Helen of Pasadena

by Lian Dolan

  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 t
o 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.

  After the shocker at school, Patrick declared that we had to get “back to work immediately.” Candy was suspicious, I could tell by her stink eye. And by the text she sent immediately after I left the scene. Short and elegant: WTF?

  WTF was right. WTF was I doing in a convertible, speeding along Pacific Coast Highway with Nubby Sweater? I was somebody’s mother, a recent widow. A member of Save the Deodars. This wasn’t me.

  Patrick had pulled the bait-and-switch in the parking lot, after commenting that my friends were “a little intense” and “we needed a breather” after the success of the presentation. He tossed me a black baseball cap with a big orange “P,” the only reference he had ever made to his prestigious academic background, and declared, “Put this on. We’re going to the beach.”

  I took the hat and hopped in the car. He was my ride and my boss. I had no choice, right?

  “Why Laguna?” I shouted above the music, Elvis Costello circa 1985. Laguna Beach was a wealthy, artsy town tucked away on the coast of Orange County. Its charm was genuine, protected by an isolated location and incredibly high real estate costs. Sometimes the high cliffs collapsed under mudslides and fires, sending zillion-dollar homes into the ocean, but when the weather was good, it was hard to beat. Like today.

  “It reminds me of home,” Patrick shouted back. He even looked good in a worn Arsenal cap. “What home?” He did live in several places: Athens in the winter and Troy in the summer.

  “All of them.”

  “A bottle of the pinot grigio and the sand dabs to start, please. Then we’ll have the steamed mussels and shrimp skewers. And a caprese salad to share. Can you make that a little bigger than usual? Oh, and some water?” Patrick ordered without hesitation, then as an afterthought, added, “Do you like fish?”

  I nodded, because blurting out “Fish is good” would have sounded as juvenile as I felt, like a freshman girl at the senior prom. What was happening here? Boundary-infringement!

  We were seated on the patio of Casa de Sol, a spectacular cliffside restaurant high above the main beach in Laguna. The water below was wine-dark; in the distance, dolphins bobbed in the waves. Once again, I was grateful for Tina’s help in putting together Work Outfit #2: navy blue wide-legged pants and a white boat-neck sweater, perfect for the setting and for my emerging collarbones.

  Patrick put down the menu and looked out at the ocean. “I love this place. As a kid, I spent one summer here while my dad did some work in Irvine, and I’ve never forgotten it.”

  That detail didn’t make his Wikipedia page. “I’m surprised. You’ve got some pretty great beaches in your part of the world.”

  “Well, it was the place and the time. I was about your son’s age. And I discovered girls. And they don’t make ’em any cuter than they do in California.”

  “I thought Homer was your only companion?” I teased, referring to the portrait of the lonely, studious boy he’d painted in the presentation.

  “Busted. I had Homer, California girls and the Clash.”

  The wine arrived, and while the tan, blond waiter made a show of opening the bottle, I studied Patrick, who chatted with the waiter as if they’d known each other for years. He had a quality I admired: being at home wherever he went. You can’t fake that. At least I couldn’t, not for the last fifteen years and not now when my insides were churning like the Pacific.

  “Yamas!” Patrick said, lifting his glass in my direction. To our health. Please don’t let mine include hyperventilation due to my extreme uncoolness.

  He settled into his chair and his wine, then spoke. “How did you know what I was going to say in that presentation? The PowerPoint. I gave you some slides and a rough outline. It was like you read my mind.” He set his glass down and leaned forward, as if he wanted to gauge my reaction. “You seem to do that a lot. How?”

  Cyberstalking. But that seemed like a bad answer.

  “It was nothing. I did a little research. Used a little imagination.”

  “But you nailed me. My story. You had just the right visuals, the right music, without knowing exactly what I was going to say.”

  Cyberstalking again. And the fact that your story is my story: finding a place in another time. I had your dream, only I didn’t have your guts, so I bailed. Well, I bailed for love, but mainly I just bailed. But I couldn’t tell him all that. The disclosure would be too much and the sun and the wine were already making my face flush. “Hey, I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark, too. Every kid wanted to be Indy. You just actually did it. That’s an easy story to tell.”

