Searching for Grace Kelly (2 page)

Laura was about to start thumbing through to page eight when the clerk waved her away. “Elevators around the corner,” she said, sliding a key over with her left hand. “Twelfth floor.”

Five minutes later Laura was outside her room, fumbling to put the key properly in the lock, when the door suddenly opened, almost knocking her back on her heels. “Oh, sorry! Sorry, sorry!” exclaimed a short, slightly stout girl—she couldn't have been more than five two—with curly black hair and a broad, heart-shaped face so kind that you almost couldn't imagine it dark or angry. She reached past Laura, grabbing her luggage. “Here, let me help you!”

Laura protested but the girl was already ahead of her, two hands lifting the cumbersome suitcase and plopping it onto the single bed on the left. “I'm so sorry,” Laura said, tossing her handbag, hat, and the Barbizon manual onto the bed with it. “Packing lightly proved to be a challenge.”

“Well, you're here now,” the girl said brightly, taking a step closer and extending a hand. Laura wasn't sure why, but she suspected the girl was midwestern. “I'm your roommate, Dolores Hickey. But everybody calls me Dolly. Except my grandmother, who is deeply religious and thinks Dolores is much more suitable, but then Dolores means something like ‘pain' in Latin—you know the Catholics—and who wants to be called ‘pain,' anyway? So I'm glad to be Dolly.”

An almost maternal warmth radiated from Dolly, though Laura suspected she was probably a year or two younger than her own twenty years. For the next fifteen minutes, Dolly rambled on about anything and everything, from her studies at Katie Gibbs—a secretarial school, whose students all lived at the Barbizon, though most would be gone for the summer, but Dolly had landed a summer job working as a typist in a small publishing house, so no back to Utica for
her
—to how she had recently become addicted to whiskey sours at the Landmark Tavern, where she liked to go because even though it was a taproom, the hamburgers were to die for, even though she shouldn't really be eating hamburgers, of course, because, well, look at me, she said. She grabbed Laura's hotel manual, flopped onto her own bed as she kicked off her shoes. “Have you read this yet?”

Laura was layering blouses into her tiny dresser. “No, I just received it when I checked in,” she said. She took a step back, appraised the bureau closer. “Oh my. Is this all the drawer space we have?”

“Yessiree,” Dolly said, thumbing through the booklet. “The Ritz this ain't. No matter what the brochures say. Speaking of which, you don't have to read this. I can tell you anything you need to know about living here.”

“All right, then, Dolly Hickey of Utica, New York. What's on page eight?”

Dolly laughed. “Ha! You must have been checked in by Metzger. She's famous for trying to scare every girl who comes in the door with that.”

“With what?”

“Page eight. That's where they talk about male visitors.” Dolly looked over, wiggling her eyebrows. She flipped to the page, cleared her throat dramatically as if reciting
Macbeth
. “‘The Barbizon understands . . .'” She glanced over at Laura. “That's another thing: They always talk about ‘the Barbizon' as if it's a person. Or God.” She resumed reading. “‘The Barbizon understands that New York offers unlimited entertainment and diversion for today's accomplished young woman, and that dates with a suitor can enhance this experience. However, to ensure that the decorum and integrity of our residents is protected, no males other than fathers or physicians may be admitted into the personal domiciles of the Barbizon at any time. Residents who wish to entertain callers . . .'” Dolly looked over again, shrieking. “
Callers!
When was this written, 1890?” She shook her head, finished up. “Okay, sorry. ‘. . . callers may receive them in the public lounges on the mezzanine or on the outside veranda after obtaining a visitor's pass from the registration desk.'”

Dolly tossed the book aside, laughing. “I bet they lifted that entire paragraph right out of the handbook for the Carmelites.”

Laura had worried about what her roommate would be like, expecting to be paired with another girl like herself, a college coed running around in new heels, aiming to impress the steely, impervious, and impeccable women who ran
Mademoiselle
. By coming early, she'd prevented that. Dolly was spunky, authentic. Laura could picture her married, ironing shirts and making endless meat loaves, and happy as could be doing it. What she herself would wind up doing, she had no idea. It didn't matter, as long as she didn't end up being Marmy.

