45
QUEEN CEECEE
Harlem, 1943
Gate Number 6 discreetly but boldly proclaimed, “PRIVATE ROAD—walk your horses.” CeeCee always got a kick out of it when she passed through the stately gated entrance on elegant and private Strivers’ Row, considered by many to be the Fifth Avenue of Harlem. Her newly purchased yellow-and-tan Federal Renaissance–style brownstone near 139th Street was home to the rising African American elite, such as Bill “Bojangles” Robinson and soon-to-be Congressman Adam Clayton Powell Jr. However, she was the only woman owner in the mix. It was interesting and poignant to all the residents that when the homes were built in the late 1800s there was a refusal to sell to blacks. It made CeeCee savor her elegant and prestigious address as much as Josephine did when she overcame the opposition from those living on Fifth Avenue. CeeCee rushed home after work each night, frantic to see her baby, Layla. And yet she knew that through her sacrifice, hard work, and business acumen, Layla Lopez was going to have a different sort of life from her mother’s. She walked past the artfully designed wrought-iron railings and entered the brownstone.
“Gardenia, I’m home,” she called out as she hung her steel-grey Persian lamb coat on the coatrack, placed her briefcase on the console, and ran upstairs to little Layla’s room. The heavenly smell of freshly baking biscuits seemed the ultimate perfume.
“Now you go and wash your hands, you hear?” Gardenia Ray Gordon commanded at the sight of CeeCee, blocking the crib like a linebacker with her huge frame. She wiped her hands on her white lace apron and shook her head. She was used to young mothers barging in, and she was having none of their citified germs. CeeCee waved to little Layla in her crib and without dissent or a contrary word dutifully went into the bathroom and scrubbed her hands with the French milled lavender Herz soap as Gardenia had insisted. Gardenia had been the fifth woman who applied for the baby nurse job, and the moment she walked into her home, with her jaunty black velvet hat and wide sunny smile, CeeCee knew she ruled the roost. Gardenia offered a verbal résumé: she had raised scores of children in her career as a baby nurse, nanny, and housekeeper and knew every home remedy, from the varying teas with just the right amount of brown sugar to get the baby calmed and cooing, to the preparation of freshly mashed baby food. Her duties also included cooking late-night meals for the working mother, since she needed her strength to pay the bills. Her honey-dipped fried chicken and smothered steak were second to none, and some of her neighbors conveniently dropped by to see Layla at dinnertime in hidden hopes of being offered a stray drumstick or a side plate of mashed potatoes hand-whipped with farm-fresh butter and heavy cream with piping hot biscuits. Gardenia was a commanding force, with a boisterous laugh and large, capable, loving arms to hold Layla. Best of all, when CeeCee was at work she never worried about her daughter, knowing that the churchgoing Gardenia would have the best solution to anything that might happen.
The painful day that Mickey’s elopement was announced in Winchell’s column, CeeCee made a pledge that from then on she was going to focus on work and raising her child. She had little interest in being distracted by disappointing men and their foolishness. Her promise to herself and her unborn child was that she was going to work harder and longer than ever before. Josephine was duly impressed and found her more determined and strong-willed about building her business, given her existing new product responsibilities for the Herz Beauty brand. After her first week back, CeeCee requested an in-person meeting with Josephine, as she truly respected her acute and probing business mind in a way she never had with Constance.
CeeCee walked into Josephine’s office with a pen and a pad to take notes. She knew she was in the presence of an entrepreneurial genius and was grateful. Josephine was as thoughtful as she was tactical and asked pointed questions about black women, their specific needs and desires. She was a sponge, eager to know and share. Since sisterhood and community played such an important role in the brand, they decided to build Queen CeeCee the way Constance had built Gardiner: with a door-to-door sales force, giving women in her community the ability and opportunity to earn money by becoming ambassadors called “CC Princesses.” Josephine thought this was a marvelous idea. The starter kits alone would guarantee significant revenue over time. CeeCee gave her an update on the program now in place. Earlier that year, she had needed someone to run the newly formed CC Princess program and had turned to her cousin Rudy’s wife, Lorene. A pretty and vivacious girl from South Carolina, Lorene had been a featured singer in Cab Calloway’s orchestra, but when Lorene and Rudy had twin boys, she knew life on the Chitlin’ Circuit was not for a young mother and made the difficult decision to retire. However, like CeeCee, Lorene had tasted freedom, and the idea of being just a stay-at-home mother after a glamorous but difficult career on the road held limited appeal. When CeeCee spoke to her about the idea of running the franchise division, she jumped at the chance. After all, Queen CeeCee was already profitable, with CeeCee herself having put in place a network of small but influential black-owned salons whose customers were wowed by her product. With the backing of Herz manufacturing and the scale of their buying power, Queen CeeCee’s Hair Relaxer used the highest-quality oils and shea butters for moisturizing the scalp and taming the curl. All had instant results and none of the harsh, drying elements that had been used in inferior local products before. Since she also had the experience of running and building the Gardiner Girls program, CeeCee implemented many of the basic, hardworking concepts that had proven successful. Josephine loved the idea of building a brand for outsiders; she decided to invest in the concept and took pride in mentoring CeeCee.
CeeCee also wanted to better the lives of those women who had little opportunity for advancement. If someone became a CC Princess, she would receive training and a starter kit. The starter kit cost $10, but if a woman could not afford the kit’s down payment, CeeCee offered to loan her the money. Josephine loved the idea so much, she funded the loan program personally and was satisfied to be paid back eventually through revenue sharing. Additionally, CeeCee pioneered the concept of a member making commissions on their own sales and also based on recruiting other women into the network and receiving a percentage of their overall sales. It was a forward-looking idea that would eventually position Queen CeeCee as one of the first modern multilevel marketing companies where non-salaried employees could make money through direct selling, and commissions on recruitment of new representatives. Top winners in revenue would also receive prizes, starting with a raccoon coat to a customized Ford coupe. With these generous incentives, women in the community clamored to become a CC Princess. Lorene would interview the candidates, and only the very best would be admitted to the program.
Working with Lorene was a joy. From the start, she also brought her own ideas to the table. For instance, she felt that CC Princesses should wear hats and gloves and be the ultimate ladylike ambassadors. She created a manual that stressed hygiene, cleanliness, and good manners, all important to fostering self-esteem and a respectable public image. Soon there were twelve CC Princesses operating in different regions, going door-to-door to local black-owned salons that were central to the community. These salons provided a place where hardworking women could gather socially as well as help one another with their hair care needs. Constance may have thought these ethnically diverse customers were beneath her, but Josephine saw an opportunity for both sales and female empowerment. Within the year Queen CeeCee was bringing in more than $150,000 in revenue. Following the birth of Layla, and in appreciation of her product’s robust sales, Josephine surprised CeeCee with a large raise and bonus, which allowed her to purchase the Strivers’ Row town house and hire Gardenia full-time. CeeCee Lopez was on the rise as Harlem’s leading female businesswoman, inspiring those around her. Word quickly spread, and well-meaning friends and neighbors tried to set her up on dates with eligible men. She soon became tired of being approached on all sides by some of Harlem’s most handsome and dashing bachelors. Each was smoother
than the next, with compliments that rolled off the tongue like pearls and a keen interest in her business and especially her revenue. She knew such men represented a time-consuming and fruitless diversion, a waste of energy, each and every one of them eventually disappointing her or trying to get her under their thumb. Whatever the approach, from smooth come-on lines to persistent calls, CeeCee Lopez was having none of it. For now she enjoyed being queen of her castle. One without a king.
