by Lian Dolan
“Yeah, Mom.” Aiden was on his bed, in sweats and a Dodgers T-shirt, computer propped in his lap as predicted. “Will Gamble got into Raleigh. Dex and Connal are going to Ignatius. Connal got into Raleigh, too, but he wants to go to Ignatius. Mariah’s going to Sacred Sisters. That’s so weird.”
“Why is that weird?” I said, setting down the hot chocolate I’d brought up as a bribe in case Aiden didn’t feel like opening the door. But here he was, talkative as anything. Maybe that business downstairs was just for show.
“Because last week, she was all, ‘Raleigh this and Raleigh that.’ Now she says SacSis is so much cooler. Whatever.”
Clearly, Mariah had found her coping mechanism. Would Candy? I kept my lips sealed about the wait listing. That was all part of the game. “That’s great about Dex and Connal! You’ll all be at Ignatius.”
“Why can’t we go live in Oregon?”
Aiden’s directness shocked me. “Aiden, we have friends here, your teams, my job. Dad’s family. I know you love Oregon, but we live here.”
“Why can’t we live there?”
Why? Because this was my home, with its old money and new money and great tacos. I loved the bookstores and culture and architecture. I loved watching all the la-di-da, even if we couldn’t really be a part of it anymore. But Aiden wanted change. And a dog. Maybe because he thought that would make everything okay again.
“Let’s go slowly. See what happens. I can’t make that decision right now with everything going on at work and trying to move out of this house. We just got some great news, let’s not make it more complicated,” I said, then held out a recycled Nordstrom bag that held the real reason I’d knocked on the door. “Here. This is for you.”
“Is it a sweater vest like the other kids wear at Ignatius?” Aiden joked, reaching for the bag.
“No, and they do not wear sweater vests,” I laughed. Then, the lightness left the room as Aiden pulled out Merritt’s 25-year-old Ignatius letterman’s jacket. It was blue leather with white wool sleeves. Merritt’s name was embroidered on the left side, just under the school’s crest. His year and a swimming patch were on the right sleeve. It was lovingly worn in all the right places, as if Merritt had cherished the jacket and treated it well. I’d never seen it before, except in old photos. When Mimi and Mikki had cleaned out Merritt’s closet before the open house, they’d found it hanging deep in the back in a dry cleaning bag. They left a note on the hanger, “For Aiden, the next Fairchild Crusader.”
I choked up then, just as I was choking up now. “It was Dad’s. He would be very proud of you right now.” Whatever Merritt’s faults, he would have loved this moment. Aiden nodded, unable to speak without endangering his teenage sense of manhood.
“Thanks,” Aiden finally managed, smoothing the leather with his hands, fingering the swimming patch and the embroidery.
“Put it on. See if it fits.”
Aiden looked at me. He shifted his feet, uncomfortably, as if he wanted to avoid my scrutiny. “I think I’ll do that later. Is that okay?”
I nodded. “Sure. It’s yours now. Take care of it.”
CHAPTER 16
“I’ve been thinking about what you said that day at lunch, and I think that’s going to be my angle for the interview,” Patrick dropped casually while we were working side-by-side in the honeymoon suite. He had been scribbling notes on a yellow pad all morning, while drinking his ever-present coffee and running his hands through his hair. Not that I had noticed.
Patrick and I had settled into a comfortable work routine, with a morning meeting about what we needed to do for the day, very little talking until lunch, when he went out and I went for my walk, back to our computers in the afternoon, then a quick re-cap at the end of the day. Occasionally, I’d tell him an anecdote about Aiden and he’d talk about Cassandra or his students in Athens. We talked about the news or movies we’d seen. Patrick might throw in a fleeting reference to his ex-wife and I might mention Merritt. But we never talked about that night.
Even though I thought about it all the time.
But I had no idea what he was talking about now. I was so lost in researching supporting visuals from the digital archives of various museums and universities that it took me a second to re-focus my brain on the conversation. When I did look up from my screen, I met Patrick’s gaze. It was the first time our eyes had locked in three weeks. Keep it professional.
“At lunch?”
“In Laguna.”
