The Girl in White Gloves

by Kerri Maher

  Sincerely sunburned,

  Grace

  * * *

  Dear Sunburned,

  I hope this letter reaches you wherever you are, as I don’t have an address for you in North Carolina—and please do tell me about that state. I admit that the southern part of your country is a mystery to me, and seems much farther away from Europe than it is geographically. The pictures I have seen of plantations, and bayous, and trees that quite literally weep into grasses and streams, make for a very foreign mix indeed.

  I have seen Alec Guinness in a number of English films—he was wonderful as Fagin in Oliver Twist, as well as another Dickensian character whose name escapes me in Great Expectations. What is it like to work with actors whose names are so well-known? Screen royalty though you are, do you ever get nervous? I sometimes feel anxious before certain important meetings, especially if there’s something I want to get out of it and I know I must “perform” in a particular manner. I detest performing, and could never do what you do with such poise (I had been about to write “so gracefully,” but realized it would be a cheap pun).

  I have also taken to heart your words about girl children and boy children. In my world, they are treated differently as a matter of course. But of course you are right: boys and girls should both enjoy a childhood free of expectations and worry. They should both focus on building their characters and experiencing the world. Adversity always comes, but if parents can avoid adding to it, that is for the best. I am sorry that you had parents who couldn’t do this for you, but as you say, it did make you who you are. And you are quite amazing.

  I must also tell you that I found myself on a short beach holiday, and took beer instead of wine. It was a revelation! I think I shall find myself right at home in your part of the world, as you describe it. My plans to come to your side of the Atlantic are taking shape, and I might be able to see you in Los Angeles in a few weeks’ time. Would that be possible? I think often of how nice it will be to discuss these matters in person.

  Fondly,

  Rainier

  * * *

  Dear Fondly,

  Oh, the puns that have been made on my name! Grace under pressure. Amazing Grace. Gracefully done. Say Grace. Even God’s Grace—which, as a Catholic, I find blasphemous. My parents have given a great gift to tabloid writers everywhere with my name.

  And yes, indeed, I do still get nervous! It was much worse when I was just starting out. I was a mess during High Noon, as you can imagine—a complete know-nothing acting with the great Gary Cooper! These days, though, the butterflies in my stomach are much more calm. But even if I had been a nervous Nellie, Alec and Agnes would have put me at my ease right away! They are both full of terrific stories, which are too many and hilarious to do justice to in a letter. I shall look forward to relaying them all to you in person when you visit.

  Speaking of which—I can tell The Swan is going to take an age to shoot; we’re already behind. So please don’t think me a wretch for saying that I preferred your plan to visit at the holidays. The director, Charles Vidor, is something of a perfectionist, and if you come when I’m in California and I’m working on this movie, I don’t think I’ll be able to relax and spend time with you. But I should be able to take a proper break in late December in New York.

  Hopefully yours,

  Grace

  Chapter 24

  You’ve been writing letters for six months?” Rita was clearly gobsmacked, to use one of Alec’s marvelous English expressions.

  “No one is more surprised than I am,” said Grace, sipping some hot tea on this unusually chilly December morning in their Sweetzer apartment. Deliciously, she was still wearing her flannel nightgown, which she had tucked around her as she sat on their sofa; she was like a human tent. A little tree they had decorated with white lights and colorful glass balls twinkled in the corner of the room.

  “And he’s going to meet your family?” Rita repeated the other detail Grace had just shared. “At Christmas, of all times? Like Christmas isn’t a strained enough time for most families? You’re going to have a prince for dinner?”

  “Technically, the Austins are having the prince. Did I tell you that story?” Rita shook her head, eyes still wide and amazed by the recent news about Grace’s life. Grace laughed, remembering the details. “Well, Edie and Russell Austin are old friends of my parents’. I grew up with them just down the street. Nice couple, nice children, though I was never close with their kids. They were always a bit funny about certain things, though. They always had to have the latest and greatest of everything, whereas my parents would wait to see if something had staying power before investing in it. And they love a good party. So when they went to France this summer, they got it in their heads that they wanted to go to the Red Cross do in Monaco—” Grace laughed out loud, remembering Peggy telling her this story, and how Grace had imagined plump, middle-aged Edie and cigar-smoking Russell hatching this plot on the golf course in East Falls. “And since they’d seen the pictures of me and Rainier in Paris Match, they actually wrote to Rainier saying that they were good friends of Grace Kelly’s family and would like nothing more than to attend the Gala. Could they buy tickets?”

  “No!” said Rita.

  “Yes!” Grace howled with laughter. “Can you imagine the nerve? But even funnier, he said yes! Or this Father Tucker, whom Rainier trusts with his life, said yes. Didn’t ask any questions! Just said any friend of Grace’s is a friend of ours, and here are two tickets to the biggest party in Europe. Even I haven’t been to that party.”

  “Sounds like you could go,” said Rita with a whistle, “anytime you want.”

  Grace wiped a tear of laughter from her eye and said, “Maybe. But that’s not the point. The point is that the Austins and His Serene Highness of Monaco are now the best of friends. And my mother cannot remember that it’s Monaco to save her life. She keeps saying Morocco.”

