by Kerri Maher
“This place is a perfect jewel, Hitch,” said Cary, who was already deeply tan for his role as John Robie, formerly the Cat, who was trying to put his life as a renowned jewel thief behind him. “However did you find it?”
“André Bazin mentioned it to me,” Hitch replied.
It was indeed fabulous, Grace silently agreed, and quite out of the way from the hullabaloo of the towns right on the brilliantly blue Mediterranean coast. It was not the sort of restaurant to be reviewed in so gauche a place as a travel magazine. Saint-Paul-de-Vence itself was a cobblestone treasure, its narrow stone buildings nestled into the side of a peak high enough to afford spectacular views of the surrounding hills and towns. Grace took in the panorama as hungrily as she ate the delicacies on the table: the vines of grapes climbing olive-hued hills in the distance, small cottage farms with goats and sheep grazing, palatial resorts and sandy beaches at the water’s level, and creamy châteaus dotting the hills among clusters of shady trees. Here she felt like she was in the true France—unlike in Cannes or Nice, which with their palm trees and fancy shops felt a bit like Hollywood, a likeness that had greatly surprised her; even the residential streets in those cities with their houses behind gated fences, all higgledy-piggledy set into the sun-seared coastal hills, reminded her of the miles ringing Sweetzer and the Chateau Marmont.
She took a sip of cold wine and enjoyed its tang as it cleansed her palate and cooled her throat.
“I wanted to appropriately thank you for coming out of retirement,” Hitch added directly to Cary, his voice dripping with good-natured sarcasm; he pronounced retirement as if it was some sort of long-standing joke between him and the actor.
Cary raised his glass to Hitch and said, “How could I say no to this combination? My favorite director, Provence, and the chance to play a reformed villain opposite the incomparable Miss Kelly here.”
“You flatter me,” said Grace, feeling color warm her cheeks.
“Cary has taken it upon himself to work with all the most important leading ladies,” said Hitch. “It’s a sort of baptism, my dear.”
“Maybe we should get you a collar,” said Betsy, looking at her husband with a sideways smirk.
“I always thought a collar would suit me,” said Cary, unruffled.
There was something a bit too suave about her costar, Grace thought. Not nefarious, exactly, but as if he was so practiced at the art of being debonair, sophisticated Cary Grant, there was no longer anything of substance beneath the veneer; if that cracked, the lovely statue of him would crumble. When he smiled at her, she felt his warmth but no depth. Grace found it difficult to explain, even to herself, but it gave her a haunted feeling, even a warning, about the effect of living too long as a movie star. But then, she hadn’t gotten the same impression from Clark or Ray or Coop—all of whom had been in the business as long as Cary. She wondered what it was about Mr. Grant.
She checked Oleg for signs of the troubling jealousy he’d shown a few months before, but he looked perfectly at ease as Hitch asked him about his atelier and if he would be doing work while in France or merely doting on Grace.
“I’ll be back and forth to Paris,” Oleg explained. “In fact, I should thank you for the excuse to come and do some business here I’ve been neglecting.”
Lunch continued in this complimentary vein until the shade from the building overtook the patio and everyone was stuffed. Edith Head arrived the following day with trunks of dresses she’d pulled from the best couturiers in Paris, and when Grace had trouble fastening one with the narrowest waist, Edith remarked, “May I suggest waiting until after shooting’s complete to have another one of Hitch’s all-day repasts?” Grace knew Edith was right, and not just because a few dresses were too tight—the heavy meal and copious wine had made her feel sluggish, though she’d never once felt drunk the day before. She’d eaten little other than fruit and coffee since that morning. Grace wanted to be worthy of Edith’s costumes. They were the most exquisite yet, and her role as spoiled socialite Frances Stevens demanded quite a number of outfits. She wanted to enjoy wearing every single spectacular one, so she instructed herself to choose every mouthful of tempting cuisine carefully.