Oh, that lunch! Geez, there was a lot of wine involved that day. I hope I didn’t say something like, “You’re very attractive. If you let your hair grow out a touch longer even Gerard Butler would be jealous of you.” Because I know that’s what I was thinking that day.
Had I spoken those words aloud on that patio overlooking the sea?
“Drawing a blank. What did I say?” I asked, hoping the answer wasn’t too awful.
“You said that history had been shaped by great love triangles. And if there hadn’t been a Helen, Paris and Menelaus relationship, I’d be out of a job. There would be no historical significance to Troy without the myth of their great love story and the subsequent war. I’m going to use that concept when talking about Schliemann, Rudy and Sophia. I think you’re onto something.”
I must have had more wine than I suspected if I suggested that Patrick O’Neill would be unemployable without Helen of Troy. That was a little cheeky of me. “You know, Patrick, I think someone with your talents would have found work in another area of archaeology or another field of study. I didn’t mean you’d be unemployed for life.”
He burst out laughing. Oh no, what had I said? He leaned back in the leather chair, stretching out his legs and arching his back. The bottom of his black t-shirt separated slightly from the top of his cargo pants, revealing a sliver of tanned, well-toned abs. I didn’t notice that either. Then, he relaxed forward, over the front of the chair, hands on his knees, smiling at me. “Not the part about me not having a job! Though I appreciate the vote of confidence. I’ll put you down as a reference. I meant the part about the love triangle shaping history.”
Oh, right. I’d said that, too!
“There are some nice similarities between the Helen/Paris/ Menelaus story and the Sophia/Schliemann/Rudy story. I can draw some parallels, make connections. You know, older, powerful man loses young, hot wife to younger, not-so-powerful rival. Then wife returns to old man when she realizes what she is giving up: money, prestige and outrageous gold jewelry. I really think you were onto something when you suggested that find of Priam’s Treasure may have been an old man’s way of winning back his wife. I’ve done some work. The timeline fits as far as I can tell from Rudy’s notes. It was during the time of Rudy’s affair, spring of 1873, that Schliemann miraculously found the treasure. We’ve never had an exact date on that find, because Schliemann didn’t release the information or photos until after he smuggled the treasure out of Turkey. But thanks to Rudy’s journals, I know the date of the find was May 13th, 1873. That’s something new and relevant.”
“And you didn’t think there would be anything useful in these journals,” I teased.
Patrick stood up, walked over to my desk and slapped the transcribed pages down. He pointed to the relevant passage. “Our boy Rudy doesn’t say anything about the moment they discovered the gold pieces, because when Schliemann dug the necklace and earrings out of the earth, only his uncle and Sophia were at the site by design. Rudy and the rest of the crew were instructed by Heinrich Schliemann to take a break. It was always a pretty convenient find, happening right when Schliemann appeared to need public support and out of the view of objective onlookers. But now, with the revelation that his wife was having a torrid affair with nephew, I agree with you. Pretty suspicious correlation. Did you read that part of the journal yet?”
“No, not yet.” Since booking the TV interview and scheduling the public lecture, Sarah had convinced the Huntington to step up the support to get the journal scanned and transc
ribed. Karen from Library and her crew of grad students had rolled into action. I’d been freed up to organize the supporting research that would be needed for the interview and the subsequent public lecture at the Huntington. And Archaeology magazine had asked Patrick to write an article about the Schliemann Journals for its September issue. I spent half my day on the phone with The Dirty Archaeologist producers, all of whom seemed to be about 12 and knew nothing about history. For the rest of the day, I dug through research to put the lecture and the magazine article together. I loved it. It was exciting and fulfilling, but I missed reading Rudy’s hot journals and reporting back to Patrick.
Now he was one step ahead of me, instead of me being one step ahead of him.
“Well, his primary commentary about the Priam’s Treasure find was that Sophia failed to come to his tent that night for their usual frolicking. He has very little description of that actual find, but a lot of moaning about his sex life. And he thinks he may be losing Sophia to her husband. He asks the same question you did: Could Schliemann have planted Priam’s Treasure to win his wife back? Your theory is looking very plausible, Dr. Fairchild,” Patrick acknowledged.
I was over the moon, but tried to play it cool. I re-stacked some papers on my desk, a permission slip for Aiden’s trip to Disneyland and a hot lunch form, with the care and intensity befitting the Magna Carta.
Patrick continued, “Do you think Annabeth and Sarah will find this sexy enough for their needs?”
Dang, why did he have to go and ruin my moment by mentioning those two? I played along. “This could be the most scandalous thing to hit Pasadena in decades: sex, secrets, ancient artifacts. Sounds like my mother-in-law’s life. Even if you are never able to prove that Priam’s Treasure is a fake, the love affair angle will certainly thrill the women in their Chanel suits who come to hear your final lecture at the Huntington. Show a little skin, Doctor, and those rich old ladies will be throwing money at your foundation for your important research.”
“Here I was just thinking about TV. I hadn’t even considered the rich old ladies. Maybe you could find some naughty slides for the visuals and that would really shake the money loose.”
I hadn’t felt this relaxed around Patrick in weeks. I didn’t want the conversation to end. “You know, I just threw that out, the idea that Schliemann had trumped up the necklace and head-dress for Sophia, before I even knew that Rudy and Sophia were having an affair.”
“You must have good instincts about how men and women relate.”
I snorted involuntarily, thinking back on the fact that I’d watched Shelly Sleazy on the news every night until the day Merritt died, not knowing she’d been sleeping with my husband for almost a year. “Yeah, not really.”
“Then you have good instincts for history. It is, after all, created by ordinary, imperfect human beings. Who do selfish, foolish things and then make others pay for their indiscretions. And usually, that’s how the best research comes about: a wild hair of an idea that becomes a reality.” Patrick’s knees rubbed up against mine inadvertently.
Suddenly, the lunch in Laguna was coming back to me. So was the warm, gooey feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I thought you said romanticism had no place in your research. You were all soil analysis.”
Now he sat down on my desk, facing me. “Let’s be clear how I feel: there’s nothing romantic about one spouse cheating on another. In these two cases, Helen and Sophia, it’s the younger women cheating on the older men. And then the older men won the women back, but at what price? War, lives lost, cities destroyed, families torn apart, evidence falsified, governments disrupted. History changed for a few rolls in the hay.” Patrick’s voice grew somber, serious. We locked eyes again, as if we shared a secret. “Betrayal changes everything, Helen.”
Was he talking about me and my resume? Or did Patrick somehow know about Merritt and Shelly Sleazy? Better yet, had Artsy Wife betrayed him and he was still bitter? I was slightly stunned by his last statement, not at all sure what he wanted from me. “When you say it like that, Patrick, it’s not a sexy theory at all. It’s tragic, epic, very Greek. And a little depressing.” I gauged his response to see if he wanted me to go on. He held my gaze intensely. Then, trying to lighten the mood because it all felt too much, I said, “But very dramatic the way you laid that all out.”
Patrick broke out in a huge smile, and he actually slapped his knee. ‘You bought it! Ooh, I’m good.”
“What do you mean, ‘I bought it’? Bought what?” I was confused.
“My fake serious academic BS. I was rehearsing for my TV interview. I mean, I think the theory has some merit, but do I give a shit if Sophia was sleeping with Schliemann’s skinny nephew? Naaah. That just makes a good story. Something people can relate to because they have no interest in the carbon dating of the gold necklace and earrings. Knowing that Priam’s Treasure was fake would be significant. Knowing why? Nobody cares.” Patrick jumped up victoriously. “Coffee?”
I felt deflated. Here I was thinking something significant had passed between us, and he was acting! “Just tell me the next time you want me to play Uta Hagen to your Marlon Brando.”
“Who is Uta Hagen?”
“A very famous acting teacher,” I barked, adding silently Dr. Give-a-shit. I turned back to my computer with a huge desire to end the conversation before I lashed out at Patrick. But I blurted out, “Betrayal does change everything.”
Why was I so worked up? Stupid, Helen!
“Helen, I’m sorry,” Patrick responded, leaving a mountain unsaid. I was grateful he didn’t ask any more questions about my comment.
“The next time you want to test out your TV persona, just let me know. I’m happy to walk you through a mock interview. I’ve done that with Aiden a million times, getting him ready for oral reports and stuff.”
