Searching for Grace Kelly (36 page)

She walked around, glancing at some of the new fiction, took a minute to step to the magazine rack and flip through the current issue of
Mademoiselle
, at its ironic motto: “The magazine for smart young women.” On the cover there was a photograph of a beautiful model in a flowered swimsuit standing on a tropical beach, and along with teasers for stories on the new cottons and new swimwear there was one that declared, “What's new in suburbia.”

“If you want to buy it, it's thirty-five cents.”

Laura looked up into the face not of Connie Offing, but Pete Kelly. He was leaning against the counter, nestling a push broom. His hair was still a messy tangle of competing angles, some going one way, another patch the next, but it appeared he'd gained a few pounds, which actually filled him out, made him appear a few years older. They'd all grown up in the last year.

Laura was glad she'd worn a pretty outfit, a slightly flouncy blue-and-white California dress with cap sleeves and matching white flats. She didn't care what
Mademoiselle
or any other fashion magazine said; it was warm out, and she was wearing her new white shoes, Memorial Day be damned.
What was that saying Vivian had always been quoting?
“Fashion can be bought. Style one must possess.”

It was nice to think about her and smile.

“Don't tell me you've traded in your bartender's apron for sweeping the floors,” Laura said.

“Temporary reassignment,” Pete replied. “Just looking after the place while Connie's in the hospital.”

“Oh no. What happened?”

“No, no, don't worry, he's going to be fine. He just decided he'd had enough trouble with the foot, so he had some surgery to alleviate the pain. He'll be up and about in no time.”

“Thank God.” She was going to add something and stopped.

He studied her, so intently that Laura was forced to look away and out the window, onto MacDougal Street. “The window is sparkling,” she remarked. “You've been busy. Connie should have had an operation ages ago.” She glanced around. “It looks nice.”

Pete set the push broom aside. “Ah, it's nothing.” He took in a deep breath. “So . . . what brings you back to town?”

“Well, final exams were last week. I'm mulling whether to take a job as a nanny on the Cape for the month of August, believe it or not. Can you imagine that? Me as a governess?”

His quiet intensity, the one she had never completely been able to put out of her head, returned in full force to greet her. “I've imagined a lot of things about you.”

She had to look away again. She didn't know what to do with her arms, now fidgety and rubbery and flailing, crossed, then uncrossed, at her sides, then hands clasped behind her back, then back to the front, hands now rubbing together. “And you? What have you been up to, other than sweeping floors and polishing windows?”

“Still at the bar a few nights. Writing's gone well, though. I finished the book.”

“Wonderland?”

“The very same.”

“Tell me,” she said, laughing, “does she get a happy ending?”

“You'll have to buy the book to find out.” His smile, warm and inviting, jarred her. She had thought that if she ever saw him again, all of that would be gone, vanished, like so much about her time living in New York already was. Vivian's face appeared again in her brain, and she fought to shake it out. “It's nice to see you,” he said.

“You, too.”
Say something
. “I got your letter,” she continued. “That was very kind. It meant a lot to me.”

He shrugged. “You didn't reply. I didn't know how you'd reacted to it. But I just wanted you to know . . . Well, you know.”

“No, no, I'm sorry. It's just been so . . .” She shrugged. “I couldn't even be sure how I would feel once I came back to the city. I haven't been here since everything happened. And back then I couldn't
ever
imagine coming back.”

“Have you spoken to Dolly? How is she?”

Laura told him about their coffee. He asked if she'd heard from others. She'd gotten a few cards and notes, the most surprising being one from Metzger, on a pale blue note card embossed simply,
THE BARBIZON HOTEL
. “Hope you are doing well and readjusting,” it read. “I wish you every good thing.” It was signed, simply, “Your friend, Anne Metzger.”

Pete was now directly in front of her, searching her eyes. “I'm sorry. We don't have to keep talking about this. I was just asking . . . Actually, I have to be honest: I don't know what to say.”

“I know what to say to
you
,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

He kept looking at her.

“I need you to understand,” she continued. “Sometimes in life, we pick the wrong door. The one real thing in my life in all my months here in New York was the one thing I let slip away. And I cannot tell you how often I have thought of that and regretted it. I didn't answer your letter not because I didn't want to, but because I was afraid to. I owed you an honest response, and I was afraid if I did that—if I allowed myself to do that, all the way through—and you weren't receptive . . .” She trailed off. “I know that's cowardly. But I'm not as strong as you are. Or as brave.”

