Searching for Grace Kelly

by Michael Callahan

  He turned toward her, his whisper sleepy and impossibly seductive. “Hey, beautiful.”

  “Your mother?” Vivian whispered, pulling the top sheet tighter around her bare breasts. “You live with your mother?”

  “My parents,” he corrected. “Of course I do. Where else would I live?” He smiled, rose up on an elbow. “Now I gotta get ready for church. Wait here till we leave, then slip out the back door. Don’t go out the front. Mrs. Della Pietra next door, she sees everything.” He jumped out of the bed, naked except for his white T-shirt, and padded over to the highboy to retrieve a fresh pair of underwear and socks.

  He had the lean, sinewy build of a boy, one augmented in strategic places—the shoulders, the calves, the ass—by the attributes of a mature, muscular man. His skin was a tawny olive, topped by a fulsome mane of black hair that normally curved back from his forehead, though which now, as she watched him rummage through his sock drawer, flopped down into his eyes. He was suave, but strictly in the context of the street. There was something impossibly feral that enveloped him like a fog.

  She leaned back into the pillow, trying to decide what to do. Should she start getting dressed now, then perch herself on the end of the bed and wait for the proper clearance to escape the prying eyes of the nosy neighbor? What she wanted to do was laugh out loud and declare, in her drollest Kay Kendall, “I cannot believe that a man who is still living with and going to church with his parents managed to seduce me last night.”

  And yet he had. And that wasn’t entirely her fault, because it was not simply his physical attributes that had contributed to her decision. Nicola Accardi had become something of a regular at the Stork over the last few months, though his entrance was guaranteed not by his charms but rather the company he kept, a legion of burly, impeccably coiffed men in bespoke suits who were always given if not the best tables, then decent ones. He was clearly a man of some influence, though how he had come by it remained a mystery. He had flirted with her from the start, which wasn’t unusual from his sort, the dark and swarthys who were always employed in some vague and questionable business and answered any inquiries about same with Cheshire cat smiles and oily invitations to moonlit dinners. And he’d had money—a good deal of money—and wasn’t shy about throwing it around: drinks for that table over there, Cuban cigars for my friends over here, and so on. She had flirted back—she knew her strengths—but kept it at that. Getting involved with customers was a blatant no-no at the Stork; Mr. Billingsley had been known to fire girls for less. And she needed the job. But then Nicola had come last night, and after his entourage had left he’d stayed. And stayed. Until closing. Then after closing. Which, by her estimation, had been about five hours ago.

  The Stork had been quiet, the only sounds those of the mop on the dance floor and the dishwashers clitter-clattering plates in the back. Nicola had remained glued in his chair until she’d passed in front of him on her own way out, his hand shooting out from the table, grabbing her by the wrist.

  “Give us a song,” he said, smiling up at her.

  “What makes you think I sing?”

  “I’ve heard you. I know you sing here sometimes.”

  On occasion the boys in the band humored her, allowed her to sing a number after closing. Cesar, the trombonist, would pipe out a few notes, and then the pianist would kick in, and Vivian would slide behind the gleaming silver microphone and close her eyes and picture herself in front of a packed ballroom on a sultry Saturday night, wearing a strapless gown and gloves that snaked up past her elbows. And then, as she would belt out the first few bars of “Night and Day” or “Half as Much,” she was singing not for the old man swabbing the parquet floor, but for the ladies sitting erect in their best dresses and for the men in their suits, the ends of their cigarettes lit up like fireflies.

  She was a star.

  Vivian had looked around at the boys packing up. “Too late for a private concert, I’m afraid. The guys have almost all left. Besides,” she said, turning back to Nicola, “I’m exhausted.”

  He’d kept his hand firmly around her wrist. “You’re going back on your word.” He had something, sweetness spiked with a dash of danger.

  “How is it that I could have broken my word to a man I’ve never spoken to?”

  “You’ve spoken to me with your eyes.”

  She artfully shook her wrist free, bemused. “That has to be the worst line I have ever heard. Do women actually respond to this kind of drivel?”