“Helen …” he struggled, not sure what to make of my anger.
“I’m done with being in the dark.”
I shouldn’t have lost it with Patrick, but there was something so familiar about the scene. It was Merritt and me all over again, the lousy parts. The parts where Merritt mocked my upbringing in front of his preppy friends. The parts where Merritt waited until the last minute to tell me about a work obligation or social event without regard to my schedule. And especially the part where Merritt informed me that his soulmate was a weekend anchor and not the mother of his child and wife of fifteen years. But obviously, Patrick had no knowledge of my history with Merritt. It was just Patrick working up his shtick for TV.
So why did I react like that?
Fortunately, I had a perfectly legit reason to leave the office shortly after my outburst. At 11:30, I was grateful to throw on my Banana Republic blue blazer, grab my bag and head out the door. I pulled myself together enough to say, “I won’t be back ‘til 2. I have a … a thing.”
Patrick mumbled in response, “Take your time.”
The ‘thing’ was Millington’s annual Eighth Grade Mothers Luncheon, ostensibly to salute the mothers who had served the school for nine years, since entering in kindergarten. But really, it was an opportunity to do some post-acceptance letter rehashing and gossiping. Traditionally, the mothers whose children were accepted at top schools arrived first. The mothers whose children had been rejected by the same schools arrived late to avoid the pre-lunch chitchat and left early to avoid the parking lot conversation. And the mothers whose kids had been waitlisted wore brown and didn’t say much. We were all expected to drink iced tea and behave as if everything was dandy.
Frankly, the luncheon was an out-of-body experience for me. Because of my work schedule and my downfall in the eyes of the board of trustees, I hadn’t been on campus in months. A place that had once felt like home now felt like a Residence Inn. Had I not promised Candy I would support her in her state of admissions limbo, I might have blown off the lunch for a giant Dutch chocolate frozen yogurt with Heath bars. And Tina had texted me that she had exciting dress news that she wanted to deliver in person, so I
had that guilt motivating me. My spirits lifted when I saw the blue-and-white balloon arch, the “Welcome, 8th Grade Mothers” sign and the friendly faces at the sign-in and name-tag table.
“Helen! We’ve missed you, now that you have that big job and all. We’re glad you could make it!” Room rep and avid scrap-booker DeeDee Nicholas hugged me and name tagged me in one motion. “So great about Aiden. Lauren will be at SacSisters. They’ll have dances together. How fun! Look everyone, Helen is here!”
Everyone did look. Light applause and elevated chatter followed. Mothers in their power suits and wrap dresses. The young mothers with great figures and the tired mothers on their last tour of duty at Millington. These people, my people, were really happy to see me. Not just Candy and Tina, who rushed to my side, but the dozens of mothers who had made it through nine years of too much homework, mediocre test scores, after-school flag football games, school fundraising slights, rotten teachers, middle school social drama and impossible final exams. It was great to see them!
My fellow moms showered me with love. You are something else, everything you’ve done! You look wonderful, and the news about Aiden is so great. You deserve something positive. I hear good things about you and Aiden. You’ve done an amazing job getting through this. So many kind sentiments, I started to think I’d made a mistake removing my name from my Millington commitments. Maybe my gut feeling that I was being ‘left off the list’ was wrong.
I belonged.
Even the sight of headmistress Adele Arnett, wearing an indestructible bouclé suit and sensible shoes, didn’t bring me down.
“Here comes Cruella de Millington,” Candy warned, in between bites of two-bite quiche. “I got your back.”
Adele sidled up to me and squeezed my arm, saying, “We are so proud of Aiden. He pulled through, didn’t he? It was touch and go. He’ll do beautifully at Ignatius, and they were lovely to give him a chance.”
Three months ago, I would have responded by screaming, “Touch and go? Give him a chance? His father died! It wasn’t touch and go. It was tragic and awful, you boucle’d bitch!” But I held my tongue and took a long sip of my mango-infused iced tea. Then it hit me—I really didn’t care what Adele Arnett thought of me or my son. We were done here in a few weeks. With that knowledge, I simply nodded and said, “We did it, Adele. We did it.”