Helen of Pasadena Read Online Free PDF Page A

situation, always appearing to be in charge of hospitality even if the get-together was not his to supervise. But not today. Was he nervous? “Obviously, you know Bruno Purcelli,” he said.
    Bruno nodded. So solid, that Bruno. Merritt had said you should always have an Italian accountant because they understand blood money. An Italian accountant would never cheat you because he knew that someday, you’d get him back. Bruno had been doing our books for years, but I only saw him every April, when we met to get the tax rundown. I’d done a lot of nodding in those meetings, understanding about 30 percent of the information. I had Merritt. Why get all worked up over the particulars? Now I was regretting not paying closer attention. But I had confidence in Bruno. He would help me get through the next few years. I knew there would have to be changes, but Merritt had always assured me that he “was covered,” whatever that meant.
    “Helen, I don’t know how to say this,” Billy stammered. Now I knew he really was nervous.
    Shit, this was not good.
    “You are not in good shape—I mean financially, not physically. As you know, this is a tough time and the economy is a mess. Merritt made some bad investments, and when the credit meltdown happened, he got caught short. Really, really short. You are in a pretty deep hole.”
    Bruno nodded confirmation.
    Breathe, breathe. Speak.
    “I don’t understand. How could this have happened? Merritt didn’t say a word. Nothing. Not ‘stop spending.’ Nothing. Obviously we talked about the stock market plunging and the recession and his business, but he just kept saying that he would be fine. How bad is it, Bruno?”
    Bruno painted a picture that included a wiped-out stock portfolio, an overleveraged home-equity line, high credit-card debt and unpaid insurance premiums. Personally, our finances were in shambles. And thanks to the stock market decline and clients fleeing like rats, Merritt’s stake in Fairchild Capital was virtually worthless. Even if Merritt were alive, we’d be in trouble.
    Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking Merritt. “The house?” I asked. “You’ll have to sell. Hopefully, you can get the price you need to cover your debt and have money left over for a down payment on, you know, something, somewhere.”
    “Aiden’s school?’
    “They have financial aid. Or maybe Mitsy can help.”
    This is what it feels like to get punched in the gut. Fantastic, I am now a 40-year-old widow with half a masters degree in an arcane subject who has to rely on her mother-in-law to pay the bills. It’s like a freaking Jane Austen novel. Maybe I can get a parson to marry me. I was going to lose it.
    “How did this happen?” I repeated over and over again. I was met with silence. In my mind, I replayed conversations with Merritt over the past few years, and none reflected anything more than slight concern over our finances. Sure, it had been a bad eighteen months, but Merritt was not concerned. We’re good, Merritt had said when I’d asked him weekly about the economy crashing down around us.
    We’re good? We were screwed, and we’d been screwed for some time.
    “Billy, I just don’t understand. Even if Merritt were here, alive, how was he going to get out of this?” Billy looked down for a moment, like a frat boy caught in a hazing ritual by campus security, and I knew. Oh, I knew. He knew about Roshelle. It was written all over his face, his truly shame-filled face.
    Now I understood. “Did she have money?” I leveled at Billy. “Was that how Merritt was going to get out of this? Dump me, marry her, blame his financial mess on our divorce and live off her money?”
    Bruno pretended not to hear and looked out the window, suddenly fascinated by the drought-tolerant California native sage garden recognized by Sunset magazine as “One of the 10 Best in 2006.”
    Then I remembered what Candy had sniped at the funeral. Her real name was Slusky. Of course! She was Shelly Slusky of