The Girl in White Gloves

by Kerri Maher

  Margaret Kelly, wearing a dark green A-line dress and pearls, was wringing her hands at her waist. “I see you brought only two suitcases,” she observed as Fordie carried them up the stairs to Grace’s childhood room. “What are you planning to wear tomorrow?”

  “Something appropriate, Mother. Don’t worry,” she said, though her casual tone was the opposite of how she felt inside every time she pictured her next meeting with the Prince. “Anyway, if the Prince liked me in that horrid taffeta dress, I think I could wear just about anything tomorrow.”

  Just then her father came in with a Waterford glass of whiskey in his right hand. He said, “We’re not so impressed by royalty around here,” then bent over to kiss Grace on the cheek. She wasn’t sure if his nonchalance should make her relax or worry more. Thankfully, Rainier’s breed of royalty was Catholic, not Protestant like the old boys of Henley, whom Jack still despised though his son had beaten them twice. “And what’s this about you playing Kate Hepburn’s role as a Main Liner? Old man Williams was ribbing me about it at the benefit the other night.”

  “Daddy,” Grace said impatiently—she couldn’t help it—“I told you about High Society ages ago.”

  “More than once,” her mother added pointedly, and Grace was grateful for her mother’s defense.

  Her father drained the rest of his whiskey and said, “I guess I’m more excited to meet this prince than I am to see my daughter pretend to be something she’s not.”

  At this, her mother actually rolled her eyes. What was going on in this house, with her mother showing such impatience with her father? Grace hoped the discord wouldn’t be visible to anyone but her the next day, because despite what she’d said to Rita about wanting to give Rainier an authentic look at her life, the truth was that if he were to really see what went on in the Kelly family, she was sure he’d want nothing to do with her. Her father would make sure of that.

  Ironically, her main hope was the social climbing her parents had cultivated since she was a child. She’d always hated it, resented the ways it made her mother and father ride all their children for perfection, but if there was one thing the aspirational founder of Kelly for Brickwork would not do, it was ruffle the feathers of a prince.

  At least, that was the hope she clung to.

  Chapter 25

  After presents and coffee with a slice of the same delicious stollen she’d been eating toasted with heaps of butter and cranberry jam since she was old enough to stuff the bites into her own mouth, Grace spent a few tedious hours being fussed over by her mother’s hairdresser, Betsy. Margaret claimed to have paid her quadruple to work on Christmas morning. But Betsy, whose teased blond chignon didn’t inspire confidence in Grace, seemed bubbly and happy to be there. Grace told her firmly that she wanted to look natural.

  “Of course, honey,” Betsy said in a Philly accent.

  Grace calculated how much time it would take to undo whatever Betsy was about to do to her. But she was very pleased to discover that Betsy could achieve natural. In fact, Grace’s stringy hair hadn’t looked this full and bouncy in ages, and so she agreed to purchase an arsenal of products from the salon the next day in order to do it herself in the coming weeks. Betsy’s Christmas was made.

  Feeling pretty and festive, if still nauseous with overwrought nerves, Grace asked her mother if she needed any help. “Are you crazy? The last thing we need is that dress getting a stain before the Prince arrives.” Margaret, wearing a red wool dress today, scrutinized her daughter and said, “Speaking of dresses, I like that one. Where did you get it?”

  “Saks,” said Grace, looking down at the full skirt of the creamy dress made of stiff silk brocade, which buttoned in pearls all the way down the back and had a Peter Pan collar and three-quarter-length sleeves. She’d fastened a glittering red wreath brooch above her right breast.

  “It’s very . . . pure,” said her mother. Grace suspected that even her mother couldn’t use the word virginal without laughing—or spitting.

