please let her know how much I appreciate her efforts. And your quick action, Melanie. Takes a huge worry off my plate.”

  Melanie clapped her hands in agreement (or victory) and leaned back, enjoying her second slug of coffee even more than her first. “It must be overwhelming. Having to figure out everything by yourself. Like money.” Melanie tilted her head, allowing an even better view of her ginormous diamond earrings. My God, as big as Oprah’s! And like Oprah, Melanie knew her way around a balance sheet after managing a multimillion-dollar advertising budget. She came in for the kill.

  “Was that Rita the Armenian I saw going down the street? So, when does the house go on the market?”

  This time Melanie did pause for an answer, smiling while she waited.

  The sound of Aiden’s backpack slamming to the ground shook me from my seething rage after Melanie left.

  “Hey, Mom, I’m home. Mrs. Gamble has another casserole for you. She’s waiting out front.”

  Before I could make eye contact with my son, he was up the stairs to hide out in his room, where he’d spent a good portion of his time since Merritt’s death. I could hear Jan at the front door.

  “Hey, Helen. Today’s offering is beef bourguignon! Nice upgrade! Sophie Wright made it and she can cook. She used to work at the Hearth before having kids.”

  The Hearth was the standard-bearer for all caterers in town. No event was complete without its signature Mashed Potato Bar or Pâté with Pomegranate Seeds. Thank you, Sophie, for a noodle-free dinner. The last time I made beef bourguignon was Christmas 2004, and Mitsy had declared it “not bad for a first attempt.” I’d made it at least a dozen times at that point. Now I had Hearth-worthy beef stew to soften the blow from Melanie. Silver lining!

  Jan lingered in the front hall. “Helen, Aiden said in the car that you have to sell your house. Is that true?”

  Unlike Neutron Mel, the concern in Jan’s eyes was genuine. And her motives were pure. She was one of the most respected mothers at Millington, known for her generosity, discretion and complete lack of flash. Jan didn’t need a $1,200 pocketbook to prove her worth.

  Jan had four kids and two black Labs and drove a big Suburban. Her son Will had been in Aiden’s class since preschool. She could always be counted on for carpooling or room parenting. Or just writing the check to fund an entire hospital wing. Though she’d married into the Gamble family, she had no attitude. Yes, that Gamble family, as in Proctor and Gamble. Not like Jan and Ted were actively involved in the diaper business anymore, but they had inherited a good deal of blue-chip stock. Ted also imported wine and Italian oil paintings, which made for many tax-deductible trips to Italy and France.

  The original Gambles came to Pasadena from Ohio in the late 1800s, along with a host of sun-seeking Eastern and Midwestern industrialists: the Wrigleys (gum), the Gillettes (razors), the Scripps (newspapers). These families were looking for sunshine and citrus and the area had plenty of both. They built their glorious houses on what became known as Millionaires Row. The Millionaires brought their household help, many of whom were African-American, thus helping to establish Pasadena as home to one of the oldest and most successful black communities west of the Mississippi. Then, thanks to Hollywood, Caltech, great natural light and lots of land, the movie people, the scientists, the architects, the artists and the real estate developers settled in Pasadena. Now the town was home to 150,000 people of every race, creed and class.

  And yet some days, Pasadena felt more like a big high school than a small city.

  Though many of the mansions of Millionaires Row were now luxury condo complexes, the offspring of the Gambles and other founding families have remained in the area. Jan, full of good sense and excellent breeding, married Ted Gamble straight out of Harvard. They lived in a huge Mediterranean villa near Caltech.

  There was nothing Jan Gamble would not do for a friend, and I was lucky enough to be one. I knew the spin clock was ticking, now that Neutron Mel had sighted Rita the Armenian. Every woman on the Five Schools committee would know by sundown about my housing situation, as Neutron Mel loved the “Here’s an Update” group e-mail. If anybody could counteract the Melanie-generated rumor mill, it was solid, steady Jan Gamble. So I spun my story.

  “We are putting the house on the market. I want to be very conservative with the estate. I just want to make sure Aiden has everything he needs for his future, and I don’t want to take any chances in this economy. You know, Jan, these houses can be a lot to keep up. I think a place with less upkeep and less stress would be best for Aiden and me right now.”

  There, the half-truth was out and I felt about 50 percent better! The house was too big, too expensive and too much for me, but there was no need to add the part about bad investments, massive debt and an estate worth virtually nothing. I knew that part would leak out later, as I’m sure some of the parents at the school were also clients of Fairchild Capital. But at least among the parents of Aiden’s friends, I could maintain my façade.

  “I totally understand. That is so sensible. If I didn’t have Ted, I’d be overwhelmed. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “Thanks, Jan.”

  I almost lost it. Having Jan’s approval meant a lot to me. I have no doubt she’d been the senior class president at Atherton High School, her alma mater in Northern California. She still had that aura of accomplishment and moral authority.

  ‘We miss you at school. Not that I mind taking Aiden,” Jan was quick to add. “But we just miss you.”

