Helen of Pasadena (6 page)

“I mean, really, I did nothing but nice things for Chris and still the real estate brethren shunned me. Oh, sure, fourteen years later they talk to me at events and they want good press for their charitable underwriting, but in the early ’90s? Forget it,” Candy moaned.

“So there’s nothing you want us to do to Neutron Mel?” I shook my head at Tina’s question. I was too tired to seek revenge. Tina gave me the buck-up smile. “We want to be here for you, Helen.”

“You know what I need, Tina? I need a job, an actual paying job. Not a committee head position where I donate all my time and skills for free. I need somebody to pay me for my work. And I don’t even know how to start.”

“I know just the girl for you. Elizabeth Maxwell, headhunter. She used to call me all the time about law firm jobs; you know, being an Asian female I was in high demand. But now we’re everywhere. Still, she owes me a favor. I helped get her kids into kindergarten. I’ll call her,” said Tina, typing a note to herself into her Blackberry. “You should get a new suit. You’re going to need it for all your interviews.”

Mitsy Fairchild had done the proper thing for a Pasadena woman of a certain age and status. She’d sold her big house in the San Rafael area and downsized into a condo on famed Orange Grove Boulevard. The street was lined with luxury buildings featuring pristine landscaping, million-dollar units and many “For Sale” signs, due to the high turnover in that age group. Mitsy lived in a dark gray French-style complex, humbly called Le Trianon. Apparently, calling the building Versailles was a little over the top for the inhabitants. Mitsy’s penthouse corner unit was more than 3,000 square feet of antiques and art treasures collected from her decades of annual trips abroad. Of course, she’d worked with a decorator, but her own personal taste was impeccable. Her home was a showstopper.

And she rarely invited me there.

Mitsy preferred to entertain at the club, more conspicuous and less personal. So when I got a phone message that she’d love to see me for lunch at her place, I braced for impact.

Although, at this point, what could she possibly say to me that could make my situation any worse? Bring it on, Snake Goddess.

I gave the big brass lion head a good knock. Mitsy opened the door, wearing slim tan trousers, a cashmere V-neck in warm yellow and the classic Tiffany yard of diamonds, her midweek uniform.

“Helen, I’m glad you’re on time.” My one saving grace over the last fifteen years with my mother-in-law. I am habitually early, always on time, and never late. “Come in and have an iced tea.”

Lunch was predictable and already set out on the table: quiche, a side salad with oil and red wine vinegar dressing and a basket of French bread. The iced teas were poured, each with a gleaming slice of lemon. No sugar or butter or salt and pepper on the table. This lunch was strictly business. We sat down and simultaneously put the linen napkins in our laps.

“I spoke with Billy. I am aware of the financial situation.”

Well, so much for attorney-client privilege. Apparently Billy crumbled under the pressure of Mitsy Fairchild, too, and for some reason, that buoyed my spirits. Actually, having Billy let Helen know that her only son was on the verge of financial ruin was a relief. Better him than me. I nodded and took a bite of the stone-cold quiche.

“And I understand you are putting the house on the market. Is that correct?”

Neutron Melanie must have filled in the older ladies at the club’s popular mid-morning water aerobics, and the word had cycled back to Mitsy. This method of communication appealed to my non-confrontational side. I nodded again, sensing Mitsy was not really looking for a conversation but only a confirmation.

“Well, it sounds like you’ve had to make some quick decisions, and I can understand that. When Merritt’s father died so suddenly, I, too, had to educate myself rather quickly. It’s a good thing you’re so much younger than I was. Being 40 today seems decades younger than being nearly 50 when I had to restart my life.”

I waited for Mitsy to continue. She seemed on the verge of sharing something personal, but the moment passed and she carried on.

“What are your plans?” she asked.

This time it appeared I had to answer. I chose my words carefully. I had no idea how she expected me to react. And I was always conscious of falling below her expectations.

“I am still absorbing the information about the finances, but I am trying to move forward.”

“What does that mean?’ Mitsy snapped, hating any kind of language that could be construed as “new-agey.” I guess “moving forward” qualified as too vague for her. Now I was annoyed.

“Here’s what moving forward means, Mitsy. It means that I am trying not to lose it and obsess about what my husband did with all our money. So instead, I’m selling what possessions we need to sell, like cars and art. I’m looking for a job and hoping that after the house sells, we’ll have enough money for a down payment on a small place and money for Aiden’s high school. If not, we’ll have to consider relocation to a more affordable part of the country. That’s what moving forward means.”

Wow! I surprised myself with my clear thinking! My tone and conviction seemed to impress Mitsy. She relaxed her arched right eyebrow and studied me. Then, she conceded, “I wish I could help. Unfortunately, the economic downturn has required me to make my own financial adjustments.”

Did Merritt have something to do with that? Mitsy would never tell me something like that. “I would have gladly contributed to Aiden’s education, but now that is not possible.”

Back to nodding for me. I wasn’t so sure she was being honest, at least about the “gladly contributing” part. She’d never made any grand gestures before, no college funds or trust funds set up in Aiden’s name. Mitsy espoused a belief in self-reliance, but I think she was just stingy, especially when it came to people.

“Helen, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t advertise your situation all over town. Not that you have! It’s just, for Aiden’s sake, it would be better if you didn’t discuss the particulars with your friends and such.”

