The Girl in White Gloves

by Kerri Maher

  Don’t get sidetracked, Grace. Poetry readings, board meetings, nearly adult children with interests and passions of their own. Those are what’s important now. It was good that Rainier wanted the girls to cultivate their interests.

  The plane began to taxi and Grace took a sip of champagne, and wondered to herself if maybe—just maybe—she might find herself on the cover of a magazine again, not for being Princess Grace, but for one of her new pursuits. Maybe that Ms. magazine she sometimes found in Caroline’s room. “Grace Kelly, Film Mogul” or “Not Just a Pretty Face: Grace Makes Waves in the Boardroom.” But no, she sighed, a publication like Ms. would never feature someone as old-fashioned as her, board of Fox or not. She’d settle for Vogue and an article that didn’t include a box about tourist attractions in Monaco.

  She quickly discovered she’d have much to tell any journalist who wanted to ask about her new position. At her first board meeting, in a room that felt like it was floating in the center of Manhattan, with a view all the way to the Statue of Liberty on the clear day they met, Grace listened hard and took many notes. Her new colleagues were discussing the upcoming slate of movies, including a big gamble they were taking on an upstart young director named George Lucas, who was making what Jay described passionately as “a whole new kind of science fiction picture.”

  Dennis Stanfill snorted and said, “The script reads more like a Western with robots.”

  “George Lucas?” asked Grace. “Didn’t he do American Graffiti?”

  “One and the same,” said Jay. “It’s good to know he has some name recognition.”

  Grace nodded, thinking back to the drama about the teenagers in a California town somewhere in the northern part of the state. “That movie’s a far cry from outer space,” she observed.

  “Lucas is a genius,” said Alan Ladd Jr. matter-of-factly. “You should see his work with models and camerawork, Grace. What he’s doing is truly new, a bit like Hitchcock in his time. Plus he’s one of the most talented writers I’ve seen in years.”

  “Well, I was certainly impressed by his other movie,” she said, moved by Alan’s enthusiasm, and inclined to believe him. “He took a subject and a place and a cast of characters that I knew nothing about, and made me care about them. Maybe he can do the same thing with robots.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Dennis, “because we need a win, badly.”

  “I like the way she thinks,” said Alan, ignoring Dennis and smiling at Grace. Shooting Jay with his index finger and thumb, he said, “Good call, man.” Then, turning back to Grace, he added, “And Alec Guinness has signed up to play an important role. Kind of a monkish warrior type. Weren’t you in a movie with him back in the day?”

  “Yes! The Swan, which was in fact his very first American movie,” Grace cried with satisfaction.

  And just like that, Grace was rooting for George Lucas and his Western with robots, hoping her instincts would be proven right.

  When she told Albie about it over burgers and fries at a diner in Amherst two nights later, his eyes widened and he exclaimed, “Mom! Do you think you can get us tickets to the premiere? That would be amazing.”

  Grace laughed. “You’ve actually heard of this movie?”

  “Mo-om, of course. Anyone who reads sci-fi, or watches Star Trek, or anything like that is just waiting for this movie to come out.”

  “Alan Ladd Jr. will be very glad to hear that,” she said. “Do you watch Star Trek? I had no idea.”

  “Everyone’s seen Star Trek,” he said chidingly. But her son’s ribbing had such a different quality from that of Rainier or the girls. It was gentle, without malice or competition or fear.

  “Everyone except your uncool mom who only watches BBC dramas,” she replied, all lighthearted self-deprecation. “Tell me why I should watch it,” she said, then listened as her son tripped over his words extolling the virtues of Captain Kirk and Spock, a conversation that wound its way to a book called Stranger in a Strange Land by a writer named Robert Heinlein, and then—to Grace’s relief, to Huxley and Orwell and Bradbury. “Now, Fahrenheit 451 I know something about,” she said. “Everyone in New York read it when it came out in the early fifties. I would get into a subway car, and half the faces would be hidden behind it.”

