Helen of Pasadena

by Lian Dolan

  “I’m a quick study.” Patrick offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

  The Huntington was dazzling. As beautiful as the magnificent grounds were during the day, by night, especially on this night, it was like being in another world of wealth, privilege and excessive landscape design. The labor of a thousand leaf blowers and temporary workers on ladders had transformed the gardens into Ancient Troy: A full moon, thousands of twinkle lights and a phalanx of potted olive trees leading to a dazzling white tent inspired by a Gehry building. The piece de résistance? An enormous Trojan Horse standing guard at the entrance to the gala, a movie prop generously donated by Warner Brothers, secured by the beaming and exhausted Leonora Dillard, chair of the decoration committee.

  “Wow. I’m impressed. I had no idea it was going to be this … glamorous. Is it always like this?” Patrick asked, fidgeting with his tux for the first time. He led me by the elbow up the walkway into the flashing bulbs and electric energy of the band in the tent. I was glad he didn’t take my hand. Someone might have seen us.

  “Yes … and no. Usually there is press and hoopla, but not like this. There’s Entertainment Tonight!” I lost my cool, then recovered. “But I think they’re here for Olympia and Annabeth, um, not you.” I tried to soften the blow.

  Patrick let out a giant guffaw. “Helen, do you really think my ego is that big?”

  “No, no, not at all. As far as TV-star archaeologists go, I think you’ve got yours in check. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed if nobody takes our picture. I think the only archaeologist ET appreciates is Harrison Ford.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I brought my bullwhip.”

  “You did not!”

  More laughter. “No, I didn’t.”

  The long walkway up to the tent was lined by earnest young musicians playing the theme from Ben Hur. Close enough. I waved to Tran and his wife, standing off in the shadows behind their son Bernard. Tran gave me the thumbs up and Mrs. Tran waved and smiled. I waved back just as Sarah, in Armani and a head set, appeared out of the shadows.

  “Finally. We thought you’d never get here,” Sarah snapped, giving me the once over, then turning toward the man of the hour, Dr. Patrick O’Neill. “I got him, Melanie. He’s here. We'll do the press. then I’ll send him in.” Sarah barked into her headset, obviously relishing the telepathic communication she and Neutron Mel were sharing. I was surprised that Sarah would get so involved, but then I realized that in the midst of all the press attention on Olympia and Annabeth, Sarah, ever the public relations maven, did not want the Huntington’s message points to be overlooked. She stepped in between Patrick and me, relegating me to third-wheel status. “Okay, Patrick, I am going to walk you through the press gauntlet, let them know who you are, and you do your thing. Be charming and mention the Huntington every chance you get, okay? We’ve got the L.A. Times, the New York Times, Town & Country, various local news organizations, and then ET, TMZ and that little Candy. Even Archaeology magazine sent a photog. Are you ready?”

  Patrick looked to me for guidance. “I bet you wish you had that bullwhip now!” Sarah gave me a funny look. I took the hint. “I’ll see you inside the tent.”

  Off he went to have his moment of fame while I strode up the rose-colored carpet alone, hoping my solo entrance didn’t have a Sally-Kellerman-at-the-Oscars feel of desperation. Thank God for Candy! There she was, shining in a low-cut black pleated number that looked like an evil Angelina in Alexander the Great. She was waving me over to her prime candysdish.com spot just in front of the tent entrance. I smiled and focused on her, ignoring the press that were ignoring me. Candy made a scene. “Helen Fairchild! Helen Fairchild! Over here, please! Is that vintage McFadden?”

  I felt a few camera lenses turn my way, not that I cared. Finally, I reached Candy. “You look amazing! Where’s Dr. Dig? Ah, that she-devil has him. Well never mind, you’re getting a prime spot on my page. Below the lesbians, of course, who just called to say they will be here any minute. And let’s face it, this town would have a field day if you showed up hand-in-hand with a guy that attractive. Why do you want all those rumors? But, look at you! My God, what is that bracelet?”

  I explained the gift from Patrick. Candy said, “That’s an impressive gesture. That’s good. Have the best night of your life, please, for me? Enjoy yourself and for once, don’t overthink everything. Tonight, underthink everything. But don’t drink too much. If something happens, I want you to remember every detail. You know, so you can tell me!” Candy’s phone buzzed and she checked her text. “Oh, Annabeth and Olympia are here! I’ve got to focus. Find me later, doll?” And with that, my dear friend of fourteen years practically shoved me into the tent.