  This time Rita laughed. “Sounds like Christmas will be more Frank Capra than Currier and Ives.”

  “Oh, I do hope so. Rainier needs to see what it’s really like.”

  “Whhhyyyyy?” Rita asked coyly.

  “No reason,” Grace said, equally coy, touching her chin to her shoulder and batting her eyelashes.

  “Grace Patricia Kelly, you cannot be serious,” said Rita, genuinely scandalized.

  “About what?”

  “This Christmas dinner isn’t a prelude to . . . to something more serious, is it?”

  Grace shrugged and couldn’t help grinning widely.

  “You barely know the guy!”

  “I feel I know him better from his letters than I ever knew Gene or Oleg. And on my side, I feel as if not being able to see him in person has given me some space to be more honest than I have been with other men in the past. And the . . . the physical side of things hasn’t muddied everything up, as it so often does. It’s strange, isn’t it, that a person can actually be more honest in a letter than they can be face-to-face?”

  “It’s also easier to hide,” observed Rita. “You’re both given plenty of time to rehearse.”

  “Oh, Rita, I’m too old not to be able to tell the difference between real and performance. I haven’t performed with him, and I believe the same of him.”

  “What do your parents say?”

  “He’s a prince! What can they say?”

  In fact, while Margaret Kelly couldn’t get Monaco right to save her life, she was absolutely aflutter with plans and excitement. And her father had said, “He’s royal, he’s Catholic, and he’s never been married. If you don’t go after him with all your feminine wiles, I might have to have your head checked.” But she wasn’t about to share that with Rita, who looked positively scandalized by this most chaste of romances.

  Then Rita smiled, and shrugged. “At least you’re not twenty-bloody-two, like I was when I met Sidney. Babies. And
Rainier’s only a few years older than you, unlike the other geezers you’ve been with,” she joked.

  “Thank you for finding the silver lining,” Grace said good-naturedly. She knew Rita was only looking out for her; after all, her friend had seen up close how difficult the relationship with Oleg had been. Grace felt just as protective of Rita, having watched the toll her marriage to, then divorce from, Sidney had taken on her; she wasn’t sure what to think of Rita’s new romance with Thomas Guinzberg, other than to understand wholeheartedly the appeal of a man outside their industry. Eager to reestablish common ground with her friend, she said as much: “I also like him for one of the same reasons you like Tom: he’s not an actor, director, or producer.”

  “But Tom’s an editor. He works with creative types all day, so he kind of gets it, you know?”

  Rita must have noticed the look of disappointment that began to make Grace frown, because she quickly added, “But yes, I agree. No more movie types for us.” She raised her glass of iced tea, and proposed a toast. “To new adventures.”

  Grace took a great gulp of air into her lungs. “To new adventures.” Exactly. She couldn’t have said it better herself.

  * * *

  Shooting for The Swan ran so late, Grace had to postpone her singing lessons for the duet she was to record with Bing in the musical remake of Philadelphia Story, at last titled High Society. After Christmas in Philadelphia, she would have to rush to New York for those earlier than she’d like—but she decided not to warn Rainier about this and cast a dark cloud over the excitement they both felt about his visit. Who knew what would happen between them anyway? It might all go terribly wrong. She wasn’t about to change her work schedule for him. Yet.

  Because she’d been thinking—and thinking and thinking—about this very issue a great deal recently. Her acting had been a problem for Oleg. As proud as he’d been of her, and as understanding as he had been of her desire to express herself in this creative way because he was an artist, too, he had not liked the way her acting had taken her away from him: he had not liked the fact that she’d had to collaborate with other designers like Edith, or kiss other men in front of cameras, or spend late nights and long hours working with men she might have dallied with in the past.

  She could see why this would unnerve a man—Kell had even said at Lizanne’s wedding that if Grace didn’t want to die the old spinster of the Kelly clan, she had better give up on Hollywood. “Men don’t like to be shown up by their wives, and all the successful actors are runarounds as far as I can tell.” And even more pointedly, her father had said to her as they waltzed across the parquet dance floor, “You’re in your prime, Gracie, and your mother and I have been patient while you’ve had your fun. Isn’t it time to settle down and forget this acting nonsense?” Grace had always been aware that her own mother, once an unusually successful woman in college sports, had given up work to be Mrs. John B. Kelly. Apparently without any regrets.

  Rainier seemed like someone she could discuss her career with. They had discussed so much already, and the way he spoke of children moved something elemental deep inside her. After reading what he’d written about childhoods free of expectation and worry, she’d taken Oliver for a walk in Central Park and found herself choking back tears.

  Still, despite all the flattery about her vast dominions, she had a feeling she knew what he’d say about her career. He was a man. She’d known so many men, starting with her father. And until very recently, all actresses were regarded as little more than whores—especially in Europe. A man like Rainier would want a wife who was more like Lisa Fremont or Frances Stevens than Grace Kelly, even though Grace Kelly could play those socialites with perfect pitch.

