Helen of Pasadena

by Lian Dolan

  “Is that what happened with you and Patrick?”

  My face drew a blank, partly because I’d never actually acknowledged any sort of relationship with Patrick to Sarah. And partly because the soupy yogurt was quickly seeping through the recyclable cup and I needed to wipe my hands on my pants, which might make Sarah faint. So, to buy time on both accounts, I stammered, “Umm.…”

  “Oh, Helen, everybody knew! Did you think we didn’t notice the, the thing between you two? Even the security guard at the front gate used to talk about what a cute couple you made! He told us about the night you came back to the Huntington really late. Together.” Sarah was full of surprises. And technically, it was only about nine that night, but whatever. “I thought you did, too. That’s why I was surprised to hear that you broke it off.”

  “I’m sorry, you heard what?” I tossed the cup in a nearby garbage can and wiped my hands, propriety be damned. What was Sarah talking about? “From whom?”

  “Patrick. Patrick told me. We’ve talked a half-dozen times since he had to fly off to London to see his daughter in the hospital. Or, ‘in hospital,’ as the British say. I’m sure you heard about the meningitis scare. Poor guy, he was beside himself the night he left. His daughter was out of the woods, but he wanted to see her,” Sarah said.

  Meningitis? I had no idea. He had never mentioned meningitis to me. There had only been the hint in his note that he needed to see his daughter. And nothing in the e-mails afterward, except that he had squeezed in a visit to London. Why? Why hadn’t he explained? I didn’t feel like pretending with Sarah anymore. “Sarah, what did he say about me breaking it off?’

  “He told me that you didn’t feel the timing was right. You seemed to want to keep it a ‘one moment in time’ sort of relationship.” My face must have really fallen, because Sarah gasped, “Helen, are you okay?”

  No, I wasn’t. “I am an idiot.”

  “Do I have it wrong?”

  “No, you have it right. I did say that. I thought … I thought I was saying what Patrick wanted to hear.”

  “How did that work for you the first time? With Merritt?” It was the most pointed thing Sarah had ever said to me, maybe that anyone had ever said to me. Is that what Life Coach Tina was trying to say when she suggested I take what I learned this year and apply it? Sarah looked at me with the understanding of someone who hadn’t been particularly stellar in the relationship department either.

  “You know, not that well.” And we both laughed.

  More than square footage and a prestige address, I missed my old air conditioning. In my haste to get in a bid on Sunshine Street, I’d failed to ask about central air. I discovered during the first triple-digit hot spell that my dream cottage had one tiny window unit and limited circulation.

  I was still trying to sort out my financial situation with Bruno and Billy Owens in the aftermath of the house sale. “Don’t do too much too soon,” Bruno warned. Billy added, “Let’s let the dust settle before you start making home improvements.”

  What Billy really meant was that investors to Fairchild Capital may still come out of the woods to sue. My strategy? Lay low and pray. By next summer, I’d know if I could afford AC. In the meantime, I took a lot of cold outdoor showers and sat around in the least amount of clothing possible. Thank God Aiden was in Oregon for the summer.

  That’s how Mitsy found me on a hot July night, dripping wet and barely dressed. I leapt to attention, hoping she could look beyond my tank top and batik pareo, underwear optional.

  She could not. “Are you going to do the limbo later? You look positively native.” Mitsy did, too, in apple-green golf skirt, pink polo shirt and Jack Rodgers sandals. Pasadena native.

  Our relationship had been cool since the night of the benefit and her grand donation. Of course, we got through the mandatory family events with civility and a sense of duty, like the Mother’s Day brunch at the club and Aiden’s Millington graduation. We even sat together in solidarity at Mass on Father’s Day, remembering that Aiden was a boy without a dad. The good thing about never having had a close relationship with Mitsy was that a sudden cold spell did not register with the general public. Mikki and Mimi would never have noticed the chill in the air, and Aiden hadn’t asked any questions.