  Albie appeared shocked by this revelation, his rosy lips hanging open. His handsome, fair face was soft and unlined beneath his wavy blond hair—the only one of her children to inherit her coloring, and the one she knew the least. But maybe that was about to change. “How old were you when it came out?” he demanded.

  “Oh, I don’t know. What year was it published?”

  “Fifty-three, I think,” he said.

  “Then I was twenty-four,” she said, amused by her freshman son’s youthful cluelessness. “Albie,” she suddenly thought to ask, “do you know when I was born?”

  Chastened and wide-eyed, he closed his mouth and shook his head.

  “Nineteen twenty-nine,” she said.

  “The year of the stock market crash,” he said, as if giving an answer on a TV quiz show.

  “Yes,” said Grace, “though that’s not how I like to remember it, especially since your grandfather was a very smart man and didn’t have anything in stocks when it crashed. So we were fine. Financially, anyway.”

  “Wow,” said Albie reverently. “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t know your grandfather Kelly,” said Grace, feeling a pang of sorrow about her father for the first time in many years. “I think you two would have gotten along famously.” Secretly, she was also relieved her father couldn’t sink his poisonously vengeful teeth into her children. He’d ruined poor Kell. And Peggy, his other favorite, was on her second unhappy marriage, her elder daughter, who was a mother herself, a stranger to her. Grace might not have been her father’s favorite child, but here she was enjoying burgers and ice cream with her own son, and that meant the world to her. It meant she’d gotten somewhere in her life.

  “Yeah,” agreed Albie. “He was in the Olympics, too, right? He won a gold medal. I can’t even imagine doing something like that.”

  Grace reached across the table to tuck a thick lock of hair behind her son’s ear. “You’ll do your own amazing things, Albie. I know it.” Grace remembered how much it had meant to her to have the support and belief of Uncle George, and wanted so much to give that to her own children.

  He blushed and said, “I hope so. It’s not easy, you know, being half Grimaldi and half Kelly. There’s a lot of history on both sides. A lot of people who’ve never met me sometimes expect things of me, just because of who I come from.”

  “I can only imagine,” she said, finding it curious that she was having this conversation with Albie and not with the girls, whom she was often trying to coax into confessing their fears and anxieties. “You’re young, though. It’ll happen in its own time. It might take you longer because of whom you come from. And I want you to know that’s all right with me.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said, looking down and smiling at the sundaes Grace hadn’t even realized had arrived.

  * * *

  Emboldened by her moment of closeness with Albie, Grace decided to broach the subject of Philippe Junot the next time she met Caroline in Paris. After some careful orchestration, including a jaunt to buy some new fall clothes and a late lunch at a bistro of Caroline’s choice, Grace said, “Darling girl, you look wonderful. How is school?”

  “I keep telling you, Mom, it’s not school. It’s university.”

  “I do keep forgetting,” Grace laughed off her oft-made mistake, and told herself not to scold Caroline for her tone—which, Grace had noticed recently, bore striking resemblance to the one Rainier took when he was reprimanding her. “In America, it’s all school. And I never even went to university.”

  “I know,” said Caroline, and again Grace had to squelch the words that rose to
her mouth: What’s that supposed to mean?

  “But of course the Academy was terribly rigorous,” Grace said, a touch defensively. The waiter arrived with their meals: sole meunière for Grace and steak au poivre for Caroline. They shared a plate of sautéed spinach and another of crisp, salty potatoes. Steam rose off the plates, the scents of each mingling into one buttery, winey mixture—rich and sharp at the same time as only French cuisine could be.

  Caroline rolled her eyes as she picked up her own fork and knife and made herself a bite of steak and spinach.

  Ignore that. “Tell me about Philippe,” Grace said brightly. “What sorts of things do you do together? I assume it’s not all parties, as the papers would have us think.” Those naughty papers, whom we all hate. Remember, darling girl, we’re on the same side!

  Caroline swallowed and took another bite before answering. “He likes to eat,” she finally said. “So we go to a lot of restaurants. And to shop.” Shimmying her shoulders, she added, “In fact, he bought me this blouse.”