  “Could you read your husband’s mind, too? Did you have that connection with him?”

  Whoa, not what I expected. “No, not really. Merritt wasn’t easy to read. His story wasn’t that familiar to me. Even after many years of marriage.”

  Now I didn’t just feel uncomfortable, I was uncomfortable. Don’t talk about him! I wanted to scream. I don’t want to think about him now.

  Obviously, Patrick perceived my discomfort. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You just seem very different than those women I met today. And I was wondering how you got to Pasadena, to where you are.”

  “I’m not that different than those women. Well, other than the fact that I hatched from a giant egg.”

  Patrick laughed sharply, “Ah, like Helen of Troy. Or at least, that’s how one of her origin mythologies goes. Nice reference. I had no idea you shared her unusual birth.”

  “Yes, well, that type of thing still happens in central Oregon. My parents were very understanding. They seemed to have been conceived on another planet, so they didn’t mind the egg.”

  Patrick laughed again. “Hence the name?”

  “Actually, I was named after Mount St. Helens.”

  “The volcano? You were not.”

  “I was too. Only, it was just a mount when I was born. Top was still on.”

  “Do you have sister named Vesuvius?”

  “No, but my brother is named after a river. The Deschutes. Not Styx.”

  Phew, subject changed. And mercifully, the waiter arrived with the sand dabs, lightly breaded and sautéed, to put the subject of Merritt away entirely. He refilled my wine glass despite my slight objections.

  “I think I’m picking up on something in the journals,” I started to explain, but was cut off.

  “You are a slave driver! You know, archaeologists like to talk about things other than archaeology.”

  “I know. I’m not quizzing you on your trowel preferences. But I think this is kind of juicy.” Now I leaned forward to gauge Patrick’s reaction. “I think our boy Rudy is developing a thing for his uncle’s young wife.”

  “Really? Are you sure?” “Think about it; it makes sense. Our Rudy is only 23, much closer in age to Sophia, who’s barely out of her teens, than his uncle. And he’s swept up in the whole adventure of the excavation. He appears to be dazzled by her, even before they officially meet. He fantasizes about what she’ll be wearing, how she smells. Then he describes the first meeting in great detail. He notes everything about
her clothes, her skin. He describes her eyes as ‘liquid amber, burning into my soul.’ He is clearly taken with her.”

  “Didn’t he give a loving description of the venison jerky, too?” Patrick said, giving me the business, reaching for a piece of rosemary foccacia that had just arrived along with the rest of the meal. “I mean, from your notes, the kid seems to go on and on about everything.”

  I conceded, “Yes, he did enjoy the jerky. But he refers to her as “lovely Sophia” or sometimes just S.”

  “Take it from me, men do a lot of really stupid things when they are 23.”

  Obviously, a reference to his marriage to Artsy Wife, but I let it go. “Well, it’s very romantic, if you ask me.”

  “There you go again with the romance. The qualifier ‘romantic’ goes over very well in academic journals. That’s persuasive research. I think if I was able to prove that Rudy and Sophia were having a fling, then the whole rest of my theory about Troy being a major trading center well into the Middle Ages would just fall into place.” Patrick was clearly having fun with this topic. “Have you been reading a lot of romance novels? Is that your inspiration for this?”

  “Yes, that’s what lonely research assistants do in the middle of the night. Read romance novels and reinterpret history based on bodice-ripping fantasies.” Now I was having fun. Whoops, too much wine. “It could be important.”

  “How? Why? The personal life of the archaeologist shouldn’t actually affect the archaeology.”

  “What about that bogus Priam’s Treasure find? The stash of artifacts, the ones that included the gold necklace and earrings that Schliemann claimed to find at Troy and draped around Sophia’s neck. It was a classic PR move back before there was PR! It could explain why Schliemann might trump up something so spectacular. Maybe he had to win his wife back from hot, ripped Rudy. He planted the necklace, dug it up, plopped it on his young wife’s neck, took the photo that made Sophia famous all over the world and won his wife back. You never know.”