Searching for Grace Kelly

by Michael Callahan

  “A gauntlet thrown down if ever there was. I’m amazed you managed to get her invited to a party thrown by Box Barnes’s parents.”

  It hadn’t been easy. It was one thing to get Box to advocate for Vivian singing—Vivian was a singer by trade, or at least by aspiration, and the Barbizon had enough of a reputation for housing starlets that after she’d sung for Box earlier in the week, it hadn’t taken all that much to get his parents to accept his recommendation and agree. Dolly was another story. But as soon as Laura had confirmed Vivian had the singing job, she’d known she had to find some way to get Dolly into the party. It would have killed Dolly not to come. And like most of the girls in the hotel, she was still mourning James Dean, killed in that awful car crash.

  Though she had seemed noticeably brighter since things with the mysterious Jack were finally progressing. Dolly had relayed the story of their subway kiss as if it were the greatest love story ever told.

  Vivian, too, seemed a bit lighter. Laura had been meaning to talk to her, find out what had been bothering her. Now here they were, alone. “We had to come up with a tiny white lie,” Laura said. “Box told his parents that Dolly is my roommate—from Smith. And that we had this visit planned ages ago, so would it be okay if I brought her. So as long as no one else from Smith shows up and starts quizzing Dolly about Mountain Day or Paradise Pond, we should be all right.” She drifted back over to the bureau, dropping lipstick and mints into her clutch. “And you?” she asked, a bit too airily, “how are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you.” Even with her back to her, Laura could feel Vivian’s eyes on her, wary, alert. Vivian was not the kind of girl you could glean information from through polite chitchat. It was direct or nothing.

  Laura sat down on the bed next to her. “Vivian, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course. Someone has to guide you through these delicate years of your burgeoning womanhood.”

  “Come on, I’m serious. I consider you a friend, a good friend. I hope you consider me one, too. We haven’t known one another long, but I care about you. If there’s ever anything you need to talk about or are worried about, I hope you feel you could tell me.”

  She looked into Vivian’s face, pleading for an opening. These past weeks had been confusing—at times Vivian would pipe up with her snappy British comebacks; during others, she would appear completely shut down, either walking by distractedly in the lobby or vanishing from view for days, not answering knocks to her door. Looking at her now Laura could see a glimmer of something, a small chip in Vivian’s always-stunning façade, and yearned for a gap that would become wider, so she might discover what was really going on underneath. She could almost hear Vivian internally arguing: How much do I trust this girl?

  “Well, truth be told—”

  “Ta-da!!!” Dolly yelled as she burst through the apartment door. “Dolores, the Countess de Barbizon, will now receive her subjects!”

  It was the happiest Laura had ever seen her. Dolly practically shimmered in her loaned Charles James gown, which featured a relaxed bodice draped with gray chiffon, overlaid with delicate lace that wrapped at the hips and was secured with a pearl fastener before blossoming out into a full ball skirt that tickled the ankle. Vivian walked over to her, delivering a tender side hug. “Breathtaking, my dear. I knew you had it in you.”

  Vivian flung her wrap over her shoulder and headed for the door. She was going to catch a quick smoke and would meet them outside.

  Franklin and Topsy Barnes—her real name was Millicent, though everyone in New York, including its best society columnists, called her Topsy, because that was what rich old moneyed people did, they came up with ludicrous nicknames—stood in the foyer of their grand Park Avenue penthouse as if they were an ambassador and his wife, welcoming guests to their first state dinner. Box’s father was stocky, with a bright, flushed complexion the color of Pepto-Bismol, appearing the way that English lords did in Revolutionary War paintings. Topsy was more serene, her face all sharp angles and taut lines. She was the kind of woman people called handsome.

  “Mother, Dad, I’d like you to meet Laura Dixon,” Box said in introduction, as Laura extended her hand. “And this is her visiting friend, Dolores Hickey.”

  “I’m just so honored to be here,” Dolly gushed, instantly feeling like she already sounded like an imbecile and thinking, How am I going to get through this whole party without sounding like someone who doesn’t belong here?

  Laura had wanted to bring a gift, but Box had steadfastly forbidden it—evidently bringing gifts to the affluent was a social error of the highest order, a notice that Marmy had evidently never received. Just last year her mother had thrown herself a birthday brunch and not only expected but fully encouraged beautifully wrapped presents.

  “So this is the young lady we’ve been hearing about,” Franklin said.

  “And reading about,” added Topsy, with a petrified smile that threatened to snap her face in half. Thus began a series of quick peppery questions, ranging from Laura’s collegiate status (“Oh, I see,” was all Topsy managed upon hearing of Laura’s semester deferment) to her debutante ball to her parents’ biographies. When the quiz progressed to the location of Aunt Marjorie’s house on Nantucket, Box said, “Lots of people left to greet, Mother, don’t want to monopolize you,” and swept Laura and Dolly into the grandeur of the Barneses’ apartment.

  The room glittered with the flickering of a hundred tapered candles. The buffet featured duck à l’orange, rare roast beef with a creamy horseradish sauce, goose with chestnut stuffing, and shrimp and crab étouffée, a banquet fit for the Ghost of Christmas Present. Laura sipped a gin fizz as two men next to her argued about whether Ike had really suffered a heart attack in Denver last month, and whether his administration was covering it up. “Nobody wants Dick Nixon in the White House, that’s for sure,” one of them was saying.

  A little while later Topsy Barnes reappeared, putting a gentle arm around Box. “My dear,” she said to Laura, “would you mind if his mother stole Benjamin away for just a moment?”

  “No, of course,” Laura said, and wandered off to find Dolly.

  Box’s eyes remained straight ahead. “Don’t start, Mother. Please.”

  “On the contrary,” Topsy said, deftly plucking a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter, “I wanted to congratulate you. She’s exquisite.”

  Box took a swig of bourbon. “You’ve left off the last half of that sentence: ‘. . . as opposed to that last tart you were seeing.’”

  “Now, now, dear, it’s our anniversary party. Let’s be cordial, shall we? But I will say, this one is a vast improvement. A Greenwich debutante who attends Smith.”

  Box spied Laura across the room. “She makes me want to be a better person.”

  “Do you love her?”

  Box eyed her evenly. “Since when do you care about whom I love?”

  “Your father and I only want your happiness, Bennie.”

  “My father and you want to make sure that your money stays where you can control it.”

  Topsy delivered a short, brittle laugh, the kind perfected through years of charity golf outings and opera galas. She leaned over and kissed Box on the cheek before drifting back into the midst of her fine party.

  It was an hour and many introductions later—to a Broadway actress, to the vice president of Macy’s, to a congressman—when Laura found Dolly, now standing in a corner, delicately navigating a stuffed olive into her mouth. “How do fancy people eat?” Dolly asked. “Seriously! This is like trial by fire, to see who can eat the sloppiest food and stay the neatest. And another thing: All of this food is nothing but cream and butter! How do these women all stay so thin?”

  “Cigarettes, scotch, and diuretics,” Laura answered.

  “Wait. Box is making an announcement.”

  Box was standing in front of the twelve-piece orchestra, welcoming guests. With his sister by his side, he gave a brief but loving toast to his parents, c
ulminating in the assemblage raising glasses to assorted Here-heres! “As a special treat,” he continued, “I’d like you all to welcome a very special guest we have with us tonight, one of the fastest-rising stars in New York’s musical scene. Ladies and gentleman, I give you the stylings of the lovely Vivian Windsor.”

  Dolly slipped her hand into Laura’s, and like proud parents they watched from the back as Vivian walked behind the silver microphone amid polite applause. I love him for doing this, Laura thought.

  Or maybe I just love him.

  As Vivian sang her voice became more tremulous, clear and beautiful in its convincing desperation and longing.

  “There’s a somebody I’m longing to see

  I hope that he turns out to be . . .”

  “Someone to watch over me. How about it?” a voice whispered in Laura’s ear; Box, reaching an arm around her waist. Delicately drinking her punch, Dolly tried not to sneak peeks and was thoroughly unsuccessful.

  “How about what?” Laura asked.

  “Someone to watch over you.”

  “Are you volunteering for the job?”

  “Are you accepting applications?”

  They laughed, and he took her hand. “C’mon. Let’s get some air.”

  “The orchestra is right by the terrace door.”

  “I am a man of many methods. C’mon.”

  Laura was about to protest—she didn’t want Vivian to watch her dashing out in the middle of her set—but Dolly’s wild shooing motions and urgent mouthing of Go, go! finally made her relent.

  They slipped out of the front door and hustled down the hall, walking past the elevators to the stairwell. A minute later they were on the roof, which to Laura’s surprise had been landscaped with huge stone urns and patio chairs and tables, and had clearly been used for summer entertaining. Laura turned to see New York laid out before her like a magic carpet, Central Park on the right, the twinkling lights of the Plaza to the left. She gathered her wrap around her. “It’s beautiful up here.”

  “So are you,” he said, folding her into his arms and kissing her.

  “You’re always surprising me,” she said.

  “The roof can be an oasis. It can take you away. Out of yourself.”

  “It’s like To Catch a Thief. Only we’re in New York instead of Monte Carlo.” They’d seen it last month. She nuzzled her head into his chest.

  “You’re still chasing Grace Kelly.”

  “I’m lucky this isn’t seven years ago. Or you’d be standing up here with her and not me.”

  “I could stand here with you forever, Laura.”

  She looked at him, her eyes shining. The pale moonlight washed over the roof, gave it the feeling of standing inside a painting. “I can’t imagine anyone ever saying anything lovelier to me.”

  “I’d like to try,” he whispered. He stepped back and in one swift motion dropped to his knee, gazing up at her. “I love you, Laura Dixon. And I don’t want to ever have to imagine my life without you. Will you marry me?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Vivian stepped off the number 5 train, avoiding eye contact with anyone, hidden beneath her head scarf and sunglasses. The calendar said late October but the weather said deep winter, and there was a kind of camaraderie wrought by the unseasonable cold that seemed to spread among the passengers as they scrambled up the steps onto the street, bundling against the headwinds as they dispersed.

  Vivian didn’t feel it. Not the cold, not the wind, not anything. What she needed was focus. Fretting about the weather was a distraction she could ill afford. At least the day was finally here. She would take care of this, bolt-cut this final shackle to Nicky, and move on. She had enough money to get out of New York—maybe not that far, but at least far enough where he wouldn’t find her. She would book bus fare to somewhere in the Midwest—somewhere nondescript, anonymous—and would get a room, get a job, hide. She’d start over. Wasn’t that her expertise by now, reinvention? Kansas City—that sounded suitably awful. Or perhaps Wichita. At least that had a certain scratchiness to it, like an old saloon town. She would spend a year keeping her head down and her savings up, until she had enough to get all the way to L.A. Anything could happen to you, or for you, in Hollywood.

  Vivian separated from the other riders, looking at the directions she’d managed to scribble from the street map. A few more blocks straight ahead, then a left, then a quick right. She picked up the pace. She was early, but in a situation like this it never hurt to be too early.

  I need a cigarette.

  She leaned against the pole of a traffic light, her hands shaky as she flicked the lighter to life and inhaled a long, slow drag. A woman pushing a stroller was approaching. She looked tired. Her hair was an ashy blond, and she wore an open heavy wool coat thrown over a summer blouse and cigarette pants. She was pushing the stroller with her left hand and holding the hand of a little girl of about four in her right, yanking the child like a rag doll every time she dared to dawdle.

  The girl suddenly ripped free of her mother and dashed to retrieve a perfect crisp leaf under a nearby oak tree. “Look, Mommy! Can we put this in my book?”

  “Deborah Elaine Marks! You come back over here right now!”

  Undaunted, the girl skipped over and held up the leaf to show her mother, as if she were presenting a priceless piece of art.

  The mother slapped the leaf out of her hand and grabbed her wrist. The girl dissolved into tears of protest.

  “Oh, I’ll give you something to cry about, missy,” the mother barked. Vivian stood, her mind going back to a moment at Franklin and Topsy Barnes’s party. Later in the evening a gentleman had approached her, introduced himself. He was chairing a gala at his country club out in Westchester, he said. Might she be available to sing? In May.

  Vivian stamped out the cigarette butt and pulled her coat around her, began walking again.

  At first she thought she had the wrong place. Then she saw the sign, barely discernible from the sidewalk, with its tiny letters: PRIVATE OFFICE. For the first time today, she wished she hadn’t come alone. She’d almost told Laura the truth, asked her to come—what if something went wrong? But it was better this way. Better not to involve anyone else. This was her mess.

  She took a deep breath and buzzed the intercom. It crackled to life. “Hallo. I have an appointment to see Mrs. Hutchins.”

  The door opened, and she gasped.

  “Hello, Ruby,” Nicola Accardi said, his dark eyes slicing into her. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

  The question popped out at Laura on every corner, in every stoplight, in the face of every passerby she saw as she stared out of the window of the taxicab:

  What are you going to do?

  Dolly sat on the other side, chattering on about one of the many dramas playing inside the Barbizon. Laura didn’t hear a word. She kept staring out the window, through the blur of folks hurrying along Fifth Avenue, for an answer. Box’s proposal had been romantic and impulsive, but also sudden. As a young girl, she had often daydreamed of her marriage proposal, of sitting in a tree swing somewhere in a park after a lovely picnic lunch and having her great love fall to his knee, ring box in hand, and pledge his undying troth. As the years passed, the proposal changed—sometimes it was on the beach, sometimes in the corner booth of a swanky restaurant—but there was always one constant: She knew it was coming.

  Even now, she couldn’t remember specifically how she had responded after he’d asked. He’d been hurt, she could tell, that she hadn’t instantly fallen into his arms, ready to go back to the party and make the grand announcement. Eventually she’d managed to explain that she was simply out of breath; that she needed time to really think about it; that, yes, she cared deeply for him; yes, of course she had thought about marrying him; and yes, she thought he was the moon and a thousand stars. But she was practical. He hadn’t even met her parents, and they had a lot to discuss before they could be sure it was the right thing to do: How soon would he want to start a fam
ily? Would she go back to Smith? Would she have to quit Mademoiselle? And this way he, too, could have the time to be absolutely sure. And, she’d said with a smile, at least go shopping for a ring.

  Two weeks later, she was as confused as ever.

  You do love him, she thought. You know you do.

  What was holding her back? He was the prince of the city. So why couldn’t she silence this little voice, deep inside, asking, “Are you sure?”

  “You’re not listening to a word I’ve said!” Dolly said in exasperation, smacking her arm. “Where are you, anyway? It’s like you’re in outer space these days!”

  “Sorry. I’m a bit preoccupied.” She’d told no one. She most certainly was not going to tell Marmy until she absolutely had to. She didn’t need any more clutter inside her head. But what was this constant ruminating getting her? She had to tell someone.

  “Actually,” she confided, “I’ve been keeping a secret.”

  If there was anything that got Dolly more excited than having a secret, it was hearing one. Her eyes lit up like firecrackers. “What?”

  Laura said it casually, the way you might tell someone you were going shopping tomorrow. “Box asked me to marry him.”

  It went the way Laura expected: Dolly’s jaw dropping, eyes ballooning, mouth inhaling, hands flying to her face, then grabbing onto Laura’s forearm like a wrench with a lug nut. “Far-out! I am so thrilled for you!!” She almost leapt across the back of the cab, crushing Laura in a bear hug. The cabbie gave a glance in the rearview.

  Then: How did he propose? When? When were they getting married? In New York or out on the Cape? Was her mother ecstatic? Where would they live? Had they talked about children? When was the Times announcement going to be published? Did Vivian know? Would it be in Town & Country?