46
THE SANDBOX
New York City, 1944
Despite the social annoyance and idle chatter about Van and Lally’s union, or even just the idea of it, Constance had to admit she was far happier than she had ever been. Her former husband, she thought, had actually done her a huge favor. She no longer had to tolerate living or spending time with an unattractive bore and his circle of entitled and arrogant friends she’d had to pretend to like. Now, she could come and go as she pleased, without having to make lame excuses. The luxury of the silence she preferred at home allowed her to fully dedicate herself to her one true passion: her business. She also had to admit that although divorced, she was still technically Mrs. Wyke, and there was no doubt the family name still held sway in some circles and came in handy whether it was related to banking relationships or her son’s education. All in all, it was quite tidy, and she liked everything tidy and ordered. If she ever was in need of an appropriate male escort for a black-tie or cultural event, her brother, James, was always on hand and a dapper date. Charming and sophisticated, he had grown into his role as an event planner at Gardiner, and he was certainly a more engaging and witty dinner companion than Van. He had found a pale young ex–Broadway dancer, Gregg Stephens, who after a knee injury now worked in an antiques store, whom he occasionally brought around. Constance was glad about it. He seemed to have finally settled down after two more unfortunate brushes with the vice squad. These errors of judgment had cost her time, money, and embarrassment, and she had finally put her foot down, telling him that he needed some stability, with someone. Anyone.
Gregg, a slight but muscular and ghostly pale ash blond from Richmond, Virginia, seemed to be a suitable solution, and although somewhat bland and nondescript, he was always pleasant, available as an extra man for a seated dinner or for helping with the tree trimming at Christmastime. “The relationship doesn’t have to be all-consuming,” she advised James, “just convenient and efficient.” She always stressed the word “tidy.” “Tidy it up, James,” she would counsel.
For her part, Constance had spent the latter part of the year totally alone, just attending a gala or seated dinner now and then. She found many of these evenings tedious but knew it was important to be around the right people and accepted the important ones. Then, while in Los Angeles for the Santa Anita Handicap, she stepped outside her carefully orchestrated comfort zone. She was at the races when she accepted a casual invitation to afternoon tea at the home of the well-known poet and author Mercedes de Acosta, who was rumored to be the lover of the bisexual Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo. She had heard the rumors, of course, over the years that this was Hollywood’s discreet and elite lesbian circle, dubbed “the sewing circle,” but she had always declined the invitations to these events when she was in town with Van and his set. Now, with him out of the picture and remarried, and herself fairly autonomous in Los Angeles, she decided to take the risk and the plunge. Mercedes was another like-minded woman ahead of her time, and her ideas were as revolutionary as Constance’s. Rumored to have been the lover of Isadora Duncan and Alla Nazimova after her divorce, she toyed with Hinduism, became a vegetarian, and refused to wear fur out of respect for animals. Her gatherings at her Spanish-style home off Sunset Boulevard was a mix of the most free-thinking women of their time, and Constance immediately felt at ease with the eclectic mix of actresses, authors, and writers. The women were welcoming without being overly forward, and she knew she could hold her own as one of the world’s foremost female entrepreneurs. Her New York status and tall, lean blond good looks also made her an attractive addition to the Sunday afternoon high teas.
The day was warm but breezy as she lounged by the Mexican-tiled pool sipping a Lillet, adjusting her sunglasses, and toying with her gold charm bracelet. She had walked into the gathering alone and made her way to an outdoor lounge chair to take in some sun and her surroundings. A younger blond actress made polite conversation from the opposite chair, but Constance found her flighty and annoying. She casually dismissed her when a woman with a Hepburn persona caught her eye. She was having an animated conversation, debating the women’s rights movement. “When I first moved to L.A., I sometimes put ‘Marvin Rollins’ on the script because when they saw ‘Marilyn’ they offered me a quarter of the price,” she said, the color rising to her cheeks. “When I got my first agent he just advised me to put ‘M. Rollins’ since he didn’t want me lying. So that is why I sign everything ‘M. Rollins.’” The other women shook their heads in a knowing fashion, understanding the gender and pay inequality they all had to deal with.
