by Nyna Giles
It had taken two fitting sessions at Grace’s apartment on Fifth Avenue before the dresses fit to perfection. The six bridesmaids and Grace’s maid of honor—her sister Peggy—had been warned not to put on a pound or gain an inch between then and the wedding. But in the short weeks that followed, Carolyn had been so nervous she had actually lost weight. Now, on the morning of the wedding, her main concern was that the bridesmaid’s dress was hanging too loosely around her frame. She hoped no one would notice.
Carolyn was dressed and ready by the time the limousines from the palace arrived to collect her. They drove directly to the palace, and the six bridesmaids—along with Grace’s maid of honor—gathered in the white-and-gold salon adjacent to Grace’s room holding their posies of tiny yellow rosebuds wrapped in lace and trailing yellow ribbons. When Grace finally emerged from her dressing room, she all but glowed in the palace’s half-light. She was already in her white gown, its lace bodice fitted with long sleeves covering her arms all the way down to the backs of her hands, the skirts forming a voluminous pouf of taffeta and lace, and behind her, almost a hundred yards of tulle for a train. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, the style that Carolyn had always thought suited her best, a lace cap with its white veil attached on her head.
Grace embraced every one of her bridesmaids, and then they walked out together onto the Galerie d’Hercule, the long terrace overlooking the palace courtyard, for photographs. Grace’s four little flower girls and two ring bearers were also there, and the main photographer was Grace’s favorite, Howell Conant, whom Carolyn also knew from modeling assignments. With Howell directing, Grace and her attendants arranged themselves in groups under the arches of the long gallery. As they posed for their pictures, Carolyn found she couldn’t take her eyes off her friend, and not only because Grace looked so beautiful. Far from home, Carolyn was still the girl from Steubenville, always worried she might make another error or misstep. All she wanted today was to do the right thing, say the right thing, not to embarrass Grace in any way. She kept her eyes trained on Grace, looking for cues. Along with the formal photographs, Conant also captured more intimate, candid moments that day, such as the one where Grace, with a friend’s solicitous care, turned to Carolyn and adjusted her hat.
Below in the courtyard, a Rolls-Royce was waiting to drive Grace and her father to the cathedral for the religious ceremony. The bridesmaids waved good-bye, walking the short distance across the courtyard, out into the palace square, its tall shuttered buildings painted in shades of pink, under an arched passageway, and down the short slope that led to the cathedral. A breeze was rising up from the Mediterranean, and each bridesmaid kept a hand to her head to stop her hat from flying from her head.
By the time they approached the grand steps of the cathedral entrance, Grace had already arrived with her father, and the large silk canopy erected outside the church looked as if it were about to be swept away. A cordon of honor of soldiers and sailors from British, French, Italian. and American ships waited in their smart lines. Together, the bridesmaids lifted their skirts to carefully climb the red-carpeted steps leading up to the church. Grace would follow.
Inside it was cool and dark, with baskets of white snapdragons hanging from chandeliers. Every pew in the church was full, the altar ahead lit by tall white candles and decorated with white hydrangeas, lilacs, and lilies. The six bridesmaids began to process, walking slowly in time to the solemn music from the cathedral organ, passing row after row of waiting guests and taking their places in the row of seats to the right of the altar.
Looking across at the crowd, Carolyn could see the cathedral was filled with dignitaries and celebrities. The Aga Khan and King Farouk of Egypt were in the front row, with Aristotle Onassis close behind. Gloria Swanson, Ava Gardner, and David Niven had flown in from Hollywood. Malcolm was a seat away from Cary Grant and his wife.
But the main attraction was, of course, Grace. She entered on her father’s arm, each guest turning as she passed. At every corner of the cathedral stood the giant cameras sent by MGM, a constant reminder that this was the first wedding ceremony to be broadcast live to millions via television.
Grace looked solemn and tense under her veil, with the eyes of the world watching.