  “I’m glad you like it. Everything looks wonderful here, too.” Glass bowls of nuts and toffee and other treats were all about the room, the decanters of wine and whiskey were full, and the detritus of the morning with all of Grace’s nieces’ and nephews’ new toys was cleared away, as if nothing had happened—though now the tree looked a bit bare without its presents. Her mother had lamented that morning, as all the luxurious paper and ribbon was tossed unceremoniously into plastic bags, that she’d originally thought the Prince would be here on Christmas Eve. But the skirt that lined the tree was also beautiful, stitched by hand by Grace’s grandmother.

  “I can’t believe I forgot,” said Margaret now, casting nervous glances around the room, “to try to serve something they would have in his native country of Morocco.”

  “It’s Monaco, Mother,” Grace said for the millionth time.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, and Grace could tell this would not be the last time she’d need to correct her. “Mother, maybe it’s best if you don’t mention the Prince’s country when he’s here,” she suggested as gently as she could, but still Margaret Kelly darted her a sharp and disapproving look.

  “Anyway,” Grace added, “I don’t think it’s necessary to serve anything Monégasque. He’s here for an American Christmas. Experiencing a holiday in another country is part of the fun.”

  Soon her siblings and their spouses arrived—without children, who were all apparently comatose in front of a television screen at Peggy’s with a Jewish grandmother as a babysitter. “I like this version of Christmas dinner,” said Peggy, the ice in her old-fashioned clinking brightly. “An adult meal and servants to do the dishes.” Grace thought it had been a bit much, her mother hiring a whole army for the kitchen, but it seemed to make her feel more comfortable, so Grace hadn’t argued.

  As the hour of Rainier’s arrival neared, Grace felt the knots in her shoulders tighten and even started to hear a buzzing in her ears, making it hard for her to listen to or focus on anything else. But the ring of the doorbell cut right through all that, and suddenly everything was too loud, her body almost too loose. Goodness, what was wrong with her?

  Her father answered the door. Her brother, Kell, along with Lizanne and her husband, all of whom had been sitting, stood up; and so their whole party was awkwardly formal when Prince Rainier entered with Edie and Russell Austin, as well as a priest Grace knew to be Father Tucker, Rainier’s most trusted advisor.

  Showtime, thought Grace, taking a deep breath and holding it.

  “Welcome!” said her father jovially, shaking Rainier’s hand. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas to you as well,” said Rainier, a wide smile on his face as he shook her father’s hand and clasped him on the forearm with his other. Her athletic father was several inches taller than the Prince, but it didn’t seem to matter—Rainier had a warmth, a presence that filled the room. And she’d forgotten how musical his voice was, how seductive his vaguely English accent.

  As everyone shook hands and made introductions, two girls on the staff Margaret had hired magically appeared in black dresses and white aprons, quietly tidying up coats and gloves and hats, and Grace was grateful for the wisdom of her mother’s choice. She hung back near the fireplace and stepped forward once the rest of the group had met. “Hello, Rainier,” she said shyly, and—natural as anything—they clasped hands and kissed on both cheeks. “So good of you to join us tonight.” His touch sent shivers of anticipation through her, and he looked at her just a beat longer than he needed to, Christmas lights reflecting mischievously in his very dark eyes. So. She hadn’t remembered wrong. There was something electric between them.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said huskily.

  Then, as if remembering where he was, he cleared his throat and said, “Allow me to introduce you to Father Francis Tucker, who is very glad to be back in his homeland for this birthday of our savio
r.”

  The gray-haired priest of about sixty came forward to shake Grace’s hand. “Monaco is charming at Christmas, of course,” he said in a low and kindly but gruff voice, “but I admit I did welcome the opportunity to come home again.” Turning his attention to the mantel, he said to Grace’s mother, “That is an absolutely beautiful crèche, Mrs. Kelly.”

  Beaming, she replied, “Why, thank you, Father. It’s from Venice. John and I bought it on a trip to Italy after the war.”

  Examining the hand-painted baby Jesus and all the other players in the biblical drama through his horn-rimmed glasses, Father Tucker observed, “Simply marvelous craftsmanship.”

  “Can I get you a drink, Rainier?” Grace’s father said, obviously relieved to have been instructed to call the Prince by his casual name. Rainier asked for a whiskey and soda.