Marilyn Rollins was neither shy nor retiring and may not have been traditional, but she always had an opinion and a stinging bon mot on hand and did not tolerate fools lightly. An established playwright and screenwriter, she was exactly the kind of woman Constance liked and admired. Tall, lanky, and striking, a Columbia University–educated tomboy like herself, she smoked, cursed, drank, and shot, and she wore trousers and spectator shoes without socks, which highlighted her long, shapely legs and high, slim waist. Although quite attractive without being beautiful, she never gave a moment’s thought to her short-cropped auburn hair and had an innate intelligence and lovely hazel eyes that were both tough and vulnerable, condescending and sparkling. She eschewed makeup, which was also somewhat amusing to Constance. And then as Marilyn passed by her lounge chair on the way for a refill of tea with a splash of whiskey, Constance raised her sunglasses.
“I have some advice for you.” Constance smiled.
“I usually don’t take advice from blondes,” she quipped. “Only caresses.” She put her hand on the hip of her cream trousers and scratched her upturned nose.” I know who you are, though, Constance Gardiner. I’ll take advice from you, Miss Makeup. Shoot,” Marilyn dared her. Constance stood.
“I overheard your conversation,” Constance started, and Marilyn lit her cigarette.
“I was having it for your benefit.” She inhaled.
“That’s nice to hear.”
“Your advice?” She motioned. “Time is money.”
“Start your own production company. M. Rollins Productions. Just like I did when I started Gardiner Cosmetics. You’ll command more money when you’re incorporated.”
“You’re not really blond, are you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because your advice is too good. Can we continue this over dinner at the Brown Derby? I’m dying for some corned-beef hash.” She led Constance by the elbow, to knowing and appreciative glances. Marilyn and Constance. Formidable! the other women thought. An early dinner led to drinks and dessert at an out-of-the-way French bistro, which led to a visit to Marilyn’s cottage in Santa Monica and then her bed for an active round of energetic lovemaking. Aside from their vastly differing views on politics, since Constance was a card-carrying Republican and Marilyn’s views were more Marxist, Marilyn was her perfect ideal, smart, sassy, clever, and enigmatic. They made an immediate pact not to talk about politics since it would only lead to trouble. Best of all, she wasn’t demanding. In fact, over the next few weeks, Marilyn wasn’t around long enough to become annoying, always back and forth between the lot in L.A. and Broadway in New York, where she was writing the book for a new musical. It was a lovely and mature friendship, with occasional and heated acrobatics and very few strings attached. It was functional and serviceable, just the way Constance loved to compartmentalize her time. And just when she needed a fix, Marilyn seemed to call. And then disappear and then call. Disappear and call. Back in New York, Maril
yn had just called: she was in town for rehearsals and extended an invitation to spend time with her for a long weekend at Tallulah Bankhead’s weekend house in Pennsylvania. Constance had paused but had been more excited by the invitation than she wanted to admit, admiring the avant-garde stage and film star whom she had seen in her tour de force The Little Foxes on Broadway and who was known for her bawdy sense of humor and outrageous off-screen antics. Bankhead was the epitome of glamour, portraying society bad girls to great advantage, and Constance was a moth to the flame. She canceled a Friday afternoon products meeting and had her driver navigate the back roads to rural Pennsylvania.
“Dahling!” Tallulah met her at the door with her legendary husky voice and a ready martini straight up. “Welcome to Bankheads, where every woman is a man … and every man a woman.”
Constance was giddy at the risqué crowd and spied Marilyn across the room, who looked striking in a snug double-breasted man-tailored suit. Marilyn walked toward Constance with a bright smile and tried to kiss her on the lips but received her cheek as she turned away.
“Don’t worry, Gardiner. Everyone here is queer … or wants to be.”
“Ah, the two lovebirds.” Tallulah raised an eyebrow. “You know, dahling, I’m from a long line of Dem-o-cratic senators in Alabama and cannot abide the Commies. But I forgive Marilyn her politics because she’s not really red down there, she’s pink.” She emitted a throaty laugh.
“Opposites attract, apparently. I never tolerated Republicans before, let alone fucked them,” Marilyn shot back.
Constance pursed her lips. “I don’t approve of this kind of talk.”
“Then call back your driver, dahling. Bankheads is all about trash talking. It’s not only encouraged but expected.” Tallulah rolled her eyes.
Rouge Page 24