Prince Rainier, in accordance with royal custom, arrived last.
Then the sermon began. Mass was offered. The church’s organs and choir filled the cathedral with sound. There were prayers and a message from an emissary sent from Rome by the pope. Rings were exchanged, Rainier fumbling to put the band on Grace’s finger, and Grace helping him to slide it on.
Then, when the ceremony was over, Grace and Rainier walked arm in arm back down the aisle, the bridesmaids following, exiting onto the cathedral steps and into an explosion of sunlight and applause. Here were crowds of people cheering, everyone waving, craning their necks for a better view. Grace and Rainier walked down the steps and climbed into an open-topped Rolls-Royce. The bridesmaids were ushered into limousines, so they could follow Grace and Rainier in their motorcade. Church bells were ringing out across the city. Ahead, Grace and Rainier’s car proceeded slowly through narrow streets. In her car, Carolyn waved back to the smiling people on the route; they were hanging from every balcony and window.
Monaco tradition dictated that along the way, Grace would stop at the chapel of Sainte Dévote to lay her bridal bouquet at the martyr’s feet. Grace and Rainier arrived before noon at the small chapel nestled into the craggy cliffs overlooking Monaco’s harbor. Young girls wearing the traditional Monaco dress of white blouses and red-and-white-striped skirts waited in rows on the chapel’s steps.
Dévote was Monaco’s patron saint. She was a young Christian girl born in Corsica in the third century who had devoted herself to the service of God. When the Romans began persecuting Christians, Dévote refused to renounce her faith and she was stoned to death. Her body was placed on a funeral pyre, but her supporters saved her from the flames and put her remains on a boat bound for Africa, where they hoped she would receive a Christian burial. During the crossing, a dangerous storm threatened the boat and its sailors. Then a small gray dove flew from Dévote’s mouth and guided the boat to Monaco, where the ship finally ran aground. Local fishermen rescued Dévote’s remains, and a small chapel was built in the harbor in her honor. Over the centuries, Dévote was credited with many miracles. She had protected Monaco from invaders and the plague, she ended the Spanish occupation, and each year she made flowers bloom in winter in time for her saint’s day.
With Rainier at her side, Grace walked up the steps to the statue of the saint outside the chapel, laying her bouquet of lilies of the valley at Dévote’s feet. Grace crossed herself, then knelt for a prayer. Carolyn watched as the princess—Grace was royalty now—descended the steps, climbing back into her waiting car with her prince, pulling away toward the palace, her subjects, and her new life.
On the one hand, Carolyn was elated for her friend. On the other, she knew that Grace’s wedding was an ending as much as a beginning. In the past, Grace had always come and gone from Carolyn’s life. When they lived at the Barbizon, Grace would go away for weeks at a time, back home to Philadelphia or for summers on the New Jersey shore. After she started her career in movies, she was always flying off to film shoots in Hollywood or somewhere else in the world. But until now Grace had always come back. Grace adored Manhattan; so did Carolyn. It was part of their bond. But how could New York ever compete with the beauty and charm of Monaco? Or a palace and a prince? Carolyn knew as she waved good-bye to Grace that she was watching her friend start a new journey, unlike any in the past, one from which she couldn’t easily return.
CHAPTER 12
Nina
Midway through what would have been my fifth grade year, the school renewed its interest in my case. Why hadn’t I recovered from the fever yet? In February of 1971, the school principal, Mr. Bedford, called our home to speak to my mother, and I answered. My mother was out, and I was home by myself. Since the inci
dent at the A&P supermarket—where the school nurse had seen us and the school filed the petition for neglect against my mother—I usually stayed at home whenever she had go to the market.
“How are you today, Nina?” my principal asked.
“Pretty good,” I answered, immediately realizing that was the wrong answer. I panicked and corrected myself. “Well, I mean, not so good.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. I knew that it was wrong to lie but that I couldn’t tell him the truth either. I can still recall the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, the shame that I couldn’t yet put into words.