  And thus the party began. Soon the room was loud with talk and laughter, and Grace marveled at how completely normal it all felt. As she sipped less and less nervously at her lightly spiked ginger ale, she began to slowly enjoy herself. Amazingly, it was like Rainier had been a friend for years—he appeared relaxed and to be enjoying himself immensely. She purposely kept her distance during cocktails because she knew her mother had seated them next to each other at dinner. When the time came to sit for the first course, Grace was grateful for the support of the familiar upholstered seat. She breathed a sigh of relief as she laid the red linen napkin on her lap. Rainier, slipping his own napkin out of its gold ring, leaned over to say in her ear, “At last some time with the beautiful woman I came to see,” and Grace smiled with private pleasure.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

  He took her hand in his beneath the table, pressed it gently before releasing it, and said in those smooth, low tones that reminded her of a saxophone played in its lowest register, “Merry Christmas, my dear. I am grateful beyond words to be here.”

  Though they spoke to each other at dinner, it was always part of a larger conversation with others at the table. Grace was relieved that her father steered clear of subjects that might stir controversy, like the recent events in Alabama, James Dean’s death, or Eisenhower’s reelection campaign following his coronary in the fall. Instead, the conversation stayed with Disneyland’s opening and Jack and Margaret’s plans to take the grandchildren there, and the new polio vaccine that promised to rid the world of “that horrid disease,” as Margaret called it. Jack and Kell were even happy to excoriate the Yankees and praise the Brooklyn Dodgers for beating them in the World Series. Remarkably, Rainier had something witty and knowledgeable to contribute about all these American topics.

  Before they adjourned for a dessert buffet of cookies, cakes, and ice creams in the living room, Grace said to Rainier, “I’m amazed at how much you know about American sports and amusement parks.”

  “I read at least five newspapers a day,” he replied. “And the New York Times is one of those, though I have to admit that after a certain American actress came to my attention, I began to read the entertainment sections more closely.”

  Grace felt soft and warm like the wax of a melted candle, and she hoped her smile and blush showed him her gratitude.

  After dessert, Father Tucker excused himself to bed, as did Grace’s parents and the Austins, all of whom said they should retire but that “you youngsters should continue the party.”

  “What about a game of bridge?” suggested Peggy, and everyone agreed.

  Her sisters set up her parents’ trusty card tables, giving Grace and Rainier a moment alone. He took her hand, and again she felt the sparks run up her arm. “I hope that tomorrow we might have some time to ourselves,” he said. “I thought, perhaps, a picnic? The weather looks surprisingly fine, and I do love the fresh air.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “It will be wonderful to spend some time together alone. I’ll pack us a lunch.”

  The next hours passed in friendly competition, and Grace was thrilled to see Rainier fit in like he’d grown up down the street. The eight of them traded coy quips about the cards in their hands, and Rainier had them all in stitches, telling stories about a few of the croupiers and dealers who worked in the casino in Monte Carlo, regular workaday Monégasques Rainier counted as friends.

  “Goodness,” said Peggy, “I’d never guess you grew up in a palace.”

  Rainier smiled widely and said, “That is the highest compliment you could pay me. I have never wanted to be an inaccessible prince.”

  Grace felt the meaning of his words reverberate inside her, and she smiled at how well Rainier and her sisters were getting on.

  By one in the morning, everyone was stifling yawns, and Rainier said he ought to get to bed. “Shall we call you a cab?” asked Grace, embarrassed she hadn’t thought of this detail before. “Our chauffeur has gone home, and—”

  “Not to worry,” said Rainier. “I have someone waiting outside.”

  “All this time?” Peggy gasped.

  “He’s been well equipped.” Rainier smiled.

  Grace glanced outside and couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the large black Mercedes parked on the street near the driveway. She’d been entirely focused on what had been happening inside the house. Goodness. She couldn’t imagine what equipment it would take to occupy a grown man for six hours inside a car.

