didn’t need to offer up details as small talk. I’d bring my own lunch, ask only about his work, and hope that I didn’t fall for this guy.
Because he probably had a gorgeous Greek girlfriend waiting for him in Athens.
There, I had a plan. I just needed to stick to it.
Top-notch Distinguished Scholars earned top-notch office space at the Huntington. I knew that Dr. Patrick O’Neill ranked high in the super-competitive academic world when I saw that he'd scored Scholars’ Cottage #7, one of a dozen small, tile-roofed bungalows scattered about the grounds at the Huntington. Middle-of-the-pack academics worked in carrels in the Library itself. Dr. O’Neill rated private quarters, outfitted with a temperature-controlled office suitable for valuable papers, all the Level One scanning equipment I would need, the best computers and high-speed Internet access and some lovely antique furniture, a gift from one of the Huntington’s benefactors. There were vintage photos on the walls, a fleece throw on the couch and fresh flowers on the coffee table. Cottage #7 even had a patio where, presumably, Dr. O’Neill and I would take tea and confer like colleagues.
It was an oddly unprofessional place to work. More like a really nice hotel suite at the Ojai Valley Inn and Spa (where Merritt and I had spent our tenth anniversary) than an office. I was tempted to call room service. The couch made me uncomfortable.
On day one, I was early, of course, arriving just after 8 for my official 9-to-3 work day. Karen had ordered, “Wait for instructions from Dr. O’Neill before initiating the DSP.” Those were her exact words. She didn’t even have to use the phrase “risk termination.” I took the opportunity to scan the premises for any of my boss’s personal effects: family photos, knickknacks that could have been made by a child, random faxes left on the fax machine that held valuable private information. But there was nothing, not even a Post-It. Dang.
So I did what I knew how to do: made coffee, cleaned the fridge, re-arranged the flowers, swept the porch, tidied up a bit and waited for Nubby Sweater to arrive.
Stop being the wife, I had to remind myself. You are a research assistant now. You have important work to do. You will be scanning and organizing information that could redefine one of the most important ancient sites in history. Secrets revealed! Insight gleaned! You could ignite the archaeology world and get back some of the dignity you lost when you dropped out of Berkeley. You are a scholar, not a wife. Get on that computer!
I was online checking the schedule for Aiden’s weekend water polo tournament in Mission Viejo when Dr. O’Neill strolled into our cottage around 10. He was wearing another fantastic sweater and a deep blue cashmere scarf that I really shouldn’t have noticed. The messenger bag was over his shoulder, and a laptop was under his arm. His hands were rough and tan from years in the sun and dirt. Despite his shiny appearance, I could picture him at Troy, walking slowly behind a bulldozer, covered in dust and sweat, dying to get at the newly unearthed layer of information. Like the archaeologists I’d worked with in the past, he did not seem entirely at home in these posh surroundings. He cocked his head at me as he tossed his bag on the couch.
“Hard at work already, I see.”
Aiden had taught me his trick of switching web pages quickly when busted by a teacher during study hall, so I brought up the Huntington home page to hide my real activities. I don’t think I fooled the great archaeologist.
“Just getting oriented,” I offered up, hoping to sound as if I had previous experience in this position and knew the ropes. “Do you want some coffee? And I brought some scones from a terrific local bakery down the street. Cranberry Orange. May I get you one?”
Oh, for God’s sake, I sounded like a hostess in the first-class passenger lounge. Where was my snappy hat? Shut the hell up,
Because he probably had a gorgeous Greek girlfriend waiting for him in Athens.
There, I had a plan. I just needed to stick to it.
Top-notch Distinguished Scholars earned top-notch office space at the Huntington. I knew that Dr. Patrick O’Neill ranked high in the super-competitive academic world when I saw that he'd scored Scholars’ Cottage #7, one of a dozen small, tile-roofed bungalows scattered about the grounds at the Huntington. Middle-of-the-pack academics worked in carrels in the Library itself. Dr. O’Neill rated private quarters, outfitted with a temperature-controlled office suitable for valuable papers, all the Level One scanning equipment I would need, the best computers and high-speed Internet access and some lovely antique furniture, a gift from one of the Huntington’s benefactors. There were vintage photos on the walls, a fleece throw on the couch and fresh flowers on the coffee table. Cottage #7 even had a patio where, presumably, Dr. O’Neill and I would take tea and confer like colleagues.
It was an oddly unprofessional place to work. More like a really nice hotel suite at the Ojai Valley Inn and Spa (where Merritt and I had spent our tenth anniversary) than an office. I was tempted to call room service. The couch made me uncomfortable.
On day one, I was early, of course, arriving just after 8 for my official 9-to-3 work day. Karen had ordered, “Wait for instructions from Dr. O’Neill before initiating the DSP.” Those were her exact words. She didn’t even have to use the phrase “risk termination.” I took the opportunity to scan the premises for any of my boss’s personal effects: family photos, knickknacks that could have been made by a child, random faxes left on the fax machine that held valuable private information. But there was nothing, not even a Post-It. Dang.
So I did what I knew how to do: made coffee, cleaned the fridge, re-arranged the flowers, swept the porch, tidied up a bit and waited for Nubby Sweater to arrive.
Stop being the wife, I had to remind myself. You are a research assistant now. You have important work to do. You will be scanning and organizing information that could redefine one of the most important ancient sites in history. Secrets revealed! Insight gleaned! You could ignite the archaeology world and get back some of the dignity you lost when you dropped out of Berkeley. You are a scholar, not a wife. Get on that computer!
I was online checking the schedule for Aiden’s weekend water polo tournament in Mission Viejo when Dr. O’Neill strolled into our cottage around 10. He was wearing another fantastic sweater and a deep blue cashmere scarf that I really shouldn’t have noticed. The messenger bag was over his shoulder, and a laptop was under his arm. His hands were rough and tan from years in the sun and dirt. Despite his shiny appearance, I could picture him at Troy, walking slowly behind a bulldozer, covered in dust and sweat, dying to get at the newly unearthed layer of information. Like the archaeologists I’d worked with in the past, he did not seem entirely at home in these posh surroundings. He cocked his head at me as he tossed his bag on the couch.
“Hard at work already, I see.”
Aiden had taught me his trick of switching web pages quickly when busted by a teacher during study hall, so I brought up the Huntington home page to hide my real activities. I don’t think I fooled the great archaeologist.
“Just getting oriented,” I offered up, hoping to sound as if I had previous experience in this position and knew the ropes. “Do you want some coffee? And I brought some scones from a terrific local bakery down the street. Cranberry Orange. May I get you one?”
Oh, for God’s sake, I sounded like a hostess in the first-class passenger lounge. Where was my snappy hat? Shut the hell up,
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