The following days and weeks unfolded with a chimerical perfection. Everything from the shoots to the meals with the cast, picnics with Oleg, long walks through nearby orchards and along beaches, swims in the early morning and late evening so as to keep her skin from turning the same color as Cary’s (not that it would, Grace reflected, because first she’d turn the color of a boiled lobster)—everything had the quality of a dream conjured from the elegance and luxury of their surroundings. And even though they were not home per se, Grace and Oleg settled into a comfortable routine that balanced work and love with surprising ease.
Shooting scenes every day with Hitch and Cary, Grace relished every second of the witty, lighthearted movie they were making, while Oleg would work in Paris for a day or two, or more locally in Cannes and Nice. Then they would meet at the end of the day for dinner, and sometimes for dancing or a show. On their days off, they would rent bicycles and pack a picnic and explore the countryside. Once they skinny-dipped in a frigid pond encircled by wild lavender. And though he was no longer religious, Oleg took her to the town of Vence one Sunday for mass in the Chapelle du Rosaire, where the lush blue, green, and yellow stained-glass windows designed by Henri Matisse rained brilliant light on their heads as the priest murmured mysteriously in Latin. When they knelt for the Lord’s Prayer, each of them reciting the words in the ancient language they’d learned in childhoods thousands of miles from each other, Oleg took her hand and Grace felt truly blessed. This was the life she was meant to lead, and when she prayed, she thanked God for showing it to her.
At a late supper toward the end of filming, Grace and Oleg dined privately in a small restaurant famed for its cassoulet, and Grace sighed, saying, “Do we have to go back?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Oleg said. “This month in France has been one of the best times of my life—I’ve never felt so creative and productive, and,” he said, squeezing her hand beneath the table, “so in love.”
Grace sighed and said, “Too bad I can’t work from here.”
“Why can’t you? Our primary residence could be in Nice, and we’d keep apartments in New York and California.”
“Our?” she said, unable to contain the unabashed hope in her voice, even as the thought of keeping a primary residence with Oleg in the south of France, of all places, made her shoulders clench with anticipatory excitement.
“You want it, too?” he asked, his earnestness rising to meet hers.
“More than anything,” said Grace. But did she? She wanted to be with Oleg, wanted her days of searching and feeling unsettled to end, which was why she added, “But I don’t think I’d be very good at living life in three different locations.”
“We can figure that out later,” said Oleg soothingly. “Tonight, it’s enough to know we want the same thing.”
“We do?”
“We do.” He leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth, and she felt in his kiss all the promises she’d ever believed possible.
Chapter 18
When they returned to the States and attended the premiere of Rear Window together in Hollywood, anyone who didn’t already know about Grace and Oleg certainly knew after August of 1954. To echo the black-and-white dress her character, Lisa Fremont, wore in her first scene, Grace and Edith chose another gown of the same colors, but in reverse, with a wide wrap collar in white exposing just enough collarbone and décolletage, with the rest stiff black satin—fitted at the top with a loose, long skirt. Her arms and shoulders were tan from her time in the south of France, and she liked the way her white gloves contrasted so sharply against the warm hue of her skin. She felt nothing but excitement about the evening—about seeing the film at last, about appearing with her arm laced through Oleg
’s, even about posing for the cameras because she was so proud of this moment.
The movie did not disappoint. It was as tense and taut and thrilling a mystery as Grace had suspected it would be during filming. She was secretly impressed by her sometimes saucy performance, and thought she might even succeed in changing a few minds about “Grace Kelly.” Ingénue no more. When the lights in the theater broke the spell, everyone in the audience leapt to their feet in applause. Kisses and heartfelt congratulations were exchanged all around, and Grace felt buoyant with joy. “You were brilliant,” Oleg whispered in her ear.
The next day, though, while Grace was floating dreamily about her Sweetzer kitchen, preparing a simple supper for herself and Rita, Peggy called.
“Have you told Mom and Dad about Oleg?” her sister asked, cutting to the chase.
“I’ve mentioned him, yes,” Grace said, a sick feeling taking the edge off her appetite.
“Well, when they read the papers this morning and saw you two splashed all over them, Mom called me and asked what was going on.”
