Helen of Pasadena

by Lian Dolan

  I didn’t hesitate. “I want to get out of this dress.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “How do you feel?”

  “Wonderful. Completely … satisfied.”

  Oh, and I did. The deluxe cheeseburger (with sweet potato fries) delivered by room service at the luxury Langham Hotel had lived up to its billing as “the Most Delicious Burger Brought Right to Your Door.” Its $36 price tag, plus tax, tip and service charge, was worth every penny. The chocolate shake was overkill, but Patrick had insisted I order it. He drank most of it while I sipped some herbal tea.

  The Five Schools Benefit committee had provided the junior suite at the historic Langham Hotel and Spa in appreciation for his auction donation and other services. Patrick had the room for the weekend, he explained as we were fleeing the scene of the benefit. “Are you kidding me? Of course I took it. I do a lot of traveling, but the places I go do not feature five-star hotels. Most of them have goats in the front yard. And the faculty housing I’ve been in for months is losing its charm, now that the botanist club moved in next door. Botanists can party, I’m telling you.”

  He carried on amenably, perhaps to distract me from the fact that my mother-in-law, who couldn’t be bothered to pay one red cent toward Aiden’s education, had just pledged a quarter of a million dollars toward the education of complete strangers. Or that my husband’s mistress had shown up wearing the same ensemble as the night she entertained my husband in her dressing room a year ago. He rambled on like I would have, had I been in the driver’s seat and he been the stunned passenger. “Plus, the room has a private entrance. No familiar faces, I promise. Just us.”

  “That sounds perfect. Thank you.” I answered.

  He was right. We slipped into his suite unseen. The room smelled like clean linens and lavender. The lighting was low, and I could still hear the band from the benefit in the near distance. I didn’t feel the slightest bit awkward. Working in such close quarters had given us a natural ease. And the relief I felt to be out of the benefit was palpable.

  Priority number one was the removal of my Mary McFadden dress. Patrick’s plan was to unhook the top while I took emergency measures to prevent my loosened B-cup bodice from exposing my C-cup breasts. After several unsuccessful attempts, he asked, “Should I call down to the desk for a crowbar?” Which only made me shake with laughter, making the process infinitely more difficult.

  “Don’t rip it. It’s a rental!” I countered, which made Patrick laugh so hard he could barely perform the fine motor skill necessary to finish the task.

  Finally, I was free and could take myself into the bathroom for the rest of the dress-removal process. He tossed me some sweats and the original Nubby Sweater, which I gratefully put on. I felt like a college girl in her boyfriend’s clothes. There was that smell of lemon verbena again. I took down my hair, tossed the hair extensions and re-applied my lipstick. One quick look in the mirror told me that I’d gone from Helen of Pasadena to Helen again.

  At least I had on lipstick.

  By the time room service arrived, I’d spilled my life story. Well, at least the short, entertaining version of the last year: my average, unexciting marriage; Merritt’s New Year’s Eve confession about Roshelle; the death by panda; my dire financial situation that resulted in selling almost everything I owned; Aiden’s high school admissions odyssey; and finally, my dread at facing a future with no job, no man, no house. It took me about 25 minutes to go through the whole year. And honestly, by the time I got to the “no job, no man, no house” part, I was feeling downright energetic. “The funny thing is that it hasn’t been all bad. Meeting you, working with you, rediscovering something I loved—that’s ... that’s been great. It’s changed me.”

  And then I polished off the cheeseburger while Patrick finished the shake, taking in my confession. “Everybody has an unexpected story, Helen. Isn’t that what we proved this spring? Now I know yours. And, can I add, you’re a good actress, so maybe Aiden inherited that from you. I never would have guessed all that was going on in your life.”

  “I wasn’t acting at the office. I was escaping. Rudy and Sophia’s illicit affair? Or the steamy side of Helen and Paris? Much easier to deal with than my own husband’s behavior.”

  “That’s the thing about archaeology. You can get so lost in someone else’s life, you forget your own.”

  “Is that your story?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” Patrick rolled the room service cart out the door, padding around in bare feet and his tux pants, presumably because I had on his loungewear. Tell me tomorrow? “Okay, here’s the question: Do you want me to take you and your dress home?” He came closer; I stood up to meet him. “Or will you stay with me tonight?”