  “Next time,” Grace said, “please invite him in. At the very least, he can stay in the kitchen where it’s warm and there’s plenty to eat.”

  Rainier smiled and said, “What a fine idea,” though she had the vague sense that he didn’t really care one way or the other. But the evening had been too great a success to fret over a detail like that.

  Her siblings gave them one more moment alone, when he had shrugged into his soft, thick overcoat. Curling an arm around her waist, he moved closer to her and she could smell the faint, musky notes of an aftershave. It was a seductive scent, and Grace closed her eyes and breathed it in as she allowed herself to absorb the heat from his body. She could feel desire building inside her, and she thought for sure he would kiss her on the lips, but instead he gently, lingeringly, kissed her left cheek, then murmured in her ear, “Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.”

  * * *

  The next day, Grace felt unnerved by two men in suits and heavy overcoats who settled down on a tartan blanket four or five yards from them to eat their own cartons of chicken and spaghetti from a local Italian restaurant. She was unpacking the basket she’d brought for herself and Rainier—a picnic of leftovers made from what appeared to have been his favorite dishes the night before, along with a bottle of white burgundy. Grace had to ask: “Are those the same men who were waiting for you last night?”

  “Georges was. At least one man must come with me wherever I go,” he said with that same air of nonchalant resignation. “Security, you see.”

  “Of course,” she replied, feeling silly for not noticing them before.

  “It’s strange, but they are like family, and yet I hardly notice they’re with me all the time. We rarely speak, and yet I trust them with my life.”

  “Does it ever feel like a peculiar way to live?”

  “That is difficult for me to answer, as I have never lived any other way,” he said. Then he frowned and added, “But many of my friends have felt it to be. Peculiar, that is.”

  Grace had the sense that the peculiarities had cost him friends and surely also lovers. She knew of his long and troubled relationship with a French actress named Gisèle Pascal, but didn’t want to pry into that any more than she wanted him to ask about Oleg or Gene. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Having experienced life before being in the public eye, I can tell you that the lives of entertainers are peculiar as well. And even though your average Joe or Joan would swear up and down they would love to be us, the truth is, they really wouldn’t.” Listen to me. I sound as jaded as Clark Ga
ble! Well, she thought ruefully, it had just taken her a few years to realize he was right.

  “And yet, even to you, my life seems peculiar?”

  Grace felt hot with embarrassment at how her earlier question must have sounded. “No, I mean . . . ,” she stammered, feeling flustered, then decided it was best to be honest. “Well, yes, I suppose. The press follows me around, but not security men.”

  “Do you think you could accept them as a presence in your life? If there were enough good things to balance them?”

  This was not an idle question; Rainier was only choosing his words carefully to give her an out. She saw that clear as day. Hadn’t this been what she was hoping for, somewhere in her recently mended heart? She was fearful of it being rent again, as it had by Oleg, which must have been why she heard that buzzing in her ears, felt that tightness in her chest. She swallowed, and replied, “I think I could, yes. I’ve adapted to many other circumstances in my life.”

  “Indeed, you have.” Rainier smiled playfully and added, “With grace, I might add.”

  She giggled, and said, “Oh, Rainier, you’ll have to try harder than that!”

  This little joke, this reference to their correspondence, lightened things between them. As they shared the wine she’d brought in a Thermos with an assortment of cookies, they laughed and talked, and another hour sped by.

  “I’m very glad we have met again, Grace Kelly,” he said, the intensity of his eyes on her face making her look away, down at the odds and ends left from their picnic.

  “As am I,” she agreed.

  “Your family has been very kind as well, very welcoming. I enjoyed speaking with your father last night.”

  Well, you must be the first of my boyfriends to say that! Though boyfriend felt entirely inadequate to the task of describing Rainier. “They had a ball,” she assured him. “Mother was in a bit of a tizzy before you arrived, I don’t mind telling you, but I could tell she relaxed as the evening wore on.”