  Even the dreaded task of informing Mitsy that Aiden would be attending a public school specializing in the performing arts instead of Merritt’s beloved Catholic alma mater had been cordial. Okay, I almost threw up from the stress, but Mitsy had been very gracious to Aiden. She saved her strongest condemnation for me. “I can’t imagine how Merritt would have felt about this. That’s a moot point. This never would have happened if Merritt were alive.”

  I felt refreshingly undisturbed by her outburst. I was making progress.

  Mitsy’s appearance at our little bungalow was unprecedented. She hadn’t bothered to check out our new digs, despite the fact that we’d moved in more than a month ago. Of course, she’d been in Nantucket for three of those weeks visiting a college roommate and drinking gin and tonics, an annual rite that she referred to as her “Sojourn on the Island.” Glancing around now at my new house, she held out a bag, “Isn’t this charming? And so close to that chicken hut down the street! What luck! A little housewarming gift.”

  On a list of things I would Never Need Again in My Life, a scrimshaw of a whaling ship must rank right up at the top. Was she kidding? I had just sold every piece of decent art we’d collected over fifteen years and she was handing me Ye Olde New England souvenir? “Thanks. Please sit. Would you like some lemonade? Or a diet soda?” I deliberately left wine off the list, despite the fact that I was enjoying a spritzer with lots of lime. I didn’t want her to stay.

  “Yes, it is hot in here. Nothing, though, I won’t be long. I just wanted to give you these,” she said, pulling a large envelope out of her Nantucket basket tote.

  Could it possibly be more scrimshaw? I was too hot to wait. “What’s this?”

  “The tickets from the benefit. The tickets to Greece. I thought you might want to go. After all, I bought them for you. And Aiden, of course.”

  I was stunned, but not into silence. Into a sort of rage. How dare she! “You know, Mitsy, if you wanted to send Aiden and me on vacation, you certainly didn’t have to spend several hundred thousand dollars. Mexico is just fine for us. So let’s not pretend that you made that donation for me or for Aiden.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that I had,” she said, keeping her cool like a reptile. “It was time I stepped up and did something significant for Pasadena. The tickets were an afterthought. But I did think you might appreciate them.”

  “You want me to be grateful? You pledged a quarter of a million dollars for other people’s children to go to school and your own grandchild may not have the money for college. And I’m supposed to be grateful?” I was not holding back.

  Neither was she. Mitsy straightened her spine and stared straight ahead, not making eye contact. She spoke carefully, “I know about Merritt. I know what he did to you. I know the mess he created. The one you had to clean up.”

  “If you knew, if you understood, then why did you tell me after Merritt’s death that you wouldn’t help us? Let me rephrase that. You said it ‘wasn’t possible’ for you to help us.” I didn’t add that the truth was that she had the money, but she didn’t have the heart.

  Mitsy stood for effect. “What if I had helped? What if I had told you right then that I would pick up the tab for Aiden’s college? Oh, and don’t worry about high school, I’d pave the way at Ignatius with a huge donation. What then?”

  “Then maybe I would have gotten a lot more sleep than I have in the last six months. Maybe, maybe …”

  Maybe what?

  “Oh, you would have slept. You would have barely been able to get out of bed. You would have curled up in a ball and waited for everything to cave in before you tried to stop the pain.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because that’
s what I did when my husband died. I was para-lyzed with fear. I thought someone was going to take care of me for the rest of my life… and then he went and died! So I curled up in a ball for a year before I could face my future. And by then, I had almost destroyed it. The finances, my relationship with my children, my, my … self-worth. I didn’t want that to happen to you. If I’d given you that money, the promise that I would take care of you financially, you’d still be sitting in that house, stunned and shocked. But you’re not. You got up and you did what you had to do. You have moved on in a way that I never could. Look at you!” And she did. Mitsy’s eyes met mine, “The job, the new house, the environment you created for Aiden—you did that. You will be fine because you made it so.”

  I was speechless. Mitsy had outdone herself. She had manipulated me in every way possible. I’d fallen right into her trap. Mercifully. Thankfully. After winning her approval finally, I found myself on the verge of tears.

  “You will be fine,” Mitsy repeated. “Merritt was a flawed man. I blame myself. That period of my life when he needed me, I wasn’t there. He learned to cope, but not with honor. You were a good wife to him.” Her voice cracked a tiny bit. She pushed the envelope forward. “Take the tickets. Go see that archaeologist of yours.”

  In my fifteen years as a Fairchild, I had never seen Mitsy look so vulnerable.

  Then the Snake Goddess appeared again, calm, cool and in charge. “It’s a trip for two. You can take Aiden before he starts school. Or simply go alone and see what happens.”

  I found my voice. “Thank you.” Should I hug her? Is that what’s called for? Too late.

  “I understand you’ve resigned from the club.” Apparently, our kumbayah moment was over. We were back to doing what we Fairchild women do best: logistics.

  “I did. Not in the budget this year.”

  “Yes. Even still, I hope you and Aiden will still be there for the family soiree on Labor Day. The Lobster Cookout. As my guests, of course.”

  “We’d love that.”

  “Good. Press on.” With that, she was gone.

  But I had my sign.

  From: Helen Fairchild

 

  Subject: Interview/Trip

  Patrick…

  Quick update. First, we’d like to do a follow-up interview for the pilot episode about what you found in Moscow. We need about five to seven minutes on “Was Priam’s Treasure for real or faked” from your POV. Annabeth thinks I should do the interview. Is that something I can schedule with you for mid-August?

  Also, remember how my mother-in-law bought you at the auction(!) Well, in a shocking display of humanity, she has given the trip to Aiden and me. I know you may not have the time to really fulfill the whole auction thing. But, if you have any suggestions on must-see places that we should visit when we take advantage of the first-class tickets and five-star accommodations, please do advise. Thanks.

  Let me know about possible interview dates.

  Oh, and I heard from Sarah that your daughter had meningitis. How terrifying.

  Helen

  From: Dr. Patrick O’Neill

 

  CC: ProprietorTed@invinoveritas.com

  Subject: re: Interview/Trip

  Great. Yes, of course. Yes to interview. You know about Moscow and Priam’s Treasure research. Am ready to say on camera that Schliemann faked find, all for the love of a questionably good woman. May be end of my career. Ah, well. Been a good run.

  Yes to trip. I gave my word to that crazy friend of yours. I don’t want Melanie to slit my throat with her huge diamond ring if I renege on the trip. The Gambles are coming over to tour the sites—I thought they would be excellent company if I had to spend two weeks with your mother-in-law. She scared me. Sorry. So we can all travel together.

  I’ve cc’d Ted. You two can coordinate your trip from there. I am at your disposal in mid- to late August. Have to be back in Athens by September 1 for classes.

  Helen, come a few days early for the interview. I think it would work best if the two of us do that before the rest of Pasadena arrives in Troy. I’ll get you the name of a local crew who can shoot it for you.

  Send confirmation of plans when you get them.

  Best, Patrick

  PS, Yes, Cassie was very sick. How could I not have told you that? Sorry. It was a crazy night when I tried to pack everything up. And get to London. By the time I could book a flight, the worst was over. Get Aiden the vaccine! You don’t want to go through that, believe me.

  From: Helen Fairchild

 

  Subject: re: re: Interview/Trip

  Patrick,

  We are set! What a plan. I will arrive on August 7th. The rest of the Pasadonians, as you call us, will arrive on August 12th. Aiden is flying with the Gambles. (I scheduled vaccine!) I think that should give us enough time to get in a seven-minute interview. It’s also when the best flights worked out. Feel free to put me to work on site: digging, dusting, bringing baked goods for the crew—my new specialty.

  Do you need hair and makeup, Dr. O’Neill? Or a trailer with a personal trainer? How about an accent coach or on-set massage therapist? Please advise. Our budgets are modest—but for you I am sure I can arrange something special.

  Yasu, Helen

  From: Dr. Patrick O’Neill

 
  CC: ProprietorTed@invinoveritas.com

  Subject: Bring Cheeseburger

  Dear Ms. Fairchild,

  I believe I can do my own hair and makeup, but I would enjoy the Langham cheeseburger.

  Hot, please.

