Strangers in the Night, page 31
Francis hadn’t told me Tina would be at the apartment, but there was plenty of room. She was quite pretty, in her early twenties, her alert brown eyes full of intelligence.
“How nice to see you. You’re a grown woman! The last time I saw you, you were a child.”
“I guess that’s true,” she said with a polite smile. “Do you want to put away your things?”
“Yes, and then I’m going to help myself to your dad’s bar.”
“I’ll pour,” Tina said, eliciting a smile from me.
We had a drink and got to talking, the two of us, and I learned all about her time in Germany, where she’d starred in a television miniseries for several years. The next thing I knew, we found ourselves on the streets of New York heading to dinner together. We got along famously; she seemed to take to my humor and I to her earnest but charming nature. I saw her dad in her that way.
“You know, your dad and me, we may fight like cats and dogs, but we love each other still, after all this time.”
“That’s kind of like me and Dad, too.”
I covered her hand with mine. “He’s a complicated man. I’m sure you have a lot of feelings about that.”
She nodded. “Doesn’t everyone?”
We talked right through dinner and as the waiter came around to check on us, he turned to me.
“Ma’am, would you or your daughter like another round?”
We looked at each other then, the irony of the comment not lost on us, and burst into laughter. Tina was a lovely person, and in that moment, I lamented that I’d never had children with Francis. Right then, I wished that Tina—and Francis—were mine.
Instead, he was with Mia, and I hoped that he was happy, in spite of it all.
Chapter 46
Frank
I was hoping I’d finally found a woman that I’d settle down with, but my marriage to Mia lasted two years.
After five decades of loving women, I was no closer to understanding them. Neither was I closer to understanding how to find happiness that lasted. Mia was too young for me, just as everyone had said. We didn’t have any tastes in common, didn’t like the same kind of people or have the same habits. Her career was just beginning while I was looking at a nice, long break, perhaps for good.
The Summit was done—we were all tired, our jokes were tired, and our audiences had changed. What would forever be known as the Rat Pack broke its pact and we went our separate ways. My stress, however, was higher than ever. The feds had opened an investigation on me; they were after the Boys and wanted to know more about my links to Willie Moretti and Sam Giancana. They also wanