Helen of Pasadena (13 page)

I didn’t even get to finish. Mimi and Mikki, with watery eyes and understanding nods, jumped in to save me. “Of course. We’d be honored.” The sisters spoke in solidarity. It was clear that they appreciated being asked. They wanted to help.

“Thank you. I’ll pull out a few things for Aiden—like Merritt’s USC jacket and some other items. And I’m sure there are some things you may want. I think Merritt even had some of your father’s ties and that great navy blue overcoat. Please keep those. If you want anything, it’s yours. If I miss something that you think Aiden would like, leave it. Emilia can pack up the basics and have them delivered to the resale shop for the hospital. I can’t tell you.…”

“No need to say anything. We all can’t believe how well you are handling this. All of us,” Mikki said, and Mimi squeezed my hand in agreement. The implication was clear: Even Mitsy approved.

“I’m at work all week. You can come anytime on Thursday or Friday. Just let me know so I can have Emilia available,” I said, getting up from the table. Thank God I had a job and an excuse. I should have gotten a job years ago. I loved having somewhere to go and something to think about that was completely unrelated to my life. “Thank you, both.”

The blond Fairchild sisters bobbed their heads. So did I. For once, we were all in the same circle.

One giant To Do list item down, one to go. I texted Tina: Open house this weekend. Worried Roshelle might show. Can U watch for her? Make sure she doesn’t steal anything.

Merritt’s sisters could take any keepsake they wanted. Merritt’s mistress could not.

Tina texted me right back: U r so rt … slut would take something ... I’m on it.

CHAPTER 9

To my surprise, Patrick was already at his desk when I arrived at 8:55. He was staring so intensely at his computer screen, he did not even acknowledge my arrival. He sat with remarkable stillness, his right hand on the desk, hovering over the mouse. His blue linen shirt sleeves were casually rolled up, and I noticed the size and strength of his forearm. His tanned skin, with just the perfect amount of dark hair, set off his stainless steel watch. Was that a tattoo on his left arm?

Snap out of it, Helen!

“Morning,” I offered in a quiet voice. Again, another office protocol issue. Do I disturb him if he’s working? Or do I leave him alone and slip quietly into scanning mode? His greeting told me I was within professional bounds.

“Hey, you’re here!” Patrick said brightly, looking up at me with the same intensity he'd had when studying the screen. “I made the coffee today.”

“Thanks.” Now he was making me a little nervous with his gaze. I had no witty repartee planned after “Morning!” Tomorrow, I’d work on a few one-liners to fill in the gap between “Morning!’ and “Lunchtime.” Why was this so hard? I talked to Merritt’s buddies all the time. I fell back on my surefire conversational trick when trying to engage the men in Merritt’s circle: ask about their work.

“What are you working on?” I tried for a casual tone, as I dropped my large Land’s End canvas bag and headed over to pour myself a fourth cup of coffee. I didn’t want to be rude, even though I was already swimming in caffeine. I took a sip and gagged. Really gagged. “Wow, this is sludge!”

Patrick laughed like he was expecting the reaction. “It’s Turkish. You get used to it. After spending so much time there, I’ve learned to like the chewy quality.”

Of course. His dig site was in Hissarlik, Turkey, home of sludge-y coffee and beautiful linen, like the shirt he was wearing. I took a smaller sip this time, like I’d seen in the movies.

“It’s a meal all right. My coffee yesterday must have tasted like dishwater.”

“No, it was refined. Like you.” Patrick countered, turning back to his screen.

Refined? Really? Compared to Sarah White and, oh, almost everybody else in Pasadena?

He brought up a slide of what appeared to be a huge excavation site as I moved around behind him. I assumed it was Troy. My research so far did not include memorizing the aerial views of ancient sites, as my college archaeology class required. “Take a look at this.”

I made my way over to his side of the desk. I stood off to the side of his right shoulder and immediately worried about my breath.

Yoga breathing, yoga breathing, through the nose.

“Here is what I’m calling Troy 10, the last known city, or level, to be occupied. Most folks think there are only nine cities on the site, Troy 1, Troy 2, Troy 3 and so on, dating from 3,000 BC to 600 AD. Built and destroyed, built and destroyed. But I think this right here is Troy 10. I think it was occupied starting about 850 AD.” The computer screen held a high-quality aerial photo of the entire site. Unlike so many ancient sites, there were no ruins at Troy, no outward signs that there had been civilization of any kind. The archaeological evidence was buried under layers of dirt, covered by grass. Patrick pointed to a slight mound of grassy dirt on a vast plain at the edge of the excavated levels. “I think it’s the key to determining whether or not Troy was a major trading city of the medieval world.”

Frankly, I couldn’t see anything in the photo. Was there a city under that mound? Was there really even a mound? Looked like a soccer field to me, not the key to anything. “And your academic rivals would prefer the ‘or not,’ right?”

Patrick’s face registered surprise.

“I read your Facebook page. Well, technically, it’s the Bringing Sexy Back to Archaeology page, but you’re featured prominently.” Oops, that sounded like I was stalking him.

“It came up when I googled Troy. And there you were.” I rushed through my explanation, hoping he wouldn’t register exactly what I was implying. “There’s quite a lively discussion taking place on the boards about the validity of your assertion that Troy was a powerful trading city well into the Middle Ages. You have some detractors, Dr. O’Neill.”

“I didn’t set up that page.” Was he blushing a little bit?

“I figured. You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would describe himself as ‘one part Indy/one part Apollo’.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Yes, I am.” I wasn’t, but he seemed so genuinely embarrassed I thought changing the subject was a good idea. “I’ll be honest. I don’t see anything in that photo but a great place to play soccer. What are we looking at?”

“Come closer,” Patrick instructed.

Oh, no, he smelled fantastic, like he’d showered with Dr. Bronner’s soap and then rolled around in lemon verbena.

He took his index finger and ran it lightly over the illuminated screen, circling a random area of the green field. “This is satellite imagery. Right here is where I think the marketplace, the agora, stood. Can you see the elevation change?”

“Oh, sure,” I lied, just wanting him to back away so I could get a grip.

“I don’t believe you. My undergrads try to pull that. Sit here,” Patrick ordered, gracefully switching places with me and taking ahold of my shoulders to line me up in the proper position. He ran his finger softly alongside my face, directing my eyes to the top right area of the image.
Is that a tattoo on his fine forearm?
He barely whispered into my ear. “Follow my finger with your eyes. Relax your focus, scan the slide slowly, let your eyes see the differences in the topography. Notice the slight elevation change. Can you see it?”

Who knew “topography” could sound like a come on? I was having a bit of trouble relaxing
anything
, much less my focus. My mind was zeroed in on the sensation of his solid shoulders pressing into mine and the gentleness of his voice.

“Relax,” he told me again. Obviously, my uptight but refined, body language was talking loud and clear.

Yoga breathing again.

It was working. As I let my eyes soften and focus in on the screen, I could see the slight circular outline of the marketplace, the line where Patrick had traced his finger before. It was there where it hadn’t been before. “I see it!”

I sounded like a preschooler who found Waldo.

Patrick laughed, stepping away from the back of my chair, sadly for me. “This time, I believe you.” He walked around to the front of the computer. How had he found a shirt that matched the color of his eyes? “Sometimes, it’s not about the finding—it’s about the looking.”

Now I knew why this man has such an ardent following. I scooted out of his seat, wondering what to say next. He beat me to it. “Bring your chair over. Let me show you some other stuff.”

Close physical contact was not part of the Document Scanning Protocol, but I was in no position to argue. I was just the assistant.

“Two glasses of that sounds great. Do you usually drink at lunch?” Patrick asked me as he settled onto his barstool and reached for an olive from the tasteful hand-painted ceramic bowl in the signature yellow-and-blue colors of the In Vino Veritas Wine Bar.

No, I thought to myself, but clearly he did. Nobody ever looked more at home drinking wine, eating olives and striking up a conversation than Patrick O’Neill.

I usually eat cottage cheese and Wheat Thins standing over the sink, in between aerobics, committee meetings and mani/ pedis. But that sort of answer seems slightly provincial given the morning I’d shared with a world-famous archaeologist, so instead I opted to save face.

“Not if I’m driving carpool.” Which is true, even if some mothers I know don’t follow the same set of standards.

In Vino Veritas was owned by Ted Gamble, Jan’s husband, diaper heir and wine aficionado. Back in the day, Ted was a mergers and acquisitions lawyer, even though the interest on his trust fund would have sufficed for a very nice life. He became so good at lawyering that he made oodles more money. Then, after September 11th and the death of his best friend on the United plane bound for San Francisco, Ted retired early and opened up a small wine shop with an informal, satisfying sandwich and tapas bar. The service was slow, but the ham was Parma. And Ted was a delightful proprietor, the perfect companion for a solo diner. I used to stop by every couple of weeks to buy a case of wine, Ted’s picks, and a sandwich.