Laura picked up a copy of
Movie Stars
magazine on top of the dresser. Jane Powell stared back from the cover, beaming under a straw hat not unlike the one she'd worn to arrive. Laura wondered if it was some sort of sign. She began fanning herself with it. “It's awfully warm in here,” she said.

“Page ten,” Dolly replied drolly. “‘No electrical appliances allowed.'”

“A fan isn't a waffle iron, for God's sake.”

“Mmmm . . . I would love to eat a waffle right now. With ice cream. On the boardwalk at Coney Island.” Dolly flopped onto her back and crossed her legs. “Although I don't think Frank would like it.”

Laura stuffed the last of the blouses into the drawer and shoved it closed. How was she going to survive without an iron? She turned back to Dolly. “Who's Frank?”

Dolly propped herself up on one elbow. “My fella. Well, he
was
sorta my fella. But I think he'll be my fella again. He was always worried I was going to get fat. His sister Regina is
really
fat.”

“All of this talk of food has me starving,” Laura said, running her fingers through her damp hair. She'd only had fruit at breakfast—Marmy had insisted that bacon and eggs would make her nauseated on the train ride down. “Want to go get a bite to eat?”

 

The Barbizon coffee shop was small and narrow: a long counter, stools, and a ring of leather booths that horseshoed around. It was also, mercifully, air-conditioned. Laura and Dolly slid into a booth, the cool leather a tonic on the skin. “Ohhhhh, that feels nice,” Dolly said, looking around for a waitress.

Predictably, the place was littered with girls who lived at the hotel, though Laura noticed a few middle-aged types, each eating alone, engrossed in a book or magazine. Dolly followed her stare.

“They're the ones we're all afraid of turning into,” Dolly whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“The Women. They came here when they were our age, in the thirties and forties, and never left. They're the Barbizon spinsters.” Dolly dissolved into an exaggerated shudder. “I'd rather
die
than be living here at twenty-five.”

Dolly ordered an egg salad sandwich and a Coke. Laura wanted a burger. Marmy would hate that.

Laura's eyes kept going back to the Women. There were three or four of them scattered about the coffee shop; Laura thought each had to be at least thirty-five. Maybe forty. What had happened to keep them here? Were these ladies as unhappy as they appeared, slurping as they sat reading
Ellery Queen
? Had they once been her, young and impatient and curious about the world, thrilled to have arrived in Manhattan, and then watched it all go horribly wrong?
Each one of them has a story
, she thought.
A love gone wrong, a promise unkept, a betrayal uncovered . . .

“Hello? Hello? Are you still here?” Dolly was saying, waving her hands.

Laura snapped back into the present. “Sorry. It's compulsive. I love watching people. It's the reason I want to be a writer.”

“I imagine being a writer would be fun. It gives you an excuse to snoop into other people's lives—Oh my. Don't look now, but look at who just walked in.”

Laura ignored the contradiction in Dolly's commandment and swiveled her head to catch a glimpse. A tall blond man in a sparkling white tennis shirt and draping linen slacks had come in. He had his elbows on the counter, ordering something from a girl who looked agog to be taking his order.

“Who is he?” Laura asked.

Dolly shot over a look of disbelief. “And you're going to be working at a magazine? That's Box Barnes.”

Laura's eyes narrowed. He was impeccably groomed and unquestionably handsome in a country-club style she recognized from growing up in Greenwich. He was clearly, if not an athlete, then at least supremely athletic, with a head of wavy, perfectly Brylcreemed hair and piercing pale blue eyes. In short, the kind of man women noticed and often dreamed of. But there was something else about him, a magnetism that seemed to emanate from him like after-shave. His gaze caught Laura's and he smiled. She whipped around in the booth, mortified.

“Did he just wink at you?” Dolly asked, suddenly aflutter.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Laura said. She could feel her cheeks beginning to flush. If she was going to act this embarrassed every time she locked eyes with a man in New York City, she was going to have a very short visit. “So, who is Box Barnes?”

Dolly leaned across the table. “Just one of the most eligible bachelors in the city, silly. He's the heir to Barnes & Foster, the Fifth Avenue department store. That's how he got the nickname: When he was a kid, he was always hanging around the store, playing in the empty boxes they delivered all the merchandise in. His real name is Benjamin. Or maybe it's Bobby. Anyway, he's always out at the most fabulous nightclubs and premieres.” She shook her head. “You really need to start reading Cholly Knickerbocker.”