Grace sighed, and she was amazed at how calm the air sounded escaping from her lips when inside she felt anything but calm. She’d been dreading this. In fact, she’d mentioned Oleg to her mother only once, very briefly, before she left for France. Not wanting to spoil her burgeoning affections with her mother’s inevitable questions, Grace hadn’t let on that he was anything special. Fearing she’d made a serious error in judgment, she asked Peggy, “What did Mom say?”
“First, she asked if he was another Jew.”
Grace groaned. “And what did you say?”
“I said I didn’t know.”
“Peggy!”
“What? I don’t.”
“The truth is, he’s not especially religious. He was raised in an orthodox Russian religion that’s a lot like Catholicism.”
“Oh, yeah, and Dad said he’s heard he’s Russian. A Commie.”
Grace dropped her head heavily into her hands. Clearly, she should have groomed her parents better, not let them form so many ridiculous ideas that would be impossible to undo.
After a steadying cup of coffee, Grace took a deep breath and called her mother.
“Mother! I have missed you so much. I just can’t wait for you to see Rear Window.”
“Your father wants to know when the war film with William Holden is coming out.”
“December, I think,” she replied, discouraged by her mother’s evasive question. “I’m also very excited to introduce you to someone,” she said, not seeing any reason to drag things out. They both knew why she was really calling.
“Mr. Cassini?”
“Mom, he’s wonderful. So intelligent and successful, and kind. He—”
“Is he Russian?”
“By birth, yes.” Grace felt like the very blood in her veins had expanded and was squeezing her from the inside out. “But, Mother, his family had to flee Russia. He grew up in Italy and came to America two decades ago.”
Her mother was silent, considering. “I do love his designs,” she said. “I saw a few of his dresses in a magazine a few months ago. But your father is—”
This fissure of light, this tiny opening of hope, cooled Grace with relief, so she interrupted her mother before she could go on about her father. “Come up to New York, Mom. We’ll go shopping, and I’ll introduce you to Oleg.” She hoped her meaning was clear: without Daddy. “I’m also looking at new apartments, and I’d love your input.”
“Well,” said Margaret, and Grace could hear her mind working on the other end of the line, already putting a plan in motion, “let me look at the calendar and talk to your father and call you in a few days.”
* * *
Oleg stood and gallantly kissed Margaret Kelly’s gloved hand when she and Grace arrived at their reserved table at the Palm Court for tea. “I see where Grace has learned her charming habit of always wearing white gloves,” he said, holding out a chair for her.
Grace could hardly breathe. Though she and her mother had passed a nice enough day in and out of Bonwit Teller, Saks, and Bergdorf’s, Grace had felt fidgety and nervous the whole time.
“It’s essential for a lady to hold herself in reserve,” Margaret opined to Oleg. “How she treats her hands is an excellent indication of the respect she has for herself.”
Grace remembered this lesson from her childhood. It was strange to hear it again. When she wore gloves now, she wore them out of habit, without even thinking. She selected them as an essential accessory to every outfit, though she had lately become aware that her ever-present gloves had become a topic of conversation in fashion magazines.
“I should think,” continued her mother, “that a fashion designer would know that.”
Grace cringed inside, but smiled.
Unfazed, Oleg said effusively, “I do, of course, Mrs. Kelly. I think a great deal on the reserve of ladies, and how to appropriately and elegantly attire them in every moment of their lives.”
Margaret, unsure of how to react to someone who had not bristled at one of her barbs, held her menu in front of her face and busied herself with the items on it. The rest of the hour was a strained one, in which they moved quickly from topic to topic—recent movies, none of which Grace was in; the weather; what sort of dog Grace should get (her mother was staunchly in favor of a bloodhound, and Oleg thought she should take in a stray); and at last they resorted to discussing their favorite treats on the five-tier stand of lemon curd and scones and sandwiches without crusts. By the end, Grace just wanted to leave her mother and get drunk in the Oak Room down the hall. Instead, they had an appointment with a real estate agent to see an apartment on Seventy-Fourth Street.