Mr. Bedford told me to give my mother a message: he expected her to return his call as soon as she could.
Of course, my mother didn’t call back, so the next day Mr. Bedford telephoned again. This time, my mother answered. She told him about her own stomach problems, that she was going to the hospital on Monday for treatment and that it was possible I had the same issues, inherited from her, that I couldn’t return to school just yet and that she didn’t feel I was ready to start home tutoring either. She was very concerned.
The summer before sixth grade, my school assigned a teacher to tutor me at home so that I could try to catch up before the beginning of the year, but by then my mother had found a tick bite on my body, and I spent the summer in bed with tick fever.
That September, the first day of school loomed ahead of me. I always dreaded the first day back. I can still remember the feeling of rising panic in the pit of my stomach as I thought about the school bus pulling in to the circle in front of our school. I didn’t have friends at school; I wasn’t part of any friendship group because I was never there. The other kids teased me, calling me names.
I remember standing in our laundry room the day before my first day of sixth grade. My mother was quietly folding the clean clothing; the air in the laundry room was warm, and the washing machine hummed its familiar tune, but I was worried. I had just climbed the stairs and was a little out of breath, so I decided to put my hand on my chest. I could feel my heart pounding wildly beneath my fingers; I’d never felt my heart racing like this before. I tugged at my mother’s blouse, getting her attention. I asked her if she could hear my heart beating, and she said yes. Then she put her hand to my chest. I could tell from her expression that something was very wrong.
The next day we drove into Manhattan to see a cardiologist. I don’t remember anything about his assessment of me, but I do know that my mother was so worried about my heart problem, I didn’t go to school for the rest of the year.
By now, a pattern had been established. My mother kept me home from school, which meant that I was afraid to go to school, which meant I then colluded with her to make sure I didn’t have to go to school. We were trapped in this vicious cycle together.
* * *
MEANWHILE, IN PHILADELPHIA, Robin was in trouble. That November, on my twelfth birthday, my eighteen-year-old sister was arrested at an anti–Vietnam War protest for “contemptuous display” of the American flag. She had been seen with a group of people who were dragging the Stars and Stripes along the ground. I knew about the antiwar marches and demonstrations because I had seen them on the news; now I learned that my sister had joined the movement. Like so many young people at that time, Robin was passionate about ending a war that had already sent tens of thousands of young American men to their deaths. Later, I learned that my sister was writing volumes of poetry and song lyrics about the injustices of the times. After her arrest, Robin pleaded not guilty but was sentenced to pay a fine of fifty dollars or serve five days in jail. She spent one day and one night in jail, at which point the father of a friend of hers paid the fine. Robin was released, but the experience of being arrested didn’t stop her from protesting; quite the opposite. She became a volunteer for Vietnam Veterans Against the War. She had ambitions to be a singer-songwriter, and was playing her guitar and performing at protests up and down the East Coast.
The following year, Robin caught bronchial pneumonia. At the same time, a childhood neck problem had flared up again, and she was scared; her breathing was constricted and it was causing her to black out. She had seen multiple doctors, but no one seemed to be able to help. On April 5, 1972, she called my mother to tell her she wasn’t getting any better. My mother told her to come home immediately, but Robin refused. She didn’t want to see our father; they weren’t speaking to each other. My mother was frantic: the rift between my father and Robin was tearing our family apart and endangering Robin’s health.
Right there on the phone, my mother came up with a plan to fix things. We were going to leave Long Island and move to France. Although she had no money of her own, a twelve-year-old daughter in her care, and no means of supporting herself, my mother decided this was the only solution. Jill and Robin would come, too. Grace would help us. My sisters and my mother would work there or get support from my father. And while in France, we could go to the holy shrine at Lourdes, where we could all be cured.