“I think you're incredibly brave,” he muttered quietly. He pulled her into him and hugged her, pressed the side of his face against hers. “I'm here.”

“I don't . . . I can't . . .”

“Yes, you can. Don't be afraid. Let it out. I'm here. I've got you. For once, Laura, for once—don't take what you think you should. Take what you really
need
.”

And so she did. She wept, and clung to him, and wept more, quietly at first, then forcefully, her body shaking in his grip, until no more tears would come.

Neither of them moved to break the embrace. They stood, not quite standing still, not quite swaying, as if dancing in place. She allowed herself the liberating freedom of nuzzling into his chest, her eyes once again glancing out of the sparkling window. He kissed her temple.

She didn't ever want to be anywhere else.

“It's so sunny and warm outside,” she said.

“Summer's coming.”

“Yes, summer,” she said. She looked up at him. “Will you take me back to Atlantic City?”

He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. “Of course,” he said, his face a portrait of pure, unfiltered joy. “But this time, I'm making sure you bring a notebook.”

Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

—E. L. Doctorow

 

I may have driven the car, but I had a lot of help with directions.

First and foremost, my deepest gratitude to the incredible members of my writing group, Philomena Papirnik and Manuel Moreno. Your unfailing dedication, incisive critiques, and throaty cheerleading saw me through many an “I can't write another word” night. I owe this book to you.

My agent, the fabulous Jane Dystel, believed in this project from the start, and she and her partner, Miriam Goderich, provided invaluable counsel navigating these new waters. My editor at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Nicole Angeloro, not only dove passionately into the story, but resurfaced with thoughtful edits that took the book across the finish line.

Novels may be stories of imagination, but they require thorough research in order to ring true. My editor at
Vanity Fair
, David Friend, immediately seized on my pitch for a magazine piece about the Barbizon, and the story I wrote put me on the road to this novel. To him and the esteemed Graydon Carter, I express my sincere appreciation for their continual indulgence in letting me roam around the glamorous past for stories.

My researcher, Christine Wei, spent hours combing through microfiche and dusty documents; Shawn Waldron of the Condé Nast Archives was instrumental in recommending resources about
Mademoiselle
. Betsy Israel, the author of
Bachelor Girl
, served up key insights into the lives of the Barbizon doyennes, as did food critic extraordinaire Gael Greene, whose 1957
New York Post
series remains one of the definitive accounts of life inside the hotel's walls. Modeling legend Eileen Ford was both gracious and deliciously blunt in detailing the lives of the Ford models. And
molte grazie
to all of the former Barbizon girls who took the time to share their stories with me: Jaclyn Smith, Cloris Leachman, Cybill Shepherd, Shelley Hack, Betsey Johnson, Carmen Dell'Orefice, Joyce Schwartz, Barbara Cloud, Mary Ann Powers, Kathleen Mickey, and Judith Sherven.

Three books were integral to my research:
The New York Chronology
, by James Trager;
The Fiction Factory
, by Quentin Reynolds; and
New York Fashion: The Evolution of American Style
, by Caroline Reynolds Milbank. I have made every effort to re-create the New York of 1955 as authentically as possible, except in a few places where the story demanded otherwise; any mistakes are strictly my own. Likewise, although characters such as Sherman Billingsley and Betsy Blackwell were, in fact, real people, their stories here are strictly a work of fiction.

I could never properly thank all of the friends and family who encouraged and supported me during this process, but a few deserve shout-outs: my brother, Pat, and his wife, Jean, the best friends a guy could hope for, who cleared out of our shared beach house regularly so I could write; and Cheryl Della Pietra, Piper Kerman, Larry Smith, and the gang at Philly Mag, who routinely dispatched my nerves and doubts with their encouragement and wit.

Finally, the most special thank-you of all to my wonderful parents, Jack and Eileen Callahan, whose never-ebbing generosity of spirit and faith in me has been a constant for far longer than the time it takes to write a novel. I cannot find the words to express what your love and encouragement have meant to my life. If I have one regret, it is that my father did not live to see this book published. But he will always be very much alive—along with everyone who helped me on this incredible journey—in my heart.

M
ICHAEL
C
ALLAHAN
is a contributing editor at
Vanity Fair
and a former deputy editor of
Town & Country
and
Marie Claire
. This is his first novel.