  I took the opportunity to re-do my lipstick and overthink one last time.

  Candy was right. The last thing I wanted was Aiden or anybody else to see “couples photos” of me and Patrick and start to gossip. Frankly, there was nothing to gossip about. I didn’t deserve to be grist for the mill for one kiss and several close encounters. That being said, she was also right about the over-thinking. I needed to let go of the worrying for one night. Could I do that?

  Whoosh, Sarah deposited Patrick at my side. He looked shell-shocked and relieved. Sarah pointed at me and began speaking as if Patrick wasn’t even there. He stood behind her, making faces like a 12-year-old. “He needs to give a short thank-you speech at 9:37. Then he’ll stay on stage for the auction of Trip to Troy or whatever cutesy name they came up with. That Jennifer gal in the silver tunic outfit will come find him at 9:08 to go backstage. The remarks should be no more than six minutes about education—how important it is and all that. Melanie wants everything wrapped by 10—speech, auction, bidding. Then everyone can dance and revel. I’m sure you have something prepared, yes? Please make sure the Huntington is mentioned. Helen, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sarah. 9:08. Six minutes. Huntington. Got it.” That was all I could manage. Patrick was killing me with his immaturity.

  “Have a wonderful time, Patrick. Save a dance for me, will you?” He’d regained his composure. Sarah checked her Blackberry. “Ufff. Here comes Annabeth and Olympia—because they just haven’t had enough attention lately. Gotta run. Six minutes! That’s all!”

  As Sarah disappeared into the flashing madness, I said, “Please tell me I’m not that uptight.”

  “Not nearly. Well, not nearly as often,” Patrick replied. Then looking slightly concerned, he asked, “I didn’t know I had to prepare any remarks. You didn’t by any chance prepare any remarks for me, did you?”

  I whipped a folded index card out of my evening bag. “Take back the uptight part and I’ll give you the card.”

  “Is thorough different from uptight?”

  “Keep trying,” I called over my shoulder, shaking the 3x5 complete with all the important names to thank. I headed into the belly of the beast, straight to Table 1. I heard Patrick call out behind me, “Overprepared? Hyper-efficient? What’s the opposite of spontaneous?”

  Why did I think this was going to be fun? The next two hours were torture, high-society-style. I felt like I was caught in a slow-motion blender. The people of my former life as Mrs. Merritt Fairchild—Millington moms, benefit committee members, Merritt’s former clients, Mitsy and her Pashmina Posse, Billy Owen and the Ignatius crowd, water polo dads, Mikki and Mimi and their Pasadena doppelgangers—collided in a whirring, scary soup with the figures from my new life as Helen Fairchild, Research Assistant—Patrick, Team Aphrodite, the director of the Huntington. I was whip-sawed between the two crowds. I nodded, smiled and accepted good wishes and stale condolences at the same time.

  Moving on at the benefit proved to be harder than standing still at the funeral.

  The most difficult part of the evening was pretending not to be paranoid about the millions of questions about Patrick from members of the Mrs. Merritt Fairchild circle. Tell me about your escort, the Pashmina Posse wanted to know. Do I see you have a new man in your life? the benefit
committee members asked. Is that your brother? Merritt’s frat buddies speculated. No, no, I answered. He is my boss, my colleague, a guy I know from work. I talked him into doing this for the good of the schools, I joked. Oh him? He’s leaving town Tuesday. The inquisition didn’t stop until we sat down at Table 1, surrounded by the New Me crowd: Annabeth, Olympia, Sarah and most of the Huntington board, who didn’t know me from Adam.

  By the time dinner was served, I felt chopped, grated and pulverized. And the very fitted bodice of my dress wasn’t helping much either. I could barely breathe.

  That’s when Jennifer Barham tapped my shoulder, “It’s 9:08. You’re supposed to have him backstage. We’re about to start the program!” Despite her unpleasant and completely unnecessary tone, I was grateful to have an excuse to hide in a dark corner and get my wits about me. Plus I could bail on the erudite discussion on antiquities acquisition being staged by Annabeth and the head of the Huntington’s medieval manuscript collection. I’d added nothing in the last ten minutes except, “Pass the butter.” I grabbed my wrap, evening bag and wine glass and tapped Patrick on the shoulder. “We’ve got to go. I’ll go over the remarks backstage.”