“He’s not right for you,” her mother said at the first private opportunity, when they were at last back in her regular apartment. Grace looked around at the furniture there, all simple and monochromatic, and realized that nothing in it said Grace Kelly. In fact, it was full of castoffs from Henry Avenue: side tables and chairs her mother had been getting rid of when she’d redecorated a few years before. Grace made a mental note to decorate her new place so that it looked like her.
“Mother, do we have to talk about this now? I’m exhausted,” said Grace, kicking off her pumps and putting her feet up on the couch.
“You need to hear this, Grace,” said Margaret. “He’s not manly enough for you. He thinks about ladies’ dresses all day.”
“Don’t you mean he’s not manly enough for Daddy?” Grace asked. “I should have thought that Oleg’s occupation would seem wonderful to any woman.”
“That comment about the gloves,” her mother said, making a face as if she’d tasted something unexpectedly off.
“What on earth was wrong with that?”
“He’s a flatterer, Grace. He’s not real.”
“I disagree,” said Grace, aware that her voice was not firm but pleading—and she was unable to change it. “You’ve only met him once. You haven’t given him a real chance.”
Margaret shook her head. “I know after I’ve met someone once. I knew with that Don Richardson, and I know about Oleg Cassini.”
Grace didn’t reply. She felt like crying, but refused to do so in front of her mother.
“But”—Margaret heaved a sigh—“you’re not eighteen anymore. You’ll have to discover I’m right for yourself.”
It didn’t help that Oleg didn’t give two hoots about Margaret Majer Kelly. “I know she didn’t like me,” he said two nights later in a taxi on the way to the opera. “And I’m sure that’s very disappointing to you. But what does it really matter? We’re adults. You’re an independent woman.”
Am I? Grace wondered.
She felt a modicum of independence when she signed the papers for a new apartment on Fifth Avenue, then hired a decorator and clipped pictures of rooms she liked from magazines. Time passed, an
d even as she garnered rave reviews for The Country Girl, Grace couldn’t help but feel distracted by the dilemma of her parents’ disapproval of Oleg, and Oleg’s reciprocal disdain for her parents.
In midwinter, she finally adopted a puppy, and somehow, being the helpless little poodle’s sudden mother brought all her fears to the surface. The tiny, curly black lump—whom she’d named Oliver—had shivered and cried the whole first night on his bed in her kitchen, and so Grace had curled up with him on her old couch, and the two of them had slept fitfully together till morning.
Foggy and befuddled from lack from sleep, Grace stood on Madison Avenue with a paper bag of bagels, which she barely remembered procuring. Oliver looked up at her inquiringly from the other end of the leash. Grace met his eyes and began to cry. Scooping him up, she rushed back into her building and up the stairs, burst into her old apartment—for the new one wouldn’t be ready for months—and sobbed. What had she done? She couldn’t take care of this little creature. She was a failure as a Broadway actress, and she couldn’t—couldn’t—marry someone her parents didn’t like. It would make her life a misery. I’m not so independent after all.
Oliver licked her toes while she cried; then she picked him up and let him lick her damp cheeks. She took a sip of lukewarm coffee with a bite of bagel, then got up and filled his dishes: one with water, and the other with puppy food. The sound of the kibble clinking against the ceramic dish was cheerful, and he wagged his tail in anticipation. Watching him dive into the bowl brought a smile to her face. But her heart felt inflamed and heavy, and taking a deep breath was difficult.
Sitting at her kitchen table, she picked up the phone and called a few of her favorite New York friends—Judy and Jaybird; Prudy; Don; and Ava and Frank, who were in town—telling each of them to bring a take-out dish and some wine, and come ready for charades, her favorite game. It made for a festive impromptu party, and everyone took turns petting Oliver, and taking him out for his business while a serious game of charades took shape. Mercifully, no one asked where Oleg was. When she tumbled into bed that night, Oliver snoozed contentedly at her feet, and she thought that maybe things would be okay after all.