  There was only one reason to take my dress and go home: I didn’t know the plan. I didn’t know where one night with him would lead. And in the past, the not-knowing would have stopped me. But not anymore.

  “I’d like to stay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Completely.”

  Even the feel of Patrick’s warm hands running up and down my bare back couldn’t relax me. Stop thinking, Helen! I tried to concentrate on the feel of his skin against mine, over my shoulder blades, forearms, hips. Was I shaking? Was it obvious? Pat-rick bent down to kiss me, but stopped. “You’re nervous.”

  I guess I was shaking and it was obvious. Please, don’t let me blow this. I willed myself to press into his body, like physically connecting with him would give me the courage to go on. “It’s been a long time since…”

  “I know.” Patrick smoothed my hair, his lips brushing against my neck, then the top of my ears, then my earlobes. He worked his hands down to my waist and effortlessly slid the oversized sweats off, running his strong fingers over my hips. His sweater reached to my thighs, but I had on nothing underneath, as his hands discovered. A happy discovery, judging by the intake of his breath. And mine.

  Patrick kept his mouth moving all over my body, not letting me escape. “Remember that day in the office, when I was first showing you photos of the site and you couldn’t see the ancient outline, the change in elevation, because you were trying so hard to see it?”

  I nodded as I ran my hands over his chest softly, slightly afraid. “Yes.”

  His lips found just the right spot on my forehead, my temples, my eyelids. “Then you relaxed. You stopped focusing and you finally saw.” Again, his hands scraped down my back and under the limited protection of the sweater. “Do that, Helen.” His fingers drifted over my breasts, then back for more. I immediately responded. “Relax.” His hips pressed firmly into mine. “Breathe.” His legs intertwined with mine. Then, just like the time before, Patrick ran his rough finger lightly against the side of my face and whispered, “Stop focusing.”

  And so I did.

  And when his lips finally met mine fully, I was oblivious to everything but the pleasure, the sensation of being desired. And oh my God, of wanting a man, of wanting Patrick so much. We stood pressed against each other in the middle of the room, the pressure between our two bodies holding the other up. His mouth was gentle, then not. Any doubts vanished. My hands came alive, seeking him. I couldn’t touch him enough, like I hadn’t really touched another body in forever. I needed to feel his skin next to mine. His dress shirt came off slowly, one stud at a time. Then I unzipped his pants quickly. He let them drop to the floor and elegantly stepped out of the pools by his feet. Dr. Patrick O’Neill wore some very revealing black European briefs. If there were any flaws in this man, I didn’t see them. He was wonderfully real. I took him all in: his lovely arms, his deep collarbone that I’d been staring at for months, wanting to trace with my fingers, his perfectly hairy chest. The tattoo of the sun and stars. Oh, he looked good. I lowered my head, too embarrassed by my desire to meet his eyes. I brushed my mouth against his nipples. Patrick moaned, the sound of sweet of arousal. “Helen …”

  “I’m not focusing, just like you told me,” I teased, rolling my tongue
back and forth, first on the right side, then on the left. His whole body hardened.

  “How about you not focus in bed?” His knees buckled, as my fingers found the very top of those very tight black briefs. And then inside. I gently pushed him back toward the bed, enjoying his enjoyment. Patrick stretched out on the cool crisp sheets of the generous hotel bed, watching me the whole time as I approached. I kneeled on the edge of the mattress. His mouth curled wickedly, “I think I’d like my sweater back now. I’m a touch chilly.”

  “Oh, you’re never getting this sweater back,” I declared as I straddled my archaeologist, squeezing my thighs against his. “It’s the Nubby Sweater.”

  “It’s what?” he said, rising up on his elbows, accentuating a very respectable set of abdominal muscles. “The Nubby Sweater?”

  “You were wearing it the day we met. By the Diana statue.”

  “I remember. You were wearing a very cute scarf.” Patrick reached his hands out to rub my thighs, then deeper and higher. His touch was fire; the pressure was perfect. I circled my hips, barely able to hold on. Now it was my turn to moan involuntarily while Patrick took control. “Do you still have the scarf?”

  “I do.”

  “Maybe we can trade.”

  “Deal.” I backed off, not wanting to rush the inevitable. Patrick relaxed back on the pillow. His eyes looked deep blue, but not playful anymore. “Now please stop talking and take off that sweater.”

  And so I did.

  The clank of the hotel door indicated that it was safe to get up and roam about the room. Patrick had departed, and judging by his outfit, which I spied while pretending to be asleep, he was off for a run. But not before leaving a large coffee, a scone, a shopping bag, assorted sundries and a note on my bedside table.

  I turned on the light and grabbed the coffee. The note read: On a run. Back by 10. Don’t leave.

  Don’t leave, how romantic.

  Stop it. You said you weren’t going to be that way, Helen.

  I amused myself with the task of opening the bag, rather than dwelling on unrealistic visions of happily-ever-after. It was an adorable sweatsuit from the spa shop. The velour kind with the hoodie and low-slung pants that had been in style, then out of style, then back again, because it was just too comfortable and cute to really ever go away for good. Exactly the kind of loungewear I would never buy for myself, fearing that I could never pull off that sexy casual look with my saddlebags. But Patrick thought I could! In charcoal gray, my color! Again, I had to temper my expectations.

  Lecture to self: He’s leaving Tuesday. You are staying. You are both grownups and this was one night. His life will go on. And yours will, too. You got it out of your system. Same with him. It was great, but it is over.

  It was great, but it is over, I repeated out loud to make sure that I understood fully.

  And with that, I hopped out of bed and into the shower, slightly reluctant to wash the night away so quickly.

  Patrick discovered me sitting out on the balcony of the suite, overlooking the landscaped pool area, unnaturally thrilled about the success of the velour sweatsuit on my body type. I felt happy at a cellular level.

  Before he returned, I’d been responding to the texts from Tina from last night, each one getting progressively more frantic, then accepting:

  Where r u?

  OMG, Shelley Sleazy.

  OMG, WTF Mitsy?

  R u still here?

  Do u need ride home?

  OK? Guess not. Good luck.

  Call in morning.

  Candy had sent just one: Holy Crap. You deserve best night of life.

  Go get it.

  And finally, one text in from Rita the Armenian: Have found your house! 1112 Sunshine St. Perfect. Meet me at 1.

  To Tina I responded: Am alive and well. Very. To Candy, I responded: I did.

  To Rita, I responded: See u at 1.

  I had just put away my phone when a sweaty Patrick walked through the door, in running shorts and an Arsenal T-shirt. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Apparently time and life experience have not made this portion of the morning after any easier. I was looking for just the right mix of warmth and cool. “You’re quite a provider: food, shelter, toothbrush, velour sweatsuits. Thank you.”

  “Good thing the spa shop opens so early. I thought that number was slightly better than the fuzzy bathrobe. Though personally, I like anything fuzzy,” he said, grabbing a nine dollar bottle of water from the minibar and taking a big swig. “I didn’t think you’d want to be waltzing through the lobby in your dress. Half the people arriving for Sunday brunch were at the party last night. They recover fast!”

  Of course! The brunch at the Langham was the classic gathering spot for party postmortems! “Well, the Langham has a new executive chef, and he is really superb,” I said in my best lock-jawed Mitsy imitation. Then I added in my own voice, “And I think you’re fully integrated here if you actually recognize people in the brunch line at the Langham.” It was the perfect opportunity to let him off the hook. “It’s a good thing you’re leaving before Pasadena sucks you in.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I think I’m getting out just in time,” he laughed, and then the easy conversation ended. He seemed to be searching for a way into the inevitable. “Helen, you know, I don’t have the kind of life that makes for great relationships. Up until now, my work has been everything. I live in Athens part of the year, then Turkey in the summer. I travel in between. I live on next to nothing…”

  My turn to be the hero. I put my hand up. “Patrick, I had a wonderful time last night. But, I understand the reality of your life. Mine isn’t any more relationship-friendly. You don’t have to explain anything. Please. I know what this is. I get it. It stays here. Nothing more.”

  Our eyes met and held for an uncomfortable moment.

  “Oh, okay,” he agreed tentatively, seemingly surprised at my preemptive strike. Did I throw him off? Was he headed in a different direction? “I was just … never mind, you’re right. We do have very different lives to get back to, Helen. I guess that’s just the way it is. But last night, I, um, enjoyed your company.” He breathed deeply, as if that portion of the conversation was over and he was relieved. And then a long pause. “So, what’s next? I mean today, what’s next today?”

  I almost blurted out, “Come see a house with me!” But I managed to contain myself. If this were a normal relationship, if Patrick weren’t leaving in two days, never to return, and if I weren’t still supposed to be in mourning for my dead husband, there would be nothing sweeter than spending the day with my new man. A personal fantasyland: a long, lazy lunch; house-hunting for an adorable cottage; dinner around the table with Patrick and Aiden getting to know each other better.

  But this wasn’t fantasyland. And trying to integrate Patrick into my life here in Pasadena would only make Tuesday more terrible.

  So I put him off with a complete lie. “I have something really important to do later. You know, with Aiden. It’s a Fairchild thing. And …” the babbling started. “You must have packing and all kinds of craziness going on. Wow, you’re leaving in two days. I can’t imagine everything you have to do. It’s too bad about.…”

  It’s too bad about what? That I didn’t meet Patrick twenty years ago?

  “… the timing.”

  “Yes, it is too bad about the timing,” he gave me a long look. “I do have a few things to do. But any chance you can grab lunch first? Something quick. Tacos?” There was that smile.

  “Sure.” Tacos or cardboard, whatever you want.

  “And a shower?”

  I cocked my head. “I just took one.”

  “I think you may need another,” said the archaeologist, removing his shirt. “I know I do.”

  Maybe I could learn to like this no-expectations thing.

  The house was never quieter than that night. I’d gotten into the habit of turning on the TV, the radio, the stereo—anything to make noise to cover the silence—since Merr
itt’s death. But that night, I sat alone in the living room embracing the quiet, even ignoring the buzz of my cell phone. A call from Annabeth. Then another. That’s odd, I thought. I’d listen to the voicemail tomorrow.

  Aiden was up in his bedroom, slogging through history homework without enthusiasm, trying to grind out the last few weeks of Millington. Just pass the classes, I begged. Get out clean and then you’re free! He was putting in just enough effort to keep the Ds at bay.

  I was nursing a glass of wine and staring at the school calendar, my last vestige of an undigitized life. Everything I needed to do in the next six weeks was scribbled on the appropriate day, old school: Patrick leaves, visit performing-arts school, last day at Huntington, Mother’s Day with Mitsy, final artwork auctioned, antiques dealer comes for dining room set, exams for Aiden, meeting with accountant, Aiden’s graduation, movers arrive. I added a new scribble on moving day: Close on Sunshine Street house?

  As Rita had promised, the Sunshine Street bungalow was perfect, a jewel-box example of Craftsman architecture typical of Pasadena, just like my Sunset magazine fantasy. It was small, cozy and in my price range. It had two bedrooms, one bath and a tiny attic where Aiden could escape from my constant gaze. The kitchen was as neat as a pin and about as big as a postage stamp. The living room had a fireplace; the dining nook had a stained-glass window. Outside was a porch wide enough to hold two chairs and a table, so we could sit out front, watching the traffic or the toddlers across the street. The garden was drought-tolerant and guilt-free, and there was a firepit and an outdoor shower in the minuscule backyard. The house was move-in condition in a wash of blues and greens. If my life were a Reese Witherspoon movie, this would be the set.

  “If you don’t make an offer, I will kill you,” Rita had said after our private showing, just before the agent had an open house. “Do it now, the open house starts in an hour. I want you to have your offer on the table when they throw open the doors to the rest of these people,” she said, waving her hands around, vaguely indicating the masses that would soon be my Bungalow Heaven Adjacent neighbors. “You’ll be happy here for a few years. You’re young, you’ll meet a nice man, maybe he’s a widow or divorced, and you’ll be back in a bigger house in no time. Don’t worry. This is not forever. But it’s perfect for now.”