Although Grace and my mother kept in touch via letter and the occasional phone call, it had been more than a decade since my mother had last seen the princess. My mother didn’t wait to send a note to the palace or telephone to let Grace know we were coming. My father was away on business, so my mother simply seized the window of opportunity. The following day, on April 6, 1972, we went to the bank, where she withdrew three thousand dollars from our family bank account. Then we drove into Manhattan to have my name added to my mother’s passport. Jill stayed behind at the house on Long Island to finish the packing. She would meet us in the city the following day. Robin was going to take the train in from Philadelphia.
In Manhattan, my mother left our family car in a parking lot with a note pinned to the windshield for Malcolm to find there. We need prayer. We need a miracle. I have taken the girls and gone to Lourdes.
That night, my mother and I stayed at the Barbizon on the Upper East Side. I remember sitting on the bed and talking with my mother, looking out the window. She didn’t tell me this was the place she had stayed when she first came to New York. The following day, we went to buy tickets on an ocean liner bound for France; my mother didn’t want to fly because of Robin’s health issues. The plan was to meet Jill and Robin down at the docks later in the day, but at the last minute, we learned that Jill wouldn’t be joining us. My father had returned from his business trip just as Jill was trying to leave with our suitcases. He was refusing to let her go. This was bad news. Not only could my father potentially come into the city to try to stop us now, but Jill had my suitcase with her on Long Island.
I wasn’t going to have any of my clothes for France.
I remember my mother taking me to B. Altman’s department store on Thirty-fourth Street, where she said I could pick out a pair of pajamas so I would at least have something to sleep in. I chose a short-sleeved yellow pair, dotted with orange flowers, that buttoned down the front. We didn’t have time to purchase anything else. We needed to get to the docks as soon as we could.
Robin met us at the pier. She looked so beautiful, with her wide-set brown eyes and long light brown hair. She was wearing a white pantsuit, very fashionable at the time, which made me feel even worse about my lack of any clothing. I was twelve years old and going to live in France without any of my clothes or books. Robin must have sensed I was worried, because the minute she saw me she wrapped her arms around me.
“What do you think?” She grinned. “Ready for an adventure?
I nodded.
Truthfully, I didn’t feel ready. Everywhere I looked, there were people carrying suitcases, and I had nothing. I looked down at my little white peasant blouse and my striped woolen dirndl skirt that I’d been wearing since we left Long Island yesterday. I knew the kids at school were right: I looked like a baby. How can I meet Aunt Grace, I thought, when I don’t have a pretty dress to wear?
We joined the long line of passengers waiting to board the boat.
The SS Michelangelo had a
vast, windowless hull and giant funnels rising from its deck. We had a cabin with four bunks in tourist class, at the bottom of the boat. The walls were mint green, and there were no windows. At night, we had dinner in the dining hall. There were decanters of wine on every table, and I remember being impressed that even the young people were served wine with dinner. Robin explained it was the European way. I had a small sip of wine but didn’t like it. Every night we sat at the same table with the same people. I prayed they wouldn’t notice I was still wearing the same outfit: my white blouse and striped skirt. I remember feeling a constant and creeping sense of discomfort. Even at the best of times, it was hard for me to talk to people I didn’t know—I didn’t have any practice at it. When I wasn’t with Robin or on the deck with my mother, I read books from the ship’s library, curled up in the bottom bunk in the cabin.
Then one day, when we were getting ready to go for dinner, there was a knock on the door. We were being summoned to the purser’s office immediately. My mother had a phone call. The purser was standing outside his office in a hallway lined with glass cabinets holding ship’s instruments and official documents. He ushered us inside. I sat down near his desk, watching as he carefully positioned two speakers on the table. Then he pressed a button. The speakers began to crackle and hiss.
“Carolyn, it’s Malcolm.” I could hear my father’s voice through the interference. He sounded furious. “Carolyn, I need you to turn back. When you get to France, you need to turn around and come home, do you hear me?”
My mother looked horrified. She turned to the purser as if to say, How could you do this to me?