The waitress came, slid the sandwiches onto the table. Laura took the opportunity to ask her for mayonnaise, turning her head so that the end of the diner counter came into her peripheral vision. But Box Barnes was gone.

 

Back upstairs, Laura asked, “So why would a guy like Box Barnes be in the Barbizon coffee shop? Does he live near here?”

“No idea,” Dolly replied. “Probably meeting someone here. Boys from all over town come here to meet the Barbizon girls.” She looked over at Laura, who was now sitting on her bed, and added quietly, “At least the ones who look like you.”

“Now, Dolly, I don't think—”

A frantic series of raps on the room door interrupted. “Hurry! Hurry! Bloody hell, open up!” came the urgent stage whisper from the other side.

The two of them exchanged quizzical looks before Dolly walked over and opened the door. A tall girl with flaming red hair burst into the room, quickly moving Dolly aside and throwing her back against the door to slam it shut.

“Okay,” she said in an unmistakably British accent. “If anyone asks, I was here with you two all afternoon.”

Laura froze, trying to will herself to move, to speak,
do
something. Anything. She was a good girl who had made a vocation, under the watchful eye and tutelage of a mother fully invested in that vocation's success, to be a proper girl, the girl who at the age of twelve already knew how to elegantly host a proper tea. She knew everything about the right thing to do. Unless she was in a situation where there was a very clear choice of the wrong thing to do.

The year before, she'd read an article in
Glamour
called “The Girl Every Girl Wants to Be,” and looking at this red-haired creature splayed against the door in front of her, the only thought that crashed into her brain was,
I want to be her
. She wanted to be bold and British and have silky red hair pulled back into a tight bun with a crest of bangs and look elegant in a patterned shirtwaist dress while backed up against a door as if trying to prevent an invasion of creatures in a monster movie. She wanted to be dangerous and unpredictable.

“Look, I don't know what's—” Dolly's protestation was cut off by another sharp rap at the door.

“Please open the door, ladies.” Laura instantly recognized the voice. Metzger.

Remember
, the redhead silently mouthed to them, pointing to the floor a few times as she gingerly stepped aside. Dolly walked haltingly to the door, still glancing over at the strange, glamorous invader, and opened it. Metzger stepped in.

“Ah, yes, Miss Windsor. I see you are indeed present. I was told you'd dashed in here.”

“Just visiting friends,” the girl replied, with the airiness of Princess Margaret casually reporting it had started to rain. She dropped into the small chair in the corner of the room, lazily turning an eye out the window.

“I see.” Metzger eyed Laura and Dolly. “You two ladies know Miss Windsor well, do you?”

Dolly stammered out an answer. “Oh, I wouldn't say—”

“No,” Laura interrupted, with more emphasis than she'd intended. “As you know, ma'am, I've just arrived here. But Miss Hickey and Miss Windsor both stepped forward and introduced themselves and have been making me feel very at home. We've been together all afternoon.”

Why?
she wondered. Why lie, protect a girl she'd never met, whose first name she didn't even know, who had been up to God knows what? She'd known the answer before she'd even posed the question. Because it was exciting. Because this was New York, the beginning of
her
New York, and because in New York you did crazy things you would never do in Greenwich, like making up stories about knowing people you actually didn't know at all.

“Is that so,” Metzger was saying. Laura caught Dolly's panicked eyes and willed some calm into the room. If Laura was caught lying, the consequences could be dire—what would Marmy say if she was kicked out of the Barbizon on her very first day? And yet the adrenaline now roaring through her body overruled everything.

“Yes,” Laura replied coolly. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the redhead, still absently gazing out the window.

“Well, that is interesting,” Metzger said. “Because not two hours ago Miss Windsor signed in a male guest . . .” She pulled a piece of paper from her skirt pocket. “A Mr. St. Marks. And obtained a pass for the fourth-floor lounge. And yet”—she looked directly at Laura—“there is no record of the aforementioned Mr. St. Marks ever leaving the hotel. And, in fact, several girls reported to me directly”—she slowly turned her withering stare over to the redhead—“that Miss Windsor and Mr. St. Marks were seen in a rather, shall we say, untoward position in the conservatory.” Her eyes, dark and harsh, shifted back first to Laura then to Dolly, who now appeared as if she might be sick.