The Girl in White Gloves

by Kerri Maher

  “Some office,” Grace said, making a show of gesturing around them.

  Appreciating her irony, Rainier chuckled. “That is precisely why I need what you Americans call a getaway. But I believe a movie set built by the great Alfred Hitchcock would seem just as daunting—or, should we say, unbelievable—to the person who doesn’t go to it every day.”

  “An excellent point,” said Grace. Then, suddenly remembering the first time she’d met Hitch, she laughed and said, “It’s really amazing what a person can get used to. Alfred Hitchcock was so accustomed to sets and cinematography by the time he did Dial M for Murder, he was furious he had to shoot that film in Three-D. He couldn’t see all that amazing equipment as anything other than a chore. And then he thought absolutely nothing of constructing the back side of two New York City apartment buildings for Rear Window.”

  “The human animal always acclimatizes,” said Rainier, and Grace found this self-assured and philosophical pronouncement unexpected and thrilling.

  Rainier stopped walking, and Grace looked around. She’d been so absorbed in talking, she hadn’t noticed the scenery they had passed on the way, but the place where he’d stopped was breathtaking. Behind them was a garden she hadn’t yet seen, lush with roses of every shade of pink and red, and before them was a low stone wall covered in ivy, the top edge of a precipitous drop-off. If she looked straight down, her eyes fell on the tops of red roofs and narrow streets, laundry lines strung up between windows and a few donkeys and carts dotting the roads. If she lifted her eyes, she could fasten them on a blue horizon, the deep azure of the water meeting the pale periwinkle of the sky. At the edges of her vision was the coastal land—from where she stood, a Cézanne patchwork of green, yellow, and cream.

  “It’s beautiful,” breathed Grace, resting a gloved hand on her brow to shade her eyes.

  “It never gets old,” agreed Rainier.

  They stood, looking and appreciating, and Grace slowly became aware that the moment was being photographed by the posse of men with cameras who had followed her from the moment she’d set foot out of the car. Funny, but she’d forgotten they were there for a few minutes.

  “I’ve heard,” said Rainier, his lips curling into a wry smile, “that your next role is as Princess Alexandra in Molnár’s Swan? I saw a theatrical production of it in London a few years ago, and I must admit I appreciated the writer’s understanding of the absurdity and tragedy of royal life.”

  “Yes, poor Alexandra cannot be with the man she truly loves because her family stands in their way. But if I may say so, that problem is one many families have—not just royal families, which is why I think the script resonates with so many people.”

  “Touché,” Rainier said, turning away from Grace and folding his hands behind his back as he looked out at the view. “However, the way everyone is abused by Alexandra’s mother in the interest of securing the crown for her family is, I think, peculiarly royal.”

  So many possible replies sprang to Grace’s mind—a reiteration of the fact that even laypeople behaved as the characters did, using family members in their own single-minded pursuits; a question about what, precisely, was “peculiarly royal” about it; an impertinent comment based on something Grace had read about Rainier’s own mother being unfortunately like Alexandra’s. But before she could say anything, she was spared the effort by one of the photographers saying, “It’s nearly five, Miss Kelly. You said we should let you know.”

  “Yes, thank you so much,” she replied, giving the photographer a courteous nod. To her surprise, she was disappointed that her time with Monaco’s Prince was over. Turning back to him, she said, “Regretfully, I must get back to Cannes.”

  “Yes, your own kingdom awaits,” he said, with the utmost respect, utterly devoid of irony.

  She laughed off his flattery. “As does yours, I assume,” she replied.

  “Only a principality. Monaco has no king,” he corrected her good-naturedly. Then he smiled sadly, and she thought he also blushed as he glanced away—the modesty and melancholy of this gesture tugged at something in Grace. “But yes, nevertheless, it always seems to await,” he replied, “at the most inconvenient times.” He lifted his hands and clasped both of hers in his. They were warm and dry, with a firm grip, and when their eyes met, Grace felt an electric current of attraction run from their hands up and down her limbs, as a hot red blush colored her own cheeks.

  * * *

  A few days after returning to New York from France, Grace sat at her new desk with Oliver snoozing on her new carpet beside her bare feet. In contrast to the luxurious newness of her decor, she wore some of her oldest jeans and a soft wool sweater from her Barbizon days. She had a stack of stationery and envelopes at the ready and her trusty pen from Uncle George in her hand. There were so many people to write to—Josephine and Maree and Rita, all of whom she could tell about her brief and bittersweet affair with Jean-Pierre, which they had agreed together should end as they shared a last basket of croissants on her hotel suite balcony. She also owed letters to Uncle George and Hitch. Thank goodness Jay- and Judybird were having a party that night so she could simply see and fill in most of her New York friends and gather their news in kind.