I’ve noticed over the past fifteen years that wealthy people routinely engage in denial and illusion. Mitsy, an old-money maven, pretended that it would violate the rules of good taste to mention money, or lack thereof, to friends and distant family. The truth was, she just didn’t want anybody to know that her son’s widow and her grandson were now in a much lower tax bracket.

Now I knew why she’d invited me.

“It’s not my intent to ‘advertise’ my situation, but I will do what it takes to take care of my son. And if that means putting the house on the market, getting a job and applying for financial aid, that is what I will do. I grew up taking care of myself and my family. I’m not afraid to do that again.”

Now Mitsy was trying to choke down the cardboard quiche. She looked up at me, her eyes wet, and she struggled to get a hold of her emotions. It was then I remembered that she was a mother who had just lost a son, imperfect as he was.

“I know you will, Helen. I just thank you in advance for upholding the Fairchild name.”

If Mitsy hadn’t been so clearly upset, I would have howled at the idea of upholding the Fairchild name, the irony thick, as it was Merritt who’d put the name in peril in the first place. But I realized that, for better or worse, in sickness or in death, I was a Fairchild, too.

“Of course. For Aiden.” And we both nodded.

I did not miss Merritt during the day. Between the painting and the packing and the selling off of my antiques, I was too busy during the day to think about him. And really, he’d never been part of my life during daylight anyway. We weren’t the kind of couple that talked a dozen times on, say, a normal Tuesday. Occasionally a question might come up mid-afternoon about picking up Aiden at practice or buying tickets to something, and I’d ring Merritt at the office. But usually, we practiced a communication blackout during the day.

Which is why his homecoming at night was a big deal. And why the silence at 7 o’clock was now deafening. Aiden and I started watching
The Simpsons
to fill the void. No doubt, someday, Aiden’s college girlfriend, a pretty psychology major from Scottsdale or Houston, would have a field day with the significance of Aiden replacing his dead father with Homer Simpson. She’d blame me for allowing Aiden to process his grief so inappropriately. But seeing Aiden laugh in the moment was much more important to me than protecting myself from future blame.

The only problem with Aiden’s devotion to
The Simpsons
was that it was on the Fox Network, as was Roshelle Simms. So every night, while Aiden and I ate the casserole of the day, we watched TV and I waited for the inevitable: My late husband’s mistress was sure to pop up sometime during the half hour to do a promo.
Is this lingerie too sexy for TV? You be the judge at 10.
Or,
Is this pill the secret to a bikini body? The revealing before and after photos at 10.
If the editorial content of Fox News seemed questionable before the Panda Incident, now I took its overtly sexual nature personally. Where is the FCC when you need it? It took every ounce of discipline not to throw my fork at the television. I’d come to think of her as Shelly Sleazy.

“That woman has a weird face,” Aiden commented one evening (
Can more
action in the bedroom make stretch marks disappear? Take an undercover look at 10!)
while helping himself to a large portion of Enchiladas Especial from the Gutierrez family. “What’s wrong with it?”

High Def and collagen are a lethal combination.

I clicked the mute button and changed the subject. It was one thing to be stoic in the face of infidelity; it was another to be blasé.

“You know, you have your Ignatius admissions test coming up in a few weeks. I scheduled some test-prep classes today.” Because that’s what parents in Pasadena did, shelled out hundreds of dollars on all sorts of academic extras, because that’s what everyone else did.

“Please don’t make me go to that guy with the freaky hair.

” Guilty as charged. Aiden had endured some Spanish tutoring from a Donald Trump look-alike named Señor Tom. Neutron Mel had said Señor Tom was “the best in town.” Unfortunately, the hair had proved to be such a gigantic distraction for Aiden that his grades went down, despite Señor Tom’s $75-an-hour fee. Some days, Aiden would get into the car after class and his gag reflex would kick in just thinking about the comb-over. “No más Señor Tom!” Aiden had begged.

So I started throwing a few extra bucks Emilia’s way if she’d go over his homework, a much better solution. But the damage was done. Señor Tom remained a dark memory for Aiden, and his resistance to tutoring was steadfast.

“No Señor Tom. You and Lilly Chau-Swenson are going to go together to a totally normal college kid who’s going to give you some tips, just pointers. It will be fun.”

Why did I say that? Of course it wouldn’t be fun. “Rock Band” is fun. Grammar is never fun if you are Aiden. At least Aiden liked Lilly, and she was smart as a whip. A top test-taker.

“Okay. If I have to.”

Aiden was a C-plus student. After years of being threatened and tutored and attending an “academically rigorous” school, he was still an average student. In a world of seemingly extraordinary 13-year-olds who play perfect violin, make the traveling team for volleyball and compete at Mock Trial, all while thriving under the intense academic pressure of their parents and teachers, an average student like Aiden was nothing special to a high school admissions director. Hence the test prep.

I had come to terms with Aiden’s totally average performance in the classroom. I would have loved to have gone to a school like Millington with rigor, rules and hours of homework. But Aiden shrugged off the work, turning out a maddeningly uneven academic performance. When it came to school, I was Sisyphus and he was the rock. Why couldn’t he just care a little more about his GPA and a little less about Legos, I’d whine after another average report card.

Merritt had mocked my worry. “The kid will be fine. The Asians may get all the As, but Aiden will get the girls in high school.”