  Rainier was also the first man whose attentions didn’t make her feel nervous—which made no sense at all, even to her. He was a prince, for heaven’s sake. Being with him would cause more of a storm, in their families and in the press, than a relationship with just about anyone else, including Clark Gable (or, these days, Marlon or Montgomery). But she had the sense that they could each be the other’s sanctuary from that storm. His letters certainly had been—a warm, beating heart of a secret she carried with her in pockets and purses every day. Not only had their presence acted as a buffer between her and the rest of the world, Rainier had actually written recently, “I’d like to think I could protect you from some of the attention you so decry. Being a prince has given me certain tools to keep me distant from people I don’t want to be close to. And there is also the wonder of escape. I’d love to show you some of the most private places I’ve seen and enjoyed, where I can be completely myself.”

  She wanted that so much, to be completely herself. And she felt she might have that prize with Rainier, who seemed to understand, as Oleg had not, how much she loved her parents even though they didn’t always appear to return her affections in the way she would have liked; he understood, as Gene could not, her desire to live a balanced and temperate life and even to add more of her childhood religion back into her life; he showed compassion to her, as no one else could have because she’d never felt brave enough to share certain of her fears, except on paper. In one of her letters, she’d gone so far as to confess that she wasn’t sure what sort of mother she could be, much as she wanted to be one, and Rainier had assured her, “Your heart is uniquely warm and capacious—and this is surely the foundation of motherhood.” She wanted so much to believe his vision of her, and while she wondered how he could possibly know anything about her after some letters and one meeting, she squelched this question. He’s intuitive and sensitive. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?

  With all these thoughts swirling in her mind and making her feel just queasy enough to lose her appetite, she arrived in Philadelphia on Christmas Eve. Fordie picked her up at the train station with a hug and kisses on both cheeks. “Well, if it isn’t our Oscar winner,” he said proudly and with such fondness, Grace felt wretched for not phoning him to chat in weeks.

  “Fordie, you mustn’t flatter me so,” Grace objected.

  “You deserve it, Gracie. You’ve worked hard to get where you are. I’m proud of you.”

  She sat next to him in the new Lincoln. “How are you, Fordie? Tell me about your wife and daughter.” And she listened as he told her about his wife’s work at the church and his daughter graduating from college in the spring—prompting Grace to open her agenda and quickly jot down “Fordie—graduation gift!” in May.

  “She could be anything,” he said of his daughter, “but she wants to be a teacher right here in Philadelphia. Wants to help the kinds of kids others think can’t be helped,” he said, his voice thick and warm with emotion. “But first she’s determined to go to Montgomery and see what good she can do down there.”

  Grace’s stomach fluttered with a different kind of nerves now, and she asked, “But is it safe down there?” Just a few weeks ago, a woman named Rosa Parks had refused to sit at the back of the bus, where the laws of Alabama said she must sit. Grace had called the Southern white lawmakers and so-called law-abiding citizens racist pigs at a recent party in Los Angeles, where feeling was overwhelmingly with Ms. Parks, but she knew she’d be very worried letting any child of hers go south to join another bus boycott. Ever since Brown v. Board of Education last year, things had been so unsettled in the Southern states, with violence erupting every other day, it seemed.

  “I couldn’t stop her if I wanted to,” said Fordie. “And I don’t want to. I’d go myself if I could.” And Grace heard the underlying message: he couldn’t afford to go; he had to keep driving her parents around Philadelphia, freeing his daughter to make her own choices.

  “You’re very brave,” said Grace, surprised to find her own voice hoarse with admiration and sadness. She cleared her throat, wishing she could give Fordie what he needed: a nest egg that would allow him to retire and be with his daughter. She had sufficient funds, but her parents would kill her. Knowing she wasn�
��t brave enough to defy her parents for Fordie gave Grace a burning feeling of shame inside.

  Ever the diplomat, Fordie shifted the conversation to other things: new roads being paved throughout the city, and an exhibit of ancient Egyptian artifacts he’d seen at the museum recently. Then, before she was ready to face it, they had arrived at Henry Avenue.

  Though her parents had always decorated festively at the holidays, this year the house was decked out as never before. The fragrance of pine was strong and fresh, and made Grace wonder if her mother had waited to get the tree and swags for the mantel until yesterday or if she’d recently replaced them with new ones. All the holly berries that dotted the room were plump and shiny, the plaid bows round and crisp. Her mother must have prevailed this year over her father and forbidden the “tacky” tinsel she’d never liked, and a few extra strings of white lights illuminated a tree that was at least a foot taller and wider than last year’s, with copious presents professionally wrapped in shiny foil and grosgrain ribbons from only the nicest stores, which Margaret must have procured on an excursion to New York: Bergdorf’s, Saks, and Tiffany’s. A new stereo cabinet softly played holiday tunes, a perfect auditory complement to the other elegantly jolly elements assaulting her senses.

  “It’s lovely in here,” Grace said, overcome by the most intense craving for one of her mother’s ginger cookies, the soft ones with the sparkly sugar on top and spicy bits of ginger throughout. Miraculously, she saw a plate of them sitting on the coffee table, and she bent over to pick one up. Taking a bite, she was immediately five years old again, filled with nothing but unabashed excitement for the holiday and its potential. “Delicious as always, Mother.”