Throwing my arms around him, I excitedly said, “Darling, you’re wonderful. If this water has what we think it has, we will form the Hereford Texas Water Company and distribute the water all over California and—”
Paul’s laughter stopped me, and teasingly he said, “Mrs. Getty, I’m interested in the financial end of this project. How much are you charging per bottle, and what are your delivery days?”
This stopped me. Was he asking me to go into business with him? Was he saying he’d do this with me? I don’t believe he had ever asked any former wife to join him in any business venture. It was exciting to think he might want me.
Well, we filled two bottles with Hereford water, jumped into Paul’s 1944 blue Ford sedan and, with Hildy and the water bottles in the backseat, headed for California.
The trip was epic. Starting down the road for Clovis, we were met by thunderous squall conditions with rain, hail, and lightning. One huge black cloud developed into several small whirling funnels, reaching way up into the sky from the fields down the straight road ahead of us, and we had to race the storm half the way to avoid being gobbled up by the whirling dervish wind. It was strange and scary, and, once, Paul just yelled “Hang on” as he drove the car off the main road, across a field, and in another direction to beat that swirling black tornado, which then suddenly changed its course and headed straight for us. Finally, we escaped the storm and reached the little town of Clovis with our water bottles intact and Hildy huddled down silent and still in the backseat.
Leaving the Llano Estacado, those desolate plains of Texas, we took Route 66 to Albuquerque and then Gallup, arriving with the setting sun. The next day, we visited the wonders of the early West—Kit Carson’s Cave, the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, the Meteor Crater, and then on to Flagstaff. Following the road, we saw the San Francisco Peaks shimmering like golden spheres before us. We drove through beautiful green forests to the Grand Canyon, where Hildy romped and we sat and held hands in the moonlight by the Rim of the Canyon with the rest of the tourists, as a guide recited the legend and history of one of nature’s greatest wonders. It was truly inspiring. We hated to leave, but after enjoying that view and drinking in that pure mountain air for a few days, we headed west through Needles, the desert, and on to our little beach house in Santa Monica, where Peter and Penny greeted us, and rallied around Hildy, Paul, and me for a welcome home and a walk on the beach. At sunset, we made love and fell asleep listening to the sound of the sea.
Early the next morning, we took the bottles of Hereford water to the Truesdail Laboratories in Pasadena, and the next week the analysis of the water proved to be all that we had hoped it would be.
In November, on his way to Tulsa, Paul stopped off in Hereford, looked at some acreage that was for sale, called on the city dentist Dr. Heard, and again discussed with him the value of the water. Paul went to the City Hall of Hereford, talked with Mayor Ireland and Councilman Posey, and arranged to buy our water from the City out of the same wells that had been supplying the citizens of Hereford for the past forty years. To be sure that we would always have the water for our use, Paul also bought a 190-acre farm with a spur connecting it to the railroad track. I still own that acreage today.
About a year later, I could never seem to get more than five hundred customers at $1.25 per bottle . . . Something, may I say, that Paul reminded me of every time my bank account was short and he had to make up the deficit.
One day, in a note to me about the water project, Paul wrote, “Darling, you’re too far in the red. You’re dropping money down a hole. It’s a great idea, but as a business venture—it stinks.” Paul had said in the beginning, “To run a business is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job.” Since he couldn’t possibly give up Spartan for this water project, and—since I was busy appearing professionally as a singer—neither of us could devote our full time to it.
Wouldn’t Paul be surprised to know that a gallon of water cost more than a gallon of gas today.
In retrospect, my idea to start the water company may not have been a brilliant decision, but it was by no means a poor investment. Maybe it was just part of the “price Paul paid in the process of my growing up.” Nevertheless, it was something special I shared with Paul, and I got a taste of his brilliant mind. Perhaps that is why I continue to hold on to my dream that we may someday bottle that wonderful water again to bless the world. Whenever I think about this water adventure, I give myself an A-plus for effort, and sort of dream that maybe someday I’ll put the water in bottles again and—or—well, maybe someone else will . . . and let this wonderful water bless the world.