  “I am the glue that holds that place together.” We both laughed. It was a joke Jan and I had shared since the day when our boys were in third grade and their classmate little Elliot Merriman had asked me during Colonial Day candle-dipping, “Mrs. Fairchild, do you own the school?”

  “No, Elliot. I am just the glue.” I’d replied, amused but not surprised by Elliot’s observation. I did spend more time there than the other mothers in the class, simply because I had more time. While Jan, Candy, Tina and the others were off having second (old-school yuppie), third (“Three is the new two!”) or fourth (“We have so much money we can pay four tuitions!”) children, I just had Aiden.

  I’d plowed all my energy into volunteering as a distraction from the secondary infertility. I could be there at a minute’s notice to fill in for the field-trip driver who didn’t show or the library reader who had a sick child. I was always available for meetings mid-morning. I had plenty of time to do all the extra legwork on any project, from stuffing envelopes to braving trips to Michaels craft store, otherwise known as Hell on Earth. What I lacked in social connections, I made up for in sheer man-hours. I came to be regarded as essential to the school, the glue that held the place together, even to Elliot Merriman.

  Now I didn’t even want to get in the carpool line.

  Ten days since Merritt’s death, and I hadn’t been to school, the grocery store, anywhere. It wasn’t the grief; it was the fear. Honestly, I’d been hiding out from the public because I was terrified I would just break down and spill the whole awful truth to anyone who gave me a willing ear. I needed to steady myself before I could face those women again.

  Those women? Most were m
y friends, but now my entire existence was up for reinterpretation. My encounter with Melanie confirmed that instinct.

  “I’m almost there. Maybe next week, I’ll show up for my shift at the book fair at school!” I said to Jan, hoping for a light touch.

  “No pressure,” Jan responded quickly. “Just wanted you to know that you are missed. Oh, and I saw Melanie at the nail salon this afternoon. She told me that you had resigned from the Five Schools Benefit. Totally understand. Though, I thought you were doing a great job. Maybe another year.”

  Unbelievable. Of course Jan would know my status, as a former co-chair and a selection committee member. Could she read the shock in my face over Melanie’s bald-faced lie? Once again, I had to play along.

  “Well, it’s all part of making life for Aiden and me very manageable at this point. Priorities!”

  Sometimes I find a single word can convey an entire thought without really saying anything all. Priorities! Yes, Melanie’s, not mine, but priorities just the same.

  “Enjoy the beef bourguignon! I hope you have a decent cabernet. That’s what you need: vino! Forget the bag of salad! I’ll see Aiden tomorrow at 7:45. History test tomorrow for the boys.” Jan, with her trusting, discreet nature, climbed into her Suburban and headed home.

  I called Candy and Tina for our own emergency meeting.

  “My God, this meal is spectacular! I mean, I know you had an awful day, but let’s just take a minute to toast Sophie Wright,” Candy said, raising a glass of Cabernet that I’d busted out of Merritt’s collection. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that poor thing say one word in my entire life. She always looks so downtrodden in all those black clothes. We all know she’s from New York, enough with the black turtlenecks in May. She sure can cook, though.”

  “Candy, does it ever occur to you that you never stop talking? Maybe that’s why no one can get a word in around you?” Tina enjoyed alerting Candy to her foibles. Candy liked having that kind of reputation.

  “Back to business. Helen, do you want us to resign in protest? You know we will. That would freak Melanie out. I love seeing her lose her grip.”

  I had just re-created the entire conversation with Neutron Mel, complete with coffee-slugging, and the follow-up with Jan. As I’d guessed, Tina and Candy had not been part of the fictitious “emergency executive meeting,” and their outrage over my ouster was over the top. So were the names they called our girl Melanie. Now, as we sat around in my kitchen, contemplating retaliatory measures, I felt my own frustration drain. The truth is, I really didn’t have the time to raise money so other people’s children could get a good education. I needed to raise money so my own child could.

  “Stay on the committee. Melanie is the type who wouldn’t even understand that the protest was about her. I don’t think she does a lot of self-reflection. And really, she’s right. Without Merritt, I don’t have an entrée into that world. I couldn’t raise the money, not in this economy, not on my own.”

  “That’s not true,” Tina said, always the cheerleader, even if her team was losing.

  Candy poured herself another glass of wine. “It kinda is true. Sorry, Helen. But when Chris and I divorced, I lost a whole Rolodex of contacts. Pretty much the entire commercial real estate industry would no longer take my calls. I mean, really, he’s the one who was gay and it’s my fault that we divorced?”

  Candy’s first husband, Chris Lincoln, was a commercial real estate broker and closeted gay man. She was 24, a news producer at the NBC affiliate, using most of her paycheck to maintain her newly tinted red hair. She met Chris at a Brentwood salon (red flag!), and they eloped to Vegas six weeks later, after seeing George Michael in concert (red flag!). Candy loved that Chris seemed to really enjoy shopping and having white-wine spritzers at lunch (red flag!). Chris needed Candy as cover to avert suspicion at his testosterone-filled downtown firm, though he didn’t exactly articulate that in the wedding vows. The marriage lasted three years, most of them spent living apart after Candy discovered Chris in bed with her hairdresser, Arthur, two weeks after the wedding. By the time the divorce was final, Candy was an entertainment reporter with blond hair, and Chris was a major player in the redevelopment of Melrose Avenue into a shopping Mecca. Candy got a nice settlement and a lifetime of free highlights from Arthur, now Chris’s husband, at least in Massachusetts. She actually had the highlights written into the divorce settlement.

  “I mean, really, I did nothing but nice things for Chris and still the real estate brethren shunned me. Oh, sure, fourteen years later they talk to me at events and they want good press for their charitable underwriting, but in the early ’90s? Forget it,” Candy moaned.

  “So there’s nothing you want us to do to Neutron Mel?” I shook my head at Tina’s question. I was too tired to seek revenge. Tina gave me the buck-up smile. “We want to be here for you, Helen.”

  “You know what I need, Tina? I need a job, an actual paying job. Not a committee head position where I donate all my time and skills for free. I need somebody to pay me for my work. And I don’t even know how to start.”

  “I know just the girl for you. Elizabeth Maxwell, headhunter. She used to call me all the time about law firm jobs; you know, being an Asian female I was in high demand. But now we’re everywhere. Still, she owes me a favor. I helped get her kids into kindergarten. I’ll call her,” said Tina, typing a note to herself into her Blackberry. “You should get a new suit. You’re going to need it for all your interviews.”

  Mitsy Fairchild had done the proper thing for a Pasadena woman of a certain age and status. She’d sold her big house in the San Rafael area and downsized into a condo on famed Orange Grove Boulevard. The street was lined with luxury buildings featuring pristine landscaping, million-dollar units and many “For Sale” signs, due to the high turnover in that age group. Mitsy lived in a dark gray French-style complex, humbly called Le Trianon. Apparently, calling the building Versailles was a little over the top for the inhabitants. Mitsy’s penthouse corner unit was more than 3,000 square feet of antiques and art treasures collected from her decades of annual trips abroad. Of course, she’d worked with a decorator, but her own personal taste was impeccable. Her home was a showstopper.

  And she rarely invited me there.

  Mitsy preferred to entertain at the club, more conspicuous and less personal. So when I got a phone message that she’d love to see me for lunch at her place, I braced for impact.

  Although, at this point, what could she possibly say to me that could make my situation any worse? Bring it on, Snake Goddess.

  I gave the big brass lion head a good knock. Mitsy opened the door, wearing slim tan trousers, a cashmere V-neck in warm yellow and the classic Tiffany yard of diamonds, her midweek uniform.

  “Helen, I’m glad you’re on time.” My one saving grace over the last fifteen years with my mother-in-law. I am habitually early, always on time, and never late. “Come in and have an iced tea.”

  Lunch was predictable and already set out on the table: quiche, a side salad with oil and red wine vinegar dressing and a basket of French bread. The iced teas were poured, each with a gleaming slice of lemon. No sugar or butter or salt and pepper on the table. This lunch was strictly business. We sat down and simultaneously put the linen napkins in our laps.

  “I spoke with Billy. I am aware of the financial situation.”

  Well, so much for attorney-client privilege. Apparently Billy crumbled under the pressure of Mitsy Fairchild, too, and for some reason, that buoyed my spirits. Actually, having Billy let Helen know that her only son was on the verge of financial ruin was a relief. Better him than me. I nodded and took a bite of the stone-cold quiche.

  “And I understand you are putting the house on the market. Is that correct?”

  Neutron Melanie must have filled in the older ladies at the club’s popular mid-morning water aerobics, and the word had cycled back to Mitsy. This method of communication appealed to my non-confrontational side. I nodded again, sensing Mitsy
was not really looking for a conversation but only a confirmation.

  “Well, it sounds like you’ve had to make some quick decisions, and I can understand that. When Merritt’s father died so suddenly, I, too, had to educate myself rather quickly. It’s a good thing you’re so much younger than I was. Being 40 today seems decades younger than being nearly 50 when I had to restart my life.”

  I waited for Mitsy to continue. She seemed on the verge of sharing something personal, but the moment passed and she carried on.

  “What are your plans?” she asked.

  This time it appeared I had to answer. I chose my words carefully. I had no idea how she expected me to react. And I was always conscious of falling below her expectations.

  “I am still absorbing the information about the finances, but I am trying to move forward.”

  “What does that mean?’ Mitsy snapped, hating any kind of language that could be construed as “new-agey.” I guess “moving forward” qualified as too vague for her. Now I was annoyed.

  “Here’s what moving forward means, Mitsy. It means that I am trying not to lose it and obsess about what my husband did with all our money. So instead, I’m selling what possessions we need to sell, like cars and art. I’m looking for a job and hoping that after the house sells, we’ll have enough money for a down payment on a small place and money for Aiden’s high school. If not, we’ll have to consider relocation to a more affordable part of the country. That’s what moving forward means.”