Searching for Grace Kelly (14 page)

He delivered a casual wave to a couple entering across the room. “Anyway, the night of the pageant she's stationed in her usual space below the stage, and everyone's parents are there, including mine, which only made it worse, because there is no place in the world that is busier during Christmastime than a department store in New York City, and even then I was savvy enough to realize the kind of pressure my mother must have exerted to get my father there.

“So I'm in the wings, and I am in full panic. I mean,
panic
. I can't remember a single step, and I am sure I am going to go out there in front of all these people—the wealthiest, most important families in New York—and freeze. But then I think to myself, ‘I just have to look at Mrs. Powell. She'll be shouting to us along with the music, and if I just do what Mrs. Powell says, I'll be fine.'

“I can't even remember what the song was. It may have been ‘Sleigh Ride.' In any case, for the big finale we were all supposed to form this sort of kick line, with girls in the middle and boys on the ends, and I can't remember the steps at all. So I look down and I see Mrs. Powell looking at me and she's yelling, ‘Show me those high knees! Let's see those high knees!'

“But what I kept
hearing
was, ‘Show me your heinies! Let's see those heinies!' So right there, on cue, I turned my back to the audience, pulled down my pants, and showed everyone my heinie.”

Laura's hands flew to her face. “You're making that up!”

“Hand to God,” he said, laughing with her. “I never make up stories that make me look bad.” He reached over, pulling her left hand away from her face and kissing it gently. For a few breathless seconds, their eyes met wordlessly.

They were still locked as he pointed to the orchestra. “Ha! Do you hear that? My favorite Cugat number. ‘Miami Beach Rhumba.'” He slid out of the booth, pulling her toward him. “C'mon. They're playing our song.”

They whirled around the floor to Cugat's catchy mix of horn and staccato percussion, and Laura let herself surrender to the magic of El Morocco and the man dancing her through it. And she thought it impossible to imagine another night when she might again feel this alive.

“So,” Dolly said, stabbing at her eggs, “I think I have been very patient and waited long enough. We're here, we're all awake, we have our food, so it is time to start
talking
, Laura Dixon. From the
beginning
, please.”

That they were even here, eating brunch, was incredible enough, Laura thought. Hadn't she just tumbled into bed six hours earlier? Box had insisted they go to P.J. Clarke's for hamburgers after El Morocco closed at four, and Laura had been astonished to see it crowded with the tuxedos, gowns, and wraps she'd left around the corner, the Manhattan gentry packed into tables gobbling greasy-spoon fare in all of their frippery and finery. Fitzgerald was right: The rich were different.

Dolly had bounded onto her bed at nine like a five-year-old on Christmas morning, pulling at the covers and asking for every “delectable detail” of her evening. Laura rolled over, covering her head with her pillow, but Dolly had upped the ante, leaving the room only to return in fifteen minutes to relay that Vivian was joining them for brunch to get the whole story.

Vivian had come in a bit later, wearing a man's white oxford shirt, blue jeans, and sandals, and told the pair she was (a) famished and (b) would not consider going to brunch if they were going to be surrounded by “those old hens” at Hicks or Elizabeth Norman, and that the Barbizon coffee shop was a non-starter. In a moment of lunacy she'd actually suggested Monte's on the Park, with its spectacular view of Central Park and its equally spectacularly priced brunch ($2.25 a person); Dolly looked sick. She wanted the Automat. (“Of course you do, dear,” Vivian had replied drolly.) The entire thing was giving Laura a splitting headache. Either that, or she'd drunk far too much champagne at Elmo's.

They'd settled for Café Renaissance on East Forty-Ninth ($1.75—still pricey, but Dolly was willing, in order to hear the dirt). Vivian sat with a fruit cup, two poached eggs, and a bloody mary, sucking the straw so hard, her cheeks caved in. She was sporting her oversize sunglasses once again, and Laura was certain it wouldn't be long before Dolly started yelling at her to take them off. She suspected Vivian now wore them just to provoke. Silverware clanged all around them, worsening her headache.