ONE DAY, OUR dear neighbor Jesse Lasky, the famous producer and an old friend of Paul’s, walked up the beach and called over our gate to introduce me to Nino Martini from the Met (New York Metropolitan Opera), who was in California on vacation. Nino had appeared in several of Jesse’s movies with Ida Lupino, and possessed a magnificent tenor voice. He was a dynamic and handsome man. He sang for us. Then he asked me to sing, and we sang duets from Bohème and Tosca, accompanied by Marjorie, with Paul, Bessie and Jesse Lasky, and Eddie and Gladys Robinson as our audience. Nino was so supportive and reassuring about my singing technique. He also helped me arrange my concert and radio programs, and introduced me to an exquisite song—a poem written by Bessie Lasky titled “I Come to You,” set to music by Miguel Sandoval. I loved it, learned it, and included it in my concerts and on the KFWB radio program. I shall never forget Nino’s interest, his sense of humor, and his wonderful voice. He was my friend forever, and he helped choose my program for my American debut as a serious concert singer.
On August 22, 1943, I made this debut at the McCormick Gallery of the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. The reviews were kind, not spectacular. I was a bit nervous at first, but they liked the quality of my voice, and especially commented on the fact that I could take my high notes pianissimo (thank you, dear Mme. Marchesi). They found my program interesting, thanks to Nino, who helped choose it. I sang, for the first time in America, “Dos Cantares Populares” by Fernando J. Obradors, and “O Luna Che Fa Lume” by Vincenzo Davica, which I performed in Tuscan dialect. I also sang “La Flute Enchante” from the Sheherazade Suite by Ravel, several songs of François Poulenc, and for my aria, I chose Desdemona’s lovely “Salce” from act IV from the opera Otello by Verdi.
It was exciting to sing a professional concert, but it would have meant so much more had Paul been there. He was in Tulsa and “just couldn’t make it,” he said. Though I was upset, I reminded myself that we were at war, and Paul had orders for planes and parts of planes to get out for the navy. Fortunately, Nino drove up to Santa Barbara to give me courage, and he saved the day.
Later, Emily Spreckels, who had sponsored the concert, gave a huge party at her mansion in Montecito, where she introduced me to Helen Ainsworth, the West Coast head of the National Concert and Artists Corporation (NCAC), and the head of their New York office, Alfred Morton, who immediately signed me. Naturally, I was thrilled, because among their roster were the Metropolitan opera stars Ezio Pinza and Blanche Thebom, the famous diva Lotte Lehmann, and the renowned pianist Arthur Rubinstein.
But I was still hurt that Paul had not come.
After the concert, Nino insisted I drive back to Los Angeles with him. On the way, we stopped at a roadside inn. Over scrambled eggs and coffee, he proceeded to give me a lecture on how not to be upset when the one you love doesn’t show up for your performances.
“Teddy, cara . . . first sing because you love to . . . then sing for your audience. Be happy knowing you are giving joy to someone out there . . . and just think what Paul missed.” And with that, he pulled me to him and right there in front of everyone in the restaurant, he kissed me . . . a long, hard, passionate kiss. Embarrassed, I got up and ran out to the car.
I needed that kiss, but why did I wish it had been Paul? Nino was such a wildly attractive man, the ever romantic Rodolfo of Bohème . . . “You better be careful,” I told myself. “With
a full moon and the way you feel, you may get into trouble.”
Nino appeared, jumped into the car and, leaning over, kissed me. Then he pulled me close, put a robe over my lap, and rolled up the windows, saying, “Night sea air, molto male per la voce.” And with that, we roared down the Pacific Coast Highway, arriving at the beach house just as Robert, our houseman, was out on the lawn, raising the flag to the morning sun.
With a “Ciao, cara . . . a stasera,” Nino left, and I went into the house and to bed. It had been a great day. I had sung well. People liked me. A top agency had signed me, and a fascinating man (other than Paul) had come to my rescue. He had aroused me, and as I fell into that dreamy state before sleep envelops one, I found myself reliving Nino’s kiss and wondering what it would be like making love with him.