  He threw his head back in laughter, and she liked it. “You’re makin’ me work here!”

  “Believe me, if you were working for me, love, you’d know it. Good night.”

  He jumped up from behind the table and blocked her path. He was tall—at least six three, possibly taller—and his eyes bore into her. “Please,” he said, arms extended. “Just one song. I’ve had a terrible night. Just sing something for me. One song. And you know,” he said, slowly rubbing her hand in his with his thumb, “I know all kinds of people. Including music people. Maybe I could introduce you.”

  She smiled. Intellectually she took it all for what it was, a well-rehearsed empty promise with undoubtedly no basis in reality. But he did keep interesting company. More than that, he kept wealthy company. And even if he was bullshitting her, what the hell, she was English—she had a soft spot for thespians. “One song,” she said. Cesar was still there, as was Joe, the pianist. Vivian tilted her head toward them. “And you’ll need to tip the boys.”

  He nodded, sat back down. A few minutes later she was in front of the mic, checking to make sure Mr. Billingsley wasn’t still around. The owner of the Stork, he was as famous as the patrons with whom he posed for the photographs that lined the walls. He would normally have already gone home, but sometimes he stayed in the back office to check on the night’s receipts.

  Joe tinkled the opening bars. Cesar softly joined in. Vivian sang.

  “Meet me tonight in dreamland

  Under the silvery moon

  Meet me tonight in dreamland

  Where love’s sweet roses bloom . . .”

  “Okay, Ruby. I’m going.”

  Vivian whirled around to see Nicola’s face come back into focus. His hair was slicked back again, and he was wearing his best Sunday clothes. She was still in his bed, the linens now twisted around her. She suddenly felt embarrassed. “Oh, all right, then,” she said.

  He leaned back, smiled. “Do you even know where you are?”

  “I’m going to say New York. Am I close?”

  “Bensonhurst,” he said. “Here’s a token for the subway. Just go up the block, make a left, go down two blocks and catch the D back to Manhattan.” He smiled, tousled her mop of red hair, and kissed her. “I’ll call you.”

  Laura was halfway down the steps of St. Thomas Chapel on East Sixtieth when she spied her across the street, casually leaning against the pole of the traffic light smoking a cigarette, wearing dark sunglasses and the fitted black dress she donned every night for work at the Stork.

  Laura nodded to a few of the other girls. “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up,” she said.

  The light turned and Vivian walked over, falling in step with her as they made their way behind the pack back toward the Barbizon three blocks away. Before Laura had a chance to say a word, Vivian piped up. “Don’t ask,” she said.

  “I don’t have to. You’re wearing the dress you went to work in last night. And you smell like a tobacco farm.”

  “I’m a cigarette girl, remember? Comes with the territory.”

  “It comes from staying out all night with God-Knows-Who.”

  “Now, don’t get all high and mighty, Miss Connecticut. We can’t all be good girls from the country. And wouldn’t life be boring if we were?”

  One of the girls ahead looked back, quickly turning to her two walking mates and laughing. “How did you even know where to find me?” Laura asked.

  “Where else would you be on Sunday morning if not the closest Episcopalian church
? It’s almost an annex of the Barbizon.” She peered up the block at the group in front of them. “Where’s Ethel?”

  Laura rolled her eyes. This was her own fault. She’d made the mistake of sharing a belief that Dolly would one day end up like Ethel Mertz, and Vivian had howled in laughter, yelling, “Perfect, bloody perfect!” Now she wouldn’t let it go. “You need to stop calling her that,” Laura said. “And to answer your question, she’s Catholic. She’s at St. Vincent Ferrer.”

  “Catholic? Oh, what a drag. I’d rather be a Druid. Though I must say, no one wears basic black better than the nuns. Always so drapey.”

  “Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . crazy. You talk like you’re in a movie opposite Cary Grant.”