My wine budget now was more Trader Joe’s than In Vino Veritas, so it had been a while since my last visit. When Patrick suggested lunch together, I said I knew the perfect place. I got the distinct impression he wanted some out-of-the-way spot where Sarah White would not materialize. He mumbled something about finding a place “not known to the rest of the Huntington staff.” Veritas was up the street, but out of the way.

Ted’s eyebrows raised slightly when I walked in with Patrick. I’d never even come in here with Merritt, who had no patience for a place like this. But I could see the question on his face about my lunch date. I hadn’t seen Ted since the funeral, and my guess is that he and Jan had other things to talk about at the end of the day than me. I quickly introduced the two men and they both seemed pleased. Ted was well read and a world traveler with high-profile political and business connections. And Patrick was comfortable dealing with guys like Ted.

As Patrick and Ted exchanged the social niceties of who, what, when and how long will you be in Pasadena, I sipped my Pinot Grigio (
delicious… maybe I should drink more at lunch)
and thought about the last three hours.

Patrick had walked me through the bulk of his research, slide by slide. Like a semester of Trojan Archaeology in one morning. I remembered what made me fall in love with archaeology twenty years ago. Unraveling a mystery, shard by shard, using the physical, the literary, the linguistic and the historical data to re-create a civilization gone for a thousand years. Patrick was trying to put together a complete, complex picture of Troy, a legendary city that had disappeared. His work was like a game of Clue, but on a grander scale.

He was patient with my questions and enthusiastic with his responses, like the best teachers. And it was obvious that he not only knew his stuff, he knew everybody’s stuff: about Greece, Homer, Troy, history starting in the Bronze Age and moving forward to today. Patrick spouted off on Constantine, Byzantium and the
Aeneid
. He cited ancient trade routes and their modern-day counterparts. He threw in some Greek, Turkish and Latin, along with philosophy and geology and recommendations for the best local food. And he wrapped it all up in a Trojan horse of humor and enthusiasm.

Now I understood why what was in those notebooks meant nothing. Patrick’s work was so much bigger, so much broader than a few observations by an engineer 140 years ago. Patrick was out to change the accepted map of the ancient and medieval world, to upset the accepted academic standards. What Rudolph Schliemann might reveal in those journals was a tiny piece of a magnificent puzzle. Just like Patrick had said, “a few colorful anecdotes,” but nothing on the scale of mapping the entire 4,000 years of a city called Troy.

Ted’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. “So, are you married, Patrick? Is your wife here with you?”

Brilliant, Ted, brilliant! Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. Fire away, counselor. Let’s get the whole scoop. I feigned interest in the menu while I waited for the official response.

“I was married once, a long time ago. For about an hour and half. It didn’t work out. She didn’t care for all the dirt I tracked into the house.” Big laughter from the boys. “She went back to London. She likes creature comforts. I don’t really care about that stuff. That’s where my daughter lives, too.”

What?! An ex-wife in London? A daughter?

“How old is your daughter?” Good work, Ted.

“Cassandra is 20. She’s studying fashion design. She wants to be the next Stella McCartney. Her mother is a designer, so she gets that from her, not me.”

“My oldest wants to be a park ranger. I never even took her camping!” More laughter from Ted and Patrick.

My mind was racing. Inexplicably, an image of Jane Seymour popped into my head, even though I’m sure Dr. Patrick O’Neill had never been married to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. Who is Artsy Wife? How long is “a long time ago?” And when exactly did Artsy Wife “go back to London”? Does he see his daughter? How often? Why did he name her Cassandra when the mythological Cassandra was killed by her own mother? And when he sees his daughter, does he have tea and crumpets with Artsy Wife? And if he has a 20-year-old daughter, surely he’s older than me, but how much older?

Keep talking, Ted. Keep talking.

But Ted did what all men do when the conversation turns good and intimate: He changed the subject. “Let me ask you this. Why don’t the Greeks make better wine? They’ve been drinking it for thousands of years. Why isn’t it better?”

And off they went on a thousand topics, all of which were entertaining, but none of which were related to anything personal. They talked about the best restaurants in Paris, the English Premiere League, American politics versus Russian politics, the ruins at Ephesus, seeing Bruce Springsteen for the first time. Everything under the sun but people and relationships. Almost two hours later, after a few cups of coffee for me and a few more glasses of wine for Patrick, all on the house, of course, we headed back to the office.