“As you know, it’s been almost ten years since Henry Blakely’s death. My mother and I thought it would be a good time to do our one and only interview with someone we trusted as the anniversary approaches.” I’d gotten used to referring to my father by his full name for interviews like this. I only used “Dad” or “my father” when I really wanted to make a point about our connection. It was my therapist who suggested I use that language as a way to acknowledge a public loss versus a private loss. I planned on using the same tactic with Casey, never again referring to him as my husband, soon-to-be-ex-husband, or ex. He’d simply be Casey Harper.
I spun the tale my mother and I concocted, a confection of vague statements on the Blakely legacy, art for the public good, and the family’s commitment to the Wallace Aston Museum. I worked in the personal changes I would be making as our salads arrived. “It’s an exciting time for me. After so many years of looking backward, I’m looking forward to the next decade of personal growth. I am ending my marriage to Casey Harper, as we’ve grown in different directions, but that’s no surprise. I was only twenty-two when we married, and it had been a really emotional year prior to our wedding. We have different priorities now. My plan is to take the next few years to further my education and branch out in the art world, maybe open a gallery. And Casey Harper will be focusing on his global photography business and his five-year-old twins who live in Eagle Rock with their mother. We both look forward to new directions.”
Candy’s eyebrows shot up, or at least as much as they could, given her close personal relationship with her dermatologist. “His twins are five?”
“Yes.” End of story.
Candy nodded in complete understanding of the situation. “I see. It’s very trendy now in Hollywood, you know.”
“What?”
“The family on the side. You’re not the only woman I’ve seen go through this. You’re smart to get out.” Candy was on my side. One down, a town to go.
“Just my luck, I’m trendy at matrimonial disaster.” We both laughed, then I remembered that she was press. “Oh, can you keep that off the record?”
There was a vague nod, like maybe that would be the headline and not off the record, so I improvised like my mother suggested. I could fool Candy for one lunch and be someone stronger and sexier. “Once everything is settled, I’ll head to Paris for a sort of reinvention sabbatical. According to my mother, thirty-one is the new twenty-one, and I’m looking forward to taking all of Paris in. And by that, I mean all of Paris.” I considered winking on that last line to imply something sexier than patisserie, but I couldn’t pull off that sort of wink. “Of course, I’ll be under the tutelage of Polly Davis-de La Fontaine, my dear friend and expat extraordinaire. You know Polly, don’t you?” This conversational jag was right up Candy’s alley: name-dropping, foreign locations, and personal reinvention.
She bit. “I love this! Tell me more.” And I made up some more details about freshening up my French and working in a gallery to satisfy her word count.
“This is great stuff!” she said, quite possibly forgetting that the impetus for the meeting was the tenth anniversary of my father’s death. Then, like a true Pasadenan, she turned to the one true topic of interest to all readers at CandysDish.com. “Tell me, what’s happening with all your wonderful real estate? The house here, the Motel, the house in Ojai?”
And with that, the conversation about Casey Harper and his “bonus” family was done. Onto the much more titillating details, like what’s going to happen to the Buff & Hensman house in the hills, because that’s what people really wanted to know: When’s it going on the market and for how much? At that moment, I was grateful to be a Southern Californian. Candy’s piece would post tomorrow, another reason to stay in hiding for a few days.
At Caterina’s suggestion, I was planning on spending the day holed up at the hotel with my phone off working on a new salon talk I’d proposed to the museum about our deacquisitioned pieces. The museum held “salons” on various topics throughout the year. They were structured lectures held in the theater with slides and a lengthy discussion afterward, no wandering around the museum showing off the artwork. So, the topics could be more varied and should inspire engagement.
There had been controversy in the press lately about museums selling off donated artwork, sometimes in order to pay off debt and salaries, though that was against museum ethics. Though that was never our situation at the WAM, because of a huge endowment and tremendous foundation support, we did from time to time sell, trade, or barter pieces of our collection for various reasons. Often, we wanted one piece but had to buy a lot of five to get the one we wanted, or we had similar or duplicate pieces. Other times, we simply didn’t want what had been bequeathed to us and sold it to purchase a piece we did want, which was the most controversial, families taking it personally. I thought it would make for a lively lecture topic to expose what the museum had sold and why. We could highlight what had come our way as a result of deacquisitioning.
Caterina loved the idea, especially the notion of pulling back the veil to explain that deacquisitioning was sometimes good business. “It’s controversial and edgy. I love it!” It was why she was so adamant that I not leave town, retreating to Bali or Phuket just yet. I agreed to keeping plugging away at the topic to see what I could put together. The research gave me a great excuse to bury myself in something esoteric after ten days of excruciating pragmatism.
Plus, I was sure that Casey would show up at the museum to confront me. We both decided that a Caterina and Tai combination provided the perfect human blockade.
So, a few nights at the historic Langham and a gimlet or two it was. I took in the scene. It was crowded on a Sunday with both locals and out-of-towners wrapping up the weekend. The Tap Room was dark and cozy, dimly lit by candles and a roaring fire. Everyone looked good in such low lighting, even after a long week of work and commuting. The official happy hour was over, but the crowd of twenty-and thirtysomethings didn’t appear to be going anywhere soon. I glanced at my watch. Casey would be at the house in a half hour. I didn’t want to go back to my room and stare at my cell phone, even though I’d turned it off. Much better to be among the bar patrons than alone with my doubts, I reasoned, when I heard a familiar voice.
“Drinking alone on a Sunday night? Is this the medical emergency you promised me?” a gentle Southern accent whispered in my ear. It was Dr. Bow Tie; except this time, he was tieless. He appeared to be freshly showered, like he’d come from the gym with his brown curly hair still wet and combed back off his face. He wore jeans, a gray fitted T-shirt, and blazer. He was only a few inches taller than me, but had a lean build that made him seem taller. “Mason Andrews. We met at the museum a little more than a week ago. Seems a little curious I’d be seeing you again so soon, Joan Blakely. Are you stalking me?”
That encounter felt like another era. “It does seem curious,” I said. “But we had a ninth-century Buddha from Thailand go missing that night. That wasn’t you, was it?”
“I tried, but it didn’t fit in my messenger bag. I did pocket a paperweight from the gift shop, though.”
“We know. We billed insurance.”
Quite pleased by our repartee, we both laughed.
Mason gestured to the stool next to me. “Is your husband meeting you here? I assume that was him last week I saw walking into the museum after you turned me down. I heard him ask the security guard about your whereabouts. That guy that looked like Matthew McConaughey’s better-looking brother?”
“No, I’m solo tonight,” I hedged, and then plunged in. Why not? I had to get used to telling people why I was suddenly single, and this relative stranger was excellent practice. “Yes, that guy you saw last week was my husband. In fact, he stopped by work to tell me that he fathered several children, twin boys, with another woman five years ago and that I had to learn to deal with it or the marriage was over. In case you didn’t get all that, let me repeat: My husband told me last week that five years ago he had twins with another woman, but thought it would be a good idea now if he started being their father. My choice: stay or go. So, he’s not meeting me here tonight. Or any night. And, henceforth, will only be known as Casey Harper.”
“Whoa.” Mason Andrews nodded slowly. “Casey Harper is an asshole.”