  “Oh, don’t be so flinty,” Vivian said, hooking her arm through Laura’s as they made the turn onto Lexington. “I’ll tell you what, no one ever says, ‘Gee, I wonder what Vivian thinks.’ Because everyone always knows what Vivian thinks. I’m direct, perhaps to a fault, yes. But don’t you agree that we’d all be better off if everyone was a bit more direct, rather than less? Wouldn’t there be fewer problems, fewer misunderstandings? And I’ll tell you another thing: I’m fun. I may not be the prettiest girl in the room, or the smartest, or God knows the richest. But I am very likely to be the most fun. There’s merit in that.”

  “I’m sure whoever’s place you’re slinking back from would heartily agree.”

  Vivian laughed. “Oh, well done! See? That kind of reply shows you’re already becoming a writer. A comeback worthy of Noël Coward!” She turned her head sharply as they passed a small bakery. “Good God, those muffins smell heavenly.”

  “The least he could have done is fed you.”

  Glancing ahead, Vivian grabbed Laura by the hand. “Hurry, we need to catch up to the rest.”

  “Why?” Laura barked, holding her hat as they bolted across the street.

  “Why? Why do you think? We need to walk in all together, a nice group of girls returning from Sunday services.”

  Laura stopped dead on the sidewalk. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “I know you think you have this down to an art form, but you can’t honestly believe any of those women at the front desk are going to believe you went to church this morning dressed like that.”

  Vivian yanked her back into a brisk pace. “Still in mourning for my grandmother, for whom I dress in black every Sunday as a testament to my grief. At least that’s what I tell them.”

  “And they believe you?”

  “They’re bitter old women who live their lives through dime-store romance novels,” Vivian said as they caught up to the others, just as Oscar, the portly doorman, opened the entrance to the Barbizon. “You’d be amazed at what they believe.”

  FIVE

  The conservatory of the Barbizon was half full, good attendance for a summer Sunday. A girl with brittle shoulder-length hair fidgeted nervously at the front, occasionally dashing over to the pianist and flipping through pages, pointing to a particular chord or a key change she was mulling over. Every few seconds she looked anxiously to the door, willing more girls into the room.

  Laura scanned the conservatory and spotted Dolly in the second row, her arm moving in a slightly frantic windshield-wiper wave.

  “C’mon,” Laura said to Vivian, dawdling behind her.

  “Must we sit in the queen’s box?” Vivian asked as they sank down in two seats next to Dolly. Vivian was still wearing her enormous pair of dark oval sunglasses. “We’re not playing this concert, are we?”

  “You don’t have to stay,” Dolly said, shooting Laura a sideways glare. “This is really important to Ruth, and I want to show my support. And why are you wearing those absurd sunglasses?”

  “Sometimes a girl needs her privacy,” Vivian replied. “Only Elizabeth Taylor could understand.”

  Dolly looked back to Laura between them. “Is she for real?”

  “It appears so,” Laura said.

  “Believe me,” Vivian said, “I’d rather not be here, either.”

  “Then why are you?” Dolly asked.

  Vivian delivered her own sideways glance to Laura. “Blackmail.”

  Laura watched two more girls wander in, laughing. They took seats in the last row, where they began a spirited if hushed conversation that no doubt centered on some scoundrel they’d seen downstairs in the coffee shop. She thought of Box Barnes and his robust bouquet of roses, now stuffed into two Mason jars sitting on her night table.

  Dolly seemed to be reading her thoughts. She’d been obsessing about the flowers since the moment Laura had brought them upstairs, reading and rereading Box’s note as if deciphering the Rosetta stone. “Did Laura tell you she got flowers from Box Barnes?” she asked Vivian. “And not just any flowers: red roses.”

  Vivian slid her glasses down slightly. “Do tell.”

  “They came yesterday,” Dolly gushed. “We went down to the Village because Laura wanted to see some old bookstore, and I ditched, but then when she got home later”—she turned briefly to Laura—“Where were you all day, anyway?”—“well, she comes in and is carrying this big box of beautiful long-stem roses and a card that says he sent roses to every girl named Laura in the Barbizon because he didn’t know her last name, and he wanted to apologize.”

  Vivian was clearly curious, which excited Dolly. “My, my, such high drama, Xtabay,” she said, glancing admiringly at Laura. “Continue.”