  Grace hadn’t liked the blouse as soon as she’d seen it, but had resisted saying anything in the interest of the more important conversation she needed to have with her daughter. Though it was long sleeved, the blouse was made of so fine a material that everyone in the restaurant could see her daughter’s bra through it. She wished Caroline had worn a camisole over the lacy white lingerie, but Grace smiled and said, “It’s very pretty.”

  “You don’t like it,” Caroline countered knowingly.

  “I do! And what do I know about fashion these days anyway? You’ve long since replaced me on all the best-dressed lists,” Grace said, which was after all true. She often consoled herself that those lists were a cosmic reminder that had she remained in Hollywood, she’d be out of work now for sure.

  Placated by her mother’s compliment, Caroline said, “Philippe has great taste. Everyone’s always asking for his advice on what to wear, what to buy next.”

  “That is a handy quality,” Grace said, reaching for the nicest thing to say that popped into her mind. Was Philippe perhaps like Oleg? In this flash of connection, she realized with nauseous clarity that Caroline and Philippe were lovers.

  “Do you ever go to movies?” Grace asked, hoping to find something innocent and youthful in her daughter’s relationship. “Walks through the Tuilleries? Exhibits at the Louvre?”

  Caroline shrugged. “I do that stuff with my friends. Philippe’s too busy. He just wants to cut loose when he has time off.”

  Grace had eaten half her sole without tasting a bite. Setting down her knife and fork, she said, “As long as you’re happy, darling.”

  “I am,” Caroline said earnestly. She took a long drink of red wine.

  Grace believed her. Caroline was happy. And what was the harm? Grace had survived her share of lovers and heartache. Caroline would, too. Suddenly, the heavier warning she’d planned about Junot felt unwarranted. Perhaps even counterproductive.

  Grace fixed her eyes on Caroline and said, “You know I’m always here if you need me, right?”

  “Mom! I’m fine,” Caroline said, shivering a bit with discomfort. But Grace was sure she’d heard her, and that was the best she could do. For now.

  Chapter 38

  1978

  Do not behave like Mother.

  It had become something of a mantra since Caroline had become engaged to Junot. And even though her own motivations for behaving badly with regard to her daughter’s wedding were far different from those of Margaret Majer Kelly, Grace could now understand the maternal impulse to lash out at anyone or anything that got in her way. Her own mother had been happy with Grace’s choice of husband, but unhappy about being marginalized and having to give up her dream of a royal wedding in Philadelphia, which she could rub in the faces of all the Main Line women who’d snubbed the wife of upstart businessman John B. Kelly. By contrast, Grace feared for her daughter’s future happiness. No one except Caroline herself thought that Philippe Junot was the right man for her. The marriage was doomed, at best.

  But Grace remembered how alone she’d felt during her engagement, how she couldn’t come to her mother with anything but the required questions about outfit and flower colors, and she didn’t want Caroline to feel that way.

  When Caroline had told Grace and Rainier about the engagement, her face had been so full of youthful excitement and affection. She’d sat the two of them down in the living room, where they used to play Monopoly and Clue, and said, “I know Philippe isn’t your first choice for me, but I love him. I really do. He makes me laugh, and makes me think of the world in challenging ways. That’s what I want for myself—love, and fun, and to always be thinking in new ways.”

  Grace felt as though her heart was oozing a sticky, thick love for her daughter, and she recognized that she’d felt this same way when each of the children had been born, as if her body was manufacturing something that would cost her and protect them at the same time. She felt hot and craved skin-to-skin contact with her daughter, but Caroline was not a baby she could cradle in her arms anymore. She was a long-limbed adult who sat almost primly across from her parents, hoping for a positive reaction.

  For once, Grace was the one to offer enthusiasm first—and she reflected that Rainier must really have been perturbed by their daughter’s announcement, even though they’d both known it had been coming, if it trumped his compulsion to always beat Grace to the praise. Rising from the couch, she went to hug Caroline, who also stood and met her in a tight embrace. “My darling girl, congratulations,” she said in her daughter’s ear, as she felt Caroline’s soft, slick hair against her cheek, inhaled the scent of lavender from her soap. When they each pulled away, Caroline’s eyes were damp with tears. She said, “Thank you, Mom.” This feeling of being loved by and in communion with her daughter would be worth the explosion from Rainier she knew was coming from the way he was sitting, frozen, on the couch.

  Almost mechanically, Rainier stood, too, and hugged his daughter. “If it’s what you want,” he said.

  Later, in their bedroom he raged, “How can you act like this is okay?”

  “How can I not?” The vehemence of Grace’s own words and tone startled her. She found she simply didn’t care what Rainier thought about the way she would love their daughter through this ordeal. It was terrifying and freeing: I don’t care what you think. Had it always been coming to this?

  She went on. “She’s our daughter, and she’s made up her mind. The best we can do is let her know we love her no matter what. Even if she makes a huge mistake.”

  “You agree, then? This is a huge mistake?”

  “Of course I do. How many times have we talked about it?”

  He frowned and looked away. Grace could hear his mind whirring. He was so used to Grace being the heavy, the one willing to say no. Not this time, she thought.

  Grace kept her smile on for all the shopping, showering, thank-you-note writing, gift wrapping, and seat arranging. Curiously, the more she smiled, the more honestly happy she felt for her daughter. It helped that Caroline responded so positively to the attention. Rainier kept his distance. “It’s all women’s work anyway,” he grumbled. “And you’ve been in Monaco long enough to know how everything should be done. Just keep it small, for God’s sake. We still don’t even know who this Junot is, and because of Albie, Caroline will never be the Princess in any case. Best not to go overboard.”

  Despite not wanting to go overboard, Rainier finally said he’d come to one of her poetry readings, at St. James’s Palace in London, because he wanted at least one member of the English royal family to attend his daughter’s wedding. It had always bothered him—still it bothered him!—that not one member of the most famous and beloved royal family in the world had attended their wedding in nineteen fifty-six. “It’s disrespectful,” he’d said on their honeymoon. “Shows they give us no credit.” But now that Monaco had su
rvived a few crises with France and its sovereignty was secure, Grace knew her husband hoped for more recognition from the other European monarchies, especially the House of Windsor.

  She felt more nervous than ever before her performance that night at the palace, but also happier than she had in years. Perhaps this was the new leaf. Regardless of his reason for attending, this was a chance for him to experience firsthand her joy in being onstage. Surely he would be touched by the poetry and his wife reciting it. He would feel, and participate in, the applause thundering around him; he’d be proud of her, and perhaps experience for himself a little of what it was like to be appreciated by a theater full of people. A wall that had long been stalwart between them would crumble. It seems I do still care what you think, she thought warmly before she took the stage, ready to see her husband beaming proudly at her.

  When she stepped out under the warm white lights that night, she felt like her decades-younger self stepping onto a Broadway stage for the first time, knowing her parents were in the audience and wondering what they would think. Her stomach was a riot of nerves, and her throat felt tight. How would she get the words out?

  She raised her eyes to the box where Rainier was sitting—for she was wearing her glasses and could see—and saw her husband’s head lolling on his shoulder, lips soft and parted, eyes closed.

  Asleep. Even as loud, enthusiastic applause greeted her.

  The nerves buzzing throughout her body stopped. For a moment, she couldn’t even hear the applause. She nearly opened her mouth to scream at him, “I’m only the third reader! You’re my husband!”

  Instead, Grace moved her eyes to the faces of people in the orchestra seats—all wide-awake and smiling expectantly. Well, she told herself as she straightened her shoulders, what does it matter if he’s not watching? His slumber put her in an elite category that included the finest opera singers and ballet dancers in Europe. A familiar hardness formed inside of her, a fist of anger that had been closing protectively around her heart since she was a girl.