Vivian put down her drink. “That's the ticket,” she said lustily, smacking her lips. “Positively delicious.” She turned to Laura. “Afraid time's up, ducky. We're going to end up at hospital with this poor girl if you don't start telling. Let's hear it.”

The more detail Laura gave, the more insatiable Dolly became, interrupting to ask for additional details as Vivian slurped her way through another bloody. Though Vivian had some queries of her own, as it turned out. Questions ranged from the celebrities present, the dresses, and the handsome men (Dolly) to the musical selections, the jewelry, and the dangerous men (Vivian). And then there were all the questions about Box. By the time Laura had wrapped up with the cab ride back to the Barbizon and Box's tender kiss at the hotel door (“Divine!” Dolly exclaimed), Laura felt as if she'd just read
War and Peace
aloud.

“A chaste peck at the door, after all of that?” Vivian mused. “Doesn't sound like a swell date to me.”

“It sounds unbelievably
perfect
and
romantic
to me,” Dolly said. She cast a glance at Vivian. “You know, not everyone's date ends horizontally.”

“Pity,” Vivian said, taking another draw on her straw.

“So, when's your next date?” Dolly asked.

“Her next date,” Vivian interjected, “isn't with Box Barnes.” She lit a cigarette as she smiled at Laura. “Remember . . .
two
glass slippers.”

Pete. It was amazing how quickly he'd flown out of Laura's head after she'd heard the orchestra's first notes. Maybe—

“No,” Vivian said, reading her mind.

“No what?”

“No, you are not going to cancel your date next Saturday with Pete. Insurance isn't just for dads and motorcars, Laura. Risk must be spread out in order to be reasonable and smart. You'll have plenty of time to commit to one of your Prince Charmings. One lovely night doesn't mean you should go arse over tit for the first man who takes you dancing.”

“Vivian!” Laura whispered. “Keep your voice down!” She looked around to make sure no one had heard. “You were the one who told me yesterday that if I had an amazing time with Box I could cancel with Pete.”

Vivian shrugged. “Reconsidered.”

Dolly sighed. “I should have such dilemmas.”

“Well, ladies, it's time to settle the bill and move on,” Vivian said, reaching for her purse. “I'm sure there's some other tragic soprano singing Gershwin in the conservatory that Ethel must rush back to.”

“First off, it was Rodgers and Hammerstein, and it wasn't tragic. You're just afraid to admit you actually enjoyed it.” Dolly reached over, plucked Vivian's passport peeking from the side pocket of her purse, and flipped it open. “Oh, look at this glamorous photo. Vivian . . .
Dwerryhouse
?” She looked up. “I thought your name was Vivian Windsor.”

Vivian reached over, snapped it back. “Really! You'd think
you
were the reporter rather than Miss El Morocco over there. Don't be daft. If your last name were ‘Dwerryhouse,' wouldn't
you
change it? It literally translates into something like ‘dweller at the dwarf house.' I couldn't think of a better, or more fitting, new one than that of the royal family.”

Dolly was hysterical. “I swear,” Laura said, “sometimes I can't believe you're a real person. Being with you is like living in a drawing-room comedy.”

Vivian began to defend herself in earnest—it was hard being an original, she argued—as Laura looked to Dolly, but Dolly's attention had drifted elsewhere. Two tables behind, to be exact. Laura turned to see a man eating alone. Even seated, he exuded the burly presence of a linebacker. He was sopping up the remnants of his eggs with his rye toast, every once in a while taking a casual sip of coffee and stealing a glance over at their table.

At Dolly.

“Oh my,” Vivian said, taking in the scene. “Ethel's baited the hook.”

“Do you know him?” Laura asked.

“No,” Dolly said, her mouth turning into a bright smile as she caught the mystery man's next stolen stare. “But I'm going to.” She scooped up the cash they'd left on the table. “You girls head on back. I'll settle the check.” She snuck another glance. “I'm going to treat myself to one more cup.”

 

“You know,
you're
sort of like Marilyn Monroe.”

“Really,” Vivian replied. She and Nicky were strolling through Times Square. They'd just left the theater. The thick night humidity was a tonic after the frightful air conditioning inside the movie house. She'd thought her toes were going to have to be amputated. “How do you figure that?”