  But she found herself turning first to Prince Rainier. It didn’t take her long to formulate the words because she’d been turning them over in her mind since getting on her plane to return to the States. She wrote:

  Dear Prince Rainier,

  Thank you for your hospitality in Monaco. I have found myself thinking of your gardens and vistas and company often since I left, and believe my visit to your principality will help me play Princess Alexandra. I didn’t have a chance to mention it when we spoke, but I played her once before, five years ago in a television dramatization of the play. I fear that version of the princess was a tad immature, and I am glad of the opportunity to play her again with the experience of a bit more age—and now add to that meeting a prince who rules over a European country much like the one her family wishes for her (complicated as those wishes are, as you so insightfully pointed out). I’m grateful to Pierre Galante for introducing us, and only wish we’d had more time to speak.

  Best wishes for a sunny summer.

  Sincerely yours,

  Grace

  To her surprise, a letter from the Prince arrived just a few days later, on long, crisp paper with two scripted Rs mirror-facing each other beneath a red crown:

  Dear Grace,

  It is I who should thank you for taking the time to visit my little principality during your very busy festival schedule. Since you left, I have finally seen The Country Girl, and understand completely why you have been so honored for that performance. The role of Georgie Elgin is so different from that of the roles you played for Mr. Hitchcock, and opposite Mr. Gable and Mr. Cooper, I admit I was quite amazed by the subtlety and sensitivity of your acting. I quite forgot I was watching Grace Kelly, and was utterly absorbed in the plight of Mrs. Elgin. Congratulations on your performance—the accolades that have flowed from it are much deserved. I look forward to seeing what you do with the role of Princess Alexandra, and feel confident that everything you bring to that will be your own talent, and have little to do with visiting Monaco, however much I might like to flatter myself that you enjoyed your visit here.

  As for talking more—I hope the same. In fact, I am planning a trip to the United States for the holidays. Yes, much as I love it, I find I need a break from the sun of Monaco from time to time and I suspect that a white Christmas is just what I need so that I can return to my principality with renewed appreciation for its merits. Perhaps we could meet again if that visit comes to pass? In the meantime, I would treasure another letter from you. Tell me, when does filming begin on The Swan? Do you have another production in the works?

  Yours very sincerely,

  (just) Rainier

  His invitation to correspo
nd was so bewildering as to be surreal. She recalled the frisson that had passed between them just before she left; she was sure he’d felt it, too, and she admired him for not referencing it in any way even as she wondered if he’d recalled it as many times as she had. Well, she decided, there certainly wasn’t any harm in writing to Prince Rainier. The idea that they could be anything more than pen pals was laughable . . . and yet . . . why would he bother writing to her without some sort of intent? She knew enough of the world to know that men didn’t spend time or money on women they didn’t expect something from, and princes had even less time than most men.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, Grace told herself. Just be glad he’s Catholic and never been married. And with that, she picked up a pen to reply. Then she set it down. Best not to appear too eager. She’d write back soon enough.

  Chapter 23

  Dear Rainier,

  I apologize for this late reply to your wonderful letter, but my younger sister, Lizanne, was just married and now I can breathe again. Goodness, there was so much to do! I was much younger when my older siblings were married and less was expected of me, so I was quite unprepared for the many responsibilities of sister-of-the-bride! Of course, I enjoyed every minute of it, and her husband is so solid and perfect for her in every respect, I couldn’t be happier for her.

  You ask if I have another production in the works—well, I have to say that I’m taking the summer off. Last year, my filming schedule was nothing short of manic, and I need a break. I plan to enjoy myself with my family on “the Jersey shore,” as it’s called here, and where I’ve been going every summer since I was a little girl. I do love building sandcastles and eating ice cream and going to sleep freshly bathed after a day of swimming and reading.

  Then filming will start on The Swan, in both California and North Carolina. I am supposed to play Maggie in a movie of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but that cannot start until the Broadway run is over, and it’s still such a hot ticket, who knows when that will be? MGM keeps sending me other scripts, and I keep politely declining, but I know I must be careful lest I anger them and they suspend my contract again. Fortunately, The Swan is Dore Schary’s own picture (and he is the King of MGM), so he is happy with me for the moment. And Bing Crosby wants me to be in his next movie, which will also be for MGM. I’m not sure how much you might know about motion picture contracts, but they are dastardly things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  I hope I haven’t bored you with this more authentic letter about the after all mundane real life of Grace Kelly. But I would certainly welcome one in return about the real life of His Serene Highness the Prince of Monaco. What is it really like? And remember, it’s research for me as I consider how to play Princess Alexandra.

  Sincerely,

  Grace

  P.S. I would of course welcome the opportunity to see you if you come to the United States. New York is divine at the holidays. It’s what all the songs sing about.

  * * *

  Dear Grace,

  Your life sounds positively full and marvelous, and I am delighted you would share such details with me. I fear the life of a prince whose entire country is a fraction of the size of your Manhattan will pale in comparison to a screen princess whose dominion is as vast as the terrain she traverses to make her movies, and the many theaters in which those movies conquer their viewers.

  But since you ask, I shall try. In the interest of research.

  I spend most of my days in meetings or on the telephone. Sometimes with people whom your average newspaper reader would recognize as important, like René Coty or Aristotle Onassis. But most of the time I am meeting with the truly important people whose names few people know but whose influence in Europe is vast—advisors, magistrates, ambassadors. The central project of my reign is to bring this beautiful rock out of the Middle Ages and into the twentieth century.