The next morning, flowers arrived from Paul, and that evening, instead of dining alone with Nino, we were joined by Jesse Lasky and Victor Emanuelle. Early the next afternoon, I was called to the Warner Bros. Studio by Neil Reagan, to run through some of the numbers we were going to do for the opening night of Serenade, which was to start Thursday night, August 26, 1942, at 8 P.M., over KFWB. Nino came to the rehearsal with me, much to the surprise and joy of Leonardi and the sixteen boys in the orchestra. He sat in the darkened theater all during the rehearsal, and told me later I was the only girl singer he’d ever heard who sang “Marechiare” in Neapolitan dialect, like a real Neapolitan.
He left that night on the train for San Francisco to go on tour. Then he phoned me from other cities to see how I was doing, always reminding me to sing “for the love of it . . . not for just one love alone.” For as long as I can remember, Nino was my friend, calling from wherever he was in the world, always giving me advice, wishing me well, even telling me to never make love before a performance. “Go to a movie,” “don’t even talk,” so you won’t use your voice. Then after your performance, and then only—make love.
I’ll always remember that first night when Paul arrived from Tulsa and came to the broadcast. We ended up at Chasen’s. After dinner he turned to me, raised his wineglass, and said, “I’m proud of you, Teddy, you’ve really done it. Your first professional engagement with your new voice. Marchesi and Moreschi have given you the technique, and now you’re on your way.” Then, he leaned over, kissed me, handed me my glass, and whispered, “Let’s drink to your future, darling. Then let’s go home. Waiter. Check please.”
By now, Paul seemed able to spend more time in California with me, even though business still compelled him to return to Tulsa and occasionally to New York. Often, such trips were made at a moment’s notice, with his saying, “Teddy, dear, I must take the evening train to New York.” Frantically, we would scurry about the little beach house, getting him packed and getting his books and papers together. I’d drive him to the train, which left from Pasadena, and, with one minute to spare, he’d kiss me good-bye and dash off.
One evening, while waiting for Paul to come home from the office, I heard the gate close. The bells rang, and when Robert opened the door, I heard him gasp and say, “Oh, Mr. Getty, sir! What happened? Did you have a car accident?”
I rushed downstairs as Paul walked into the house, his face covered with bandages. I looked at him, shocked. “Oh my God! Paul, you’re bleeding! Tell me what happened!”
He didn’t answer. I reached out to him—he just looked at me, put his hand up, and walked slowly into the living room, then sat down in his favorite chair. I knelt in front of him. He just sat there. “Paul, tell me, please. What happened?”
He looked at me for a moment, then said, “I had a face-lift this afternoon.”
“What?! And you drove yourself home . . . How could you? Oh my God, Paul, why?”
“I’m ugly. I don’t like these jowls.” With that, he put his hand up to his face.
Tears came to my eyes. “Paul, you’re not ugly. You’re an individual, like Leslie Howard or Leopold Stokowski. When people meet you, they’re fascinated. It’s something special in that face of yours that makes them realize you have a wealth of knowledge that draws them to you. And besides, you’ve got a great smile.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything. And at that moment Robert walked in with a rum and Coke, put it on the table, and quietly left. I picked it up, Paul looked at me, and I followed him when he started upstairs to our bedroom.
One month later, Paul was fine, his face healed, and we never spoke of it again.
Santa Monica was peaceful in those days; no noise on the Pacific Coast Highway, except for the rumble of passing Army trucks. The view from our house was amazing, always luring us onto the beach. The gulls at night slowly heading in flocks toward the mountains, which dipped to the ocean; the view from our bedroom windows of the sun setting; the magnificent air—all made those days seem glorious and fresh. Sometimes alone, and sometimes with our dogs, Penny, Peter, and Hildy, we’d walk along the shoreline on the edge of the ocean and watch the sandpipers scurry ahead of the never-ending waves. And before we knew it, we’d find ourselves at the Santa Monica Pier. At sunset, as we would head for home, there they were . . . those hundreds of seagulls in the sky above, flying northwest in their usual precise formation to their roosting places in the Palisades.
Often, we would dine next door with Marion Davies and Mr. Hearst, just the four of us. Mr. Hearst always looked quite fit for a man in his eighties. It was fascinating to sit at that long table in the dining room, its sideboard laden with the most exquisite silver. After dinner, we’d go into the drawing room, and Mr. Hearst would show early films of Marion, and then preview a new picture before it was shown to the public.
They really seemed to be in love, for they held hands all during the showing of her picture. He never took his eyes off her when she decided to critique a new film. Like a child, she would look up at him as she spoke, for his approval. I found this very endearing, especially since they’d been together for so many years.
Walking back to the beach house one time, Paul said, “Did you notice how empty the walls looked in the great hall and gallery?” We decided they’d taken the pictures down for safekeeping during the war.
AFTER EMMY SPRECKELS became engaged to Burton Tremaine, we often met them for dinner at La Rue on Sunset Boulevard. Then, when Emmy married Burton and they returned from their honeymoon, we visited them in Santa Barbara and brought them back with us to our beach house. The four of us spent great times together.
One beautiful summer Sunday, while we were all having a leisurely lunch, our houseman, Robert, approached Paul and said, “Mr. Getty, sir, you are wanted on the phone.”
Paul excused himself and a few minutes later came to the open door and called, “Teddy, it’s for you.” Hurriedly, I excused myself and, as I ran into the house, he stopped me and said, “Teddy, there’s someone on the phone who is very upset, and you’ve got to help me.”
I asked, “Who is it? What happened?”
Pushing the phone at me he said, “Go ahead, talk.”
I whispered, “Talk? To whom? What about?”
Quickly putting his hand over the mouthpiece he begged, “Darling, please . . . Talk.”
Completely bewildered, I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”
In response, a young girl’s agitated voice pleaded, “Please, Mrs. Getty, please help me. Please make Paul call Charles for me.”
“Well, who are you? And Charles? Charles who?”
“Charles Chaplin,” she shouted, “and I’m Joan Barry. Paul knows all about this, and he’s got to get Charles to talk to me. I don’t know what else to do. Please, please, help me.”
“Of course I will. Now stop crying, and I’ll talk to Paul about it.”
I put the telephone down and Paul said, “Teddy, I’ll explain later, when we’re alone.”
“Explain what?” I replied. “Just tell Charles to call her up. Come on, let’s finish our lunch.”
As we walked back to Emmy and Burton, Paul put his arm around me and whispered, “Than
ks, darling.”
When we returned to the table, Robert was serving dessert, but my thoughts were elsewhere, wondering what Paul was going to explain later, and why he had to call Charles Chaplin. What does Joan Barry mean to Paul?
These questions were crowding my thoughts as I waited for him to join me upstairs in our bedroom. I had slipped into a negligee and was in bed, propped up against the pillows on my side. I held a book in my hand and, although I was looking right at the title, I was too upset to see it.
It was an unusually still night . . . so still that from where I lay I could clearly hear the sound of the bell buoy ringing far down the harbor. Through the open French doors, the fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine perfumed the room. As the soft ocean breeze directly, tenderly caressed my face, I dropped my book, leaned back, closed my eyes for a moment, and slowly breathed in the clear, fresh ocean air. I glanced up at the white eyelet-embroidered canopy above me, touched the matching drapes tied back at the side of the bed, and let my hands smooth the silky, pale blue satin coverlet, which covered the summer cashmere blanket beneath. The gleaming white linen sheets were bordered by the same charming eyelet motif, with my initials, T.L.G., neatly appliquéd in the center. It was all so very clean, fresh, and pretty. To me, it symbolized a sheltered place, a private retreat to share with the man I loved. I wanted everything to just stay as it was. I didn’t want anything to change.
But I felt uneasy.
“Hi, darling,” Paul said as he entered our bedroom. “You’re still awake? You look so pretty . . . Is that a new negligee?” Then, walking toward the bed, as he removed his coat, he continued, “Didn’t we have a lovely day? Perfect beach weather and such a delightful lunch. You know, I’m glad Emmy married Burton. He’s such a fine, upright man.”
Throwing aside the covers, I leaned across the bed. Looking straight up at him, I said, “Paul, why don’t you explain what you said you were going to explain . . . Now.”
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 19