  “Well, we met—well, we didn’t really meet him, we just saw him, well, really, Laura was the one who saw him, I mean, they made eye contact, in the coffee shop. Anyway, when we were at the Stork on Friday night, he ran right into Laura when she was coming out of the ladies’ lounge, and he put the moves on her—”

  “Dolly!” Laura interjected in an urgent whisper. “Please! He did not ‘put the moves’ on me. We had a brief unpleasant chat. That’s all.”

  Dolly waved her off. “It had to be more than that, though of course she won’t tell me any of the details. But a man like that does not send roses and an apology unless he really screwed up.”

  “This is fun,” Laura said. “It’s like I’m not here.”

  Vivian shook her head. “It’s always the New England girls.”

  Laura cocked an eye. “Pardon?”

  “Everyone thinks it’s the southern girls or—pardon—the British girls who are the natural Venus flytraps for men. But in my experience, which is not inconsiderable, it’s those steely New England roses who always manage to snag the most eligible men. There’s something to be said for being slightly aloof and forbidden.”

  “I am neither aloof nor forbidden.”

  “No, darling. You’re Grace Kelly.”

  “Oh my God, I loooooove her!” Dolly squealed. “Is it really true she lived here?”

  “Yes,” Vivian said. “In the late forties. While she was studying at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.”

  “Did you know her? And will you please take off those ridiculous glasses? It’s like talking to Mata Hari!”

  Vivian again lowered the glasses. “Crikey, Dolly! How old do you think I am? I’m not one of the Women. I’ve only lived here a few months.”

  “Grace Kelly is not a New Englander,” Laura interrupted.

  “But she has that sort of New England breeding and reserve,” Vivian argued. “It’s like she’s made of steel, yet the most lovely, beautiful steel ever crafted. There’s something always lingering just beneath the surface when you look at her—a sense of mystery and sex, of all the weapons one can use to be a truly compelling woman.”

  “I don’t associate Grace Kelly with sex,” Dolly said. “She’s just . . . gorgeous. And elegant. A lady. I will never forget that scene in Rear Window when she walks into Jimmy Stewart’s apartment wearing that fantastic green skirt suit.”

  “I love the scene where she comes in and finds Jimmy Stewart sleeping,” Laura said, “and the camera gets closer and closer, and he
r face gets bigger, and bigger, and it’s almost like she’s coming in to kiss the camera—”

  “Ethereal,” Vivian agreed.

  “It’s romantic,” Dolly said with a sigh. “But it’s not about sex.”

  “Well, it certainly was when she was living here.”

  Both Laura’s and Dolly’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” Laura asked.

  They were disrupted by Ruth at the front of the room, still fidgeting, but now clearing her throat and asking for everyone’s attention. She thanked them all for coming to this afternoon recital of selections from Rodgers and Hammerstein, announcing that for her first number she would be singing “Hello, Young Lovers” from The King and I.

  “Fitting,” Vivian said, patting Laura on the knee. “Perhaps she can dedicate it to you and Box.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Hold it!” Dolly whispered urgently. “You can’t leave us hanging like that! What about Grace?”

  “Oh, Grace, Grace, Grace.” Vivian sighed, theatrically putting her sunglasses back on. “Still the face of the Barbizon, six years later. Well, from what I’ve heard she was more Marilyn Monroe than Grace Kelly back then. She had many gentlemen calling, and she knew where to hide them.”

  Dolly looked positively stunned. “No!”

  “Oh, yes. There is a very often-told legend that one night she actually came out of her room and did the Dance of the Seven Veils in the hallway. I wish I could have seen Metzger’s face for that. She was far more, shall we say, ‘high-spirited’ than the movie magazines would have you believe.”

  “She was engaged to Oleg Cassini, which I do not understand,” Dolly said. “He’s awful!”

  “He’s rich, darling,” Vivian said. “You’ll come to appreciate that.”

  “And this is who you’re comparing me to,” Laura said, “a girl who snuck men all around the Barbizon and did the Dance of the Seven Veils and then hid it all behind some veneer of cold respectability? This is how you see me?”