  Patrick, completely engaged in the conversation, rose reluctantly and excused himself. “Showtime. I’ve got an honor to accept.”

  “And then he’s being auctioned off to the highest bidder, isn’t that right, Dr. O’Neill?” Annabeth added. Olympia hooted, good sport that she was.

  “Yes, I’m hoping some rich older woman buys me and keeps me in spades for life,” Patrick quipped.

  Be careful what you wish for, I thought.

  Backstage was not exactly the sanctum pacem I’d envisioned. Melanie was in full Neutron mode, sniping at the stage manager and the professional auctioneer. The superintendant of schools cowered nearby, no doubt waiting for his check and a quick exit. In a crowd of men, Melanie’s voice stood out like a Siren, but not in a good way. “I am never hiring a weatherman again. Unbelievable. How dare he not show? Don’t you think the dead-relative card is a little tired? Thank God we got Roshelle to fill in. Jennifer, how long until she’s ready?”

  Please tell me no. Please tell me that dapper and dependable weatherman Jackson Snowe—his real name—did not cancel. He does almost every benefit in town with graciousness and warmth. I was looking forward to his weather jokes! Noooo! Please tell me that Shelly Sleazy is not stepping in to fill his shoes.

  “She’s lip-glossing now. Ready in three.”

  And then my husband’s mistress emerged from the portable dressing room, wearing the same Loehmann’s dress as that fateful night of the Save the Deodars event. Maybe she was hoping to catch somebody else’s husband. This was now officially the worst night of my life. A small gasp escaped my lips. Patrick heard. “Okay, you’re not uptight, efficient or any of those other names I called you. You’re the consummate professional. How does that sound? Can I have the card now?”

  Tearing my eyes away from the taut, elaborately eye-shadowed Roshelle Simms, I concentrated on Patrick. “Here, everybody you need to thank is on this card. Read the names out loud and let me hear you pronounce them. I’ll correct any mispronunciations.”

  Then Neutron Mel was at our side with Shelly. “Patrick, dear, I wanted to introduce you to our Mistress of Ceremonies before we all go onstage. This is Roshelle Simms. She graciously offered to step in at the last minute when that damn weatherman cancelled. Roshelle, our honoree Dr. Patrick O’Neill. Oh, and maybe you know Helen?”

  Roshelle threw her shoulders back and extended her hand to greet Patrick. “Dr. O’Neill, I’ve heard so much about you.” Liar. I don’t think Patrick’s been mentioned in US Magazine, your only news source besides your teleprompter. “And Helen?” Roshelle then did one of those tilted dog head moves, feigning non-recognition. She looked so ridiculous, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

  I took some inspiration from an unlikely source: Mitsy. “We’ve met before, Roshelle. You emceed the tree benefit for me last year. I believe you were wearing the same dress. And then I saw you again with your news van at my late husband Merritt’s funeral. Do you remember me now?” My tone was flat, even and deadly. Not one iota of Aggressively Perky Helen.

  Melanie and Patrick were struck dumb while Shelly Sleazy whimpered out, “Oh, yes.” Victory. A tiny little victory for me.

  “Well, that’s been established,” Melanie interjected. “We’ve got to get going, Roshelle, let’s get you on stage. Can you walk with me, honey? Right, let’s get going.” With a nudge, Neutron Mel maneuvered a stunned Roshelle to the stage. Shelly Sleazy was going to need some more lip gloss to get through the night.

  “You’re going to have to explain that to me,” Patrick said in an admiring voice.

  “Later.”

  Sometime between Patrick’s short speech and Melanie’s introduction of the Treasures of Troy and the Glories of Greece auction item, I regained my composure. I could breathe again, at least as much as my ever-shrinking dress would allow. I would survive the sight of Roshelle Simms, just like I’d survived selling my house and consigning my wedding china—with an acceptance of the inevitable.

  Could the big lesson in life possibly be “life happens”?

  “Do I hear twenty thousand dollars? Twenty thousand dollars?” The professional auctioneer had taken over the microphone, whipping the well-juiced crowd into a frenzy. From my dark backstage corner, I could see a sliver of Patrick, uncomfortable onstage. As quickly as the auctioneer shrieked out dollar values, paddles were raised. Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five thousand, forty. From my spot in the wings, I couldn’t tell who was bidding, but the competition was intense. Melanie looked as though her head was going to blow off with excitement, holding her own paddle by her side, letting others do the bidding. Maybe she was waiting to step in at the very end and be the hero? When the total bidding reached fifty thousand, the pace slowed, the tension built. Just then, Jennifer Barham rushed by me backstage, holding a note. She raced up the stairs and gave the paper to Melanie.

  Melanie raised the mic to her mouth and shouted, “Halt the bidding. Halt the bidding!” All she needed was a German accent to complete the effect. The room hushed in anticipation. Or fear for their lives. “I am speechless. Speechless! We have received a bid that is beyond our wildest expectations! The bidder would like to remain anonymous—but I can announce the amount of the bid. Pasadena, are you ready?”

  The black-tie crowd did its best to preserve its dignity while sending up an American Idol-like round of applause and shouts. “I am holding a bid for the Treasures of Troy and the Glories of Greece for a quarter of a million dollars. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” Now the crowd cheered for real.

  Melanie jumped up and down, waving the note and repeating the number over and over again. Hugging ensued on stage, as if they had all cured cancer and reunited the Beatles simultaneously. Melanie, the auctioneer, the superintendant, Roshelle, Jennifer embracing indiscriminately. Oh please, were those tears in Roshelle’s eyes?

  Patrick stood to the side and shook his head in disbelief. Who would bid that kind of cash for a trip with him? Melanie was asking the same question, “This is a verified anonymous bid. But would that bidder like to come forward now? Your contribution will make a difference to thousands of Pasadena schoolchildren. Please, let us honor you for your generosity.”

  Necks strained and nervous applause turned into a driving hand-clapped beat. I peeked through the curtain to see which of Pasadena’s old guard or new money would stand up and be recognized. Nobody really wanted to be anonymous, did they? Was it the Gambles? The Montagues? That guy who pitched for the Dodgers? Those people who invented Post-its—the Averys? The clapping got louder, more insistent. Melanie tried one more time, “Please, good soul, let us say thank you?”

  And then, from Table Two, the Minoan Snake Goddess rose. Mitsy Fairchild stood up, tall and straight, and made her way to the stage. Wearing an elegant gold lamé dress and a dramatic piece of gold
jewelry in her hair, Mitsy owned the night. She took her sweet time, creating a piece of theater like no other. She gestured to Mikki and Mimi to join her on stage, which, of course, they did.

  Mitsy did not appear to be looking for me in the crowd.

  As I watched her approach the stage from my position backstage, one thing was clear: She’d never had any intention of remaining anonymous. Mitsy removed a tiny slip of paper from her sleeve. Notes for her speech. Unbelievable.

  That’s when it hit me that this whole thing was scripted. And Melanie was the costar. That’s why she hadn’t bothered to raise her paddle to bid. She knew Mitsy’s bid before the auction had started.

  Mitsy greeted Patrick with a false gesture of humility, hands in prayer position, head bowed. She double-kissed Melanie and embraced the flushed superintendant. And, true to form, she completely ignored the open arms of Roshelle Slusky. Absorbing the adulation, she made her way to the microphone. Finally, acknowledging a standing ovation from the faithful at the tables, she began her un-impromptu remarks, “I wish my son Merritt was here tonight.…”

  Air. I needed air.

  “Hey, I’ve been looking for you.” Patrick discovered me leaning against a tent pole out back, staring up at the moon. “Were you hiding?”

  “Yes. But I knew you’d find me. You’re an archaeologist, right?”

  “Did you see that?” Patrick was halfway between amused and bewildered at the drama of the last few minutes.

  “You got your wish. A rich old lady won you.”

  “Yeah. That was weird, wasn’t it? Isn’t she your.…”

  “Yeah. She is.” There was nothing else to say on that subject. At least, not then.

  Patrick reached for me and pulled me into his chest. I buried my head in his shoulder, closed my eyes and pictured that we were anywhere but there. “What do you want to do now?” he asked softly.