“Easy. For one thing, you're sexy as hell,” he said, taking her hand in his. “Second, you got great boobs, like she does.”

“That's the same thing, isn't it?”

“Not all women with good boobs are sexy. You gotta know how to show 'em off, but still be classy about it.”

“Let me remind you that I am neither blond, speak like I have just run five blocks, nor bat my eyelashes as though it were a sport.”

“You're right,” he said, stopping to graze at her neck. “You're way better than Marilyn.”

This, she knew, was highly doubtful. She had always been torn about Monroe—she loved her brash ownership of her sex appeal, while at the same time wishing she was just a bit, well, smarter. Like Jane Russell, who had those killer knockers and still looked like she could beat any man at poker, or a duel, or math, for that matter. But she was a brunette, and men, at least American men, were all about blondes. And, to her good fortune, the occasional redhead.

They'd just left the seven o'clock showing of
The Seven-Year Itch
. Vivian thought the plot a bit contrived—too many fantasy sequences involving some middle-aged dullard's erotic daydreams—but it hadn't been a total loss. In one scene Marilyn had airily announced she kept her underwear in the icebox to keep it cool during the summer. That seemed a capital idea if Vivian had ever heard one.

They started strolling east again. He'd promised her food, and for once not Italian. “What's going on with your friend?” she asked as they crossed Forty-Third Street.

“What friend's that?”

“You know, the friend you told me about who knows the talent agent. You said you could get him to give me an audition.”

“I will, baby, I will. I've just been busy. These longshoremen in Brooklyn are killing me right now. I gotta focus on business. But I'll do it. Don't I always do what I say I'm gonna do?” He smiled at her.

“No. I seem to also recall you told me you were going to look for your own apartment.”

“I said I'd
think
about it. And I thought about it. It don't make any sense. I got a perfectly good setup with Mom and Pop. Why am I gonna go rent some shitty place in Chelsea and throw my money all into some Jew's pocket? I'm saving up to buy a place for after I get married someday.” He turned to her, smiled again, more broadly this time. “Wouldn't that be nice, a nice house in Brooklyn? Huh?”

I cannot think of anything more dreadful
.

They ended up eating at Karachi on West Forty-Sixth, Indian food, which Nicky hated, but she convinced him that chicken tikka masala was simply his mother's stew with different spices, and this seemed to mollify him. There was no liquor served, which he also bitched about, but she told him she'd go with him afterward to whatever bar he fancied for a nightcap.

She should break up with him—what was the point of all of this? She was beginning to really resent that he had just assumed her nights off were his. What was it with Italian men? They all seemed to have such strong-willed mothers, formidable matrons who pulled their sons by the ears into the first church pew when they got out of line, yet when it came to their own relationships with women, they wanted to call all the shots. The American Italians were the worst—constantly blessing themselves with rosary beads and lauding Mama's meatballs while leering at everything in a skirt.

Still, Vivian couldn't bring herself to cut the line. Not yet. There was the matter of his friend's friend the agent; she'd grown desperate for an introduction to someone, anyone, with a connection in show business. If she ever hoped to drop the cigarette tray, she had to get somebody—preferably a paying somebody—to hear her sing.

And then there was the matter of Nicola Accardi himself.

Yes, he lived with his parents. Yes, he had a flaring temper that was on the border of scary. But she wasn't going to marry him, so what did it matter? He was fun, he took her out to nice dinners and the occasional play—they'd just seen
The Pajama Game
last week—and most important, he worshiped her. He told her how beautiful she was all the time. He always smelled nice. He knew what went into a good martini. He had plenty of money to keep things interesting, his brass money clip always fully occupied. He had an even more sizable endowment inside his trousers and knew how to make the most of that, too. He was also the only man she'd ever met who could wear a straw fedora in summer and not look utterly ridiculous.

Most of all, he wasn't one of the rotund “How you doin', baby?” guys, with their perspiring foreheads and acrid breath, who seemed to populate the Stork in ever-increasing numbers, casually caressing her bottom like a showroom Chevy.