  Speaking of ancient places, I have begun to see the palace differently since seeing you photographed in it (have you read the Match story? It was rather good, I thought). I wonder if some sprucing up could breathe life into it the way you did? Someday I suppose I shall have to inhabit it year-round, and be the true prince who rules from his palace. But I put off that day, as it would mean admitting I am a grown man, like my father.

  Congratulations and felicitations to your sister. I hope her union is blessed with happiness and children. Also, I have heard of this Jersey shore you mention and wonder how it compares to the beaches of France. Do report back, and let me see it through your eyes. More details on my trip as I have them.

  Sincerely,

  Rainier

  * * *

  Dear Peter Pan,

  Are you really so afraid of growing up? I should think a crown prince who meets regularly with the president of France would fancy himself an adult, but I suppose small children have worn crowns, too, so that’s really no test at all. Fortunately and unfortunately, I have felt the weight of adulthood since I first left home at seventeen. While I have always prized the freedom of that stage of life, I have often wondered what I might have missed by not extending my childhood as many of my friends did—living at home, playing at volunteer work, and never living alone but moving seamlessly from my parents’ home to my husband’s.

  Goodness, but I do feel open with you. I don’t discuss these sorts of things with even my closest friends, and here we are writing about them. I hope you don’t think me inappropriate.

  Let me dissertate instead on French versus New Jersey beaches to lighten the mood. I suppose the first difference is the presence on this side of the Atlantic of modest bathing costumes! And beer. And hot dogs. In New Jersey, you’d not see a single bared breast, nor a bottle of cold Sancerre, nor a baguette. More’s the pity. Maybe I’ll bring my own when I head down next week.

  Ice cream is what we all have in common. Thank the good Lord.

  Now very hungrily yours,

  Grace

  * * *

  Dear Hungry,

  Please don’t stop writing your innermost feelings on my account. I find it helps to unburden myself in writing, and makes me feel less alone to be able to send those writings to another person who cares—and I do care, Grace. I hope those same things are true for you.

  Furthermore, I admire your independence and determination, though I detect some sadness, some sense that you missed out on something precious other women your age enjoy—a carefree stage of life when you are no longer a child but not yet a wife and mother. Perhaps you might be able to find some of that later in your life, even now? I hope my own girl children might be able to enjoy a few years as such—what a marvelous time to travel and sample the treasures of the world, no? When one is old enough to read about history and nature with the intelligence of an adult, and also experience it with the wonder of a child.

  I do understand what you mean about the weight of adulthood, however, and wish you hadn’t felt it so soon. My own parents separated when I was very young and their feelings toward each other can only be described as hateful on a good day. On bad days, they were bitterly cruel to each other, and my sister and I have always been caught in the cross fire. Nothing makes a child grow up faster or more troubled than being made a pawn in his parents’ games. This is another thing I hope to give my children: freedom from my own neuroses. But I cannot end my letter on that note!

  Did you bring wine and baguette to the shore? I want to see photographic evidence in the European gossip columns. Perhaps you’ll start a trend, though I must admit that a cold beer on a sandy beach actually sounds quite delicious.

  Thirstily yours,

  Rainier

  * * *

  Dear Thirsty,

  It turns out beer is easier to keep cold on a scorching summer day. Smaller bottles in the cooler. Maybe the truth is that the French are actually drinking lukewarm wine? I’m laughing at that t
hought as I write. Also, I love hamburgers—better than baguette and ham or even brie. My father grilled some last night and I ate TWO on the patio with sand between my toes, and my bathing suit still wet from the surf. No, I don’t think I’ll be starting trends in Europe anytime soon. I’m just too much a product of this part of the world.

  Now I must give you a stern talking-to, Serene Highness. Why should only your girl children benefit from this halcyon time of life you described so eloquently in your last letter? I hate to think of a boy missing out because he was in line for a crown (and I use that word literally and metaphorically, since my own unprincely father burdened his son with his very secular and thorny crown). And surely such wanderings and wonderings would be an antidote to the sorts of parental cruelty you endured. I admire you for knowing that you want to give your own children a different sort of childhood from the one you had.

  In fact, your words have set me thinking about the ways in which I, too, would like my children to grow up differently than I did. I would like them to grow up free of expectations—my own expectations, anyway. The world will always encroach, won’t it? But it would be very nice to grow up feeling that one’s own parents don’t play favorites and will love you for who you are. I have the sense that neither of us grew up with this sort of security.

  And yet here we are—maybe all the stronger for the trials of our childhoods. I wouldn’t trade the strength I’ve gained for the comfort I wish I’d had.

  I’ll be heading back to New York soon, then jetting to North Carolina! I’m looking forward to meeting Alec Guinness. Have you seen him in any theater or English television? It’s amazing that The Swan will be his first American movie. And I can’t wait to work with Agnes Moorehead, and hear her stories about Orson Welles! I’m hardly sorry to leave the beach and get back to work.