  Soon, Patrick

  CHAPTER 24

  It was hard not to get caught up in the romance of it all. Crossing the Dardanelles by boat to get to the Turkish city of Hissarlik, the site of ancient Troy, I felt like I was traveling in the wake of history. My ferry crossed the same body of water as the ships carrying Helen and her lover Paris, fleeing a furious Menelaus, the jilted husband. These waters had transported the Greek warriors from Sparta to avenge their leader’s betrayal. Later, the dark waters of the Dardanelles would bring Heinrich Schliemann, his new bride, Sophia, and her soon-to-be lover Rudy to uncover the past and write a new chapter for the history books. I could barely take it all in, the gut-churning sensation of embarking on something momentous combined with the stunning scenery in front of me—the waves, the ridgeline, the barest outline of a city on a hill.

  I felt sick.

  I’d forgotten to take a Dramamine in the car from Istanbul. As if the car ride wasn’t trying enough, the boat ride was worse. I’d suffered rough Aegean ferry rides before, during my student days, so I knew I needed meds. But the excitement of the moment overwhelmed my usual common sense. Maybe the subconscious reason I abandoned archaeology was the seasickness, not the feelings of inadequacy.

  Breathe deeply and concentrate on the horizon, I thought. The famous shore stood a half-mile away. Unlike other ancient sites, Troy did not have any ruins. There were no temples in disrepair or crumbling walls to remind a modern tourist what had transpired here 3,000 years ago. Only rolling hillsides and tall grasses covered the opposite shoreline, to the disappointment of the uninformed, who rated Troy “not worth the effort” on travel blogs. Most visitors to this part of the world were Australians, coming to see the nearby World War I site of Gallipoli, not Patrick’s trenches. But I couldn’t wait to see the layers of history buried in the dirt.

  The thought of Patrick made me queasy again. Please don’t let him be on the dock to greet me. Green is not my color, I mused silently, cracking the barest of smiles. What am I doing here?

  It had all happened so quickly—the tickets from Mitsy, the go-ahead from Annabeth and Olympia, the plan to meet up with the Gamble family to get our full tour of ancient sites. And the final detail: convincing Aiden. He hadn’t needed much arm-twisting, nor had he asked many questions. Two weeks in Turkey and Gree
ce with the Gambles and Dr. O’Neill? Yes. Are there beaches there? Yes. Aiden was in. He would be flying over with the Gambles in five days.

  I had five days alone with Patrick, for better or worse.

  The phrase “what a difference a year makes” is thrown around to describe downfalls and comebacks, but I never thought it would apply to me. Once I was pretty sure I knew what the future held for decades, not just days. But I was wrong. There’s no way I would have paid a fortune teller her full fee if, a year ago, she’d intoned, “Next August, you will be sailing to ancient Troy, to connect your past with your future. You will be a widow traveling without your child. The journey will be steep and difficult, but on the journey, you will meet a very hot guy.” Ridiculous! The image made me laugh.

  Which in turn, made me feel even worse.

  I needed to get off that boat and onto some solid ground.

  “You feel better now?” Ekram, my guide and porter, asked as I emerged from what the sign indicated was a ladies room but could have easily been a broom closet, given its size, odor and lack of such amenities as light, water and a mirror. Thank God for my packet of wet wipes!

  “Yes,” I smiled. Here’s hoping I didn’t miss my mouth with the lipstick application.

  “Dr. O’Neill said to bring your bags to his tent, then bring you to his trench right away. His apologies again, he is in the middle of something, and the ferries, well, they can be not on time, yes? My car is here or you can walk a short way and I take luggage. Sometimes, that is good to clear the head.”

  I must really be green, I thought. Wait, did Ekram say he would bring the bags to Patrick’s tent? Another positive sign! Or a language barrier. “I’ll walk. Thank you.”

  Now I was grateful Tina had talked me into the Merrell high-fashion hiking boots for the trip. “Earthy but sexy,” she said. She was right about the earthy anyway; I was already covered in light dust from my knees down. I shook my head thinking about Melanie and her promise of five-star travel and accommodations. It was hard to imagine Mitsy or any of Pasadena’s potential bidders making the trek to Troy. I pushed the image out of my head and immediately felt better.