Searching for Grace Kelly (27 page)

“You're cold,” he said. “Here, take my jacket.”

“Oh, no. I don't want to do that. Let's try this.” She nuzzled close to him, leaning her body into his, simultaneously placing his right arm over her shoulder as she slipped her left around his waist. “Oh, that's better. Good and toasty.”

They'd walked a good block when he turned to her and said, “This is nice, walking with you like this.”

Dolly smiled, careful not to smile too much, saying nothing, as inside her brain exploded:
Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!!

It was absurd to be this happy, over a guy whom she had technically been dating for months, for the simple act of him finally showing some affection. Affection she'd had to manipulate into existence. She was just as thrilled to push that thought right out of her head, to simply luxuriate in what was happening between them right now. No matter what else, no one could take this away from her, this moment on First Avenue, strolling uptown with the guy she was crazy about, the guy who was dating her, not any other girl at the Barbizon, the guy who had his arm draped around her for all the world to see, declaring,
This is my girl
.

When they reached Union Square, he said, “We should probably catch the subway from here,” because, after all, they weren't going to walk all the way up to East Sixty-Third Street, no matter how lovely an evening it was, even though she would have walked up all the way to East Sixty-Third Street, and probably 163rd Street, if it meant pouring even more into this memory that wasn't yet a memory.

She looked around, searching for a place for the next move. Did she really want to risk completely ruining Part Warm-Up to instigate Part Brazen? Maybe she should take what she'd gotten, save the rest for another day.

No, that's not what we agreed to
, Dolly told herself, wondering if other people talked to themselves in the plural.
We said we were going to implement the Plan, and we are going to implement the Plan. Don't chicken out now
.

She looked around as they descended the subway steps. She could hear people on the platform below, but took a quick glance behind her and saw no one else following them down.

Now.

In a lightning-quick motion, she took hold of his arm, turning him around on the step below her midway down the stairs. He looked at her with both expectancy and slight bemusement, as if he thought she was going to say something very important and he needed to pay attention carefully. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“I . . . nothing. I—”

She grabbed his face with both hands, pulled it forcefully to her own, and kissed him, boldly, passionately, hungrily, like Jane Wyman after she discovered Rock Hudson's true identity in
Magnificent Obsession
. She darted her tongue into his mouth, kept her hands around his head like a vise. And as he responded, returning the ferocity of the kiss and pulling her into an embrace so snug her left foot lifted off the step, she thought she might just pass out, right there on the subway staircase, and realized if she did and cracked her head and bled out all over the platform, she wouldn't care, because it would have been worth it.

The sound of footsteps behind them broke them apart. A pair of smirking teenage boys threaded their way past. Jack looked into her eyes and broke out into a grin that came and then went, his eyes admiring but slightly scared. What did it matter? She'd spent enough time trying to read the tea leaves of his heart. She wouldn't anymore. The moment may have been over, but it was hers and only hers. She would preserve it no matter what.

She grabbed his hand. “Let's go. I hear the subway coming!”

They scrambled onto the uptown number 6 train just as the doors closed, Dolly already reconstructing how she would relay the entire story to Laura, detail by delicious detail.

“Well, don't you look posh?” Vivian said as she entered Laura's room. Laura stood in front of the dresser, screwing on her earrings.

“Thanks,” she said. “Though I would give my eye teeth for a full-length mirror. It amazes me that in an entire hotel full of women there is not one full-length mirror for public consumption.” She turned to Vivian. “You look ‘posh' yourself.”

“Just an old frock I keep on hand in case someone calls to ask me to sing for the upper crust.” She wore a plain but beautiful form-fitting dress of deep garnet that hugged her every curve, ending tightly midway between knee and ankle. Her lustrous red hair was swept back dramatically on one side, held in place by a stunning clip of twinkling jewels in the shape of two angel's wings.

“Good Lord,” Laura said, coming over to inspect the barrette. “Are those real?”

“I imagine so. A gift from Nicky.”

“He's very generous.”

“Among other things.” She didn't say it as a compliment. “Where's Dolores?”

Laura had never asked Vivian why she had suddenly stopped calling Dolly “Ethel.” She didn't want to jinx it. But every time she heard her use Dolly's actual name, it still threw her, just a bit.

“She's getting dressed in Ruth's room. I think she sees this more as a great unveiling.”

“Do I even want to ask what she's wearing?”

“Something borrowed, something blue, even if she's not getting married. Box arranged for her to take something from the racks. But I have reminded her three times now that she cannot keep it and absolutely cannot spill anything on it.”

“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, culminating in the assemblage raising glasses to assorted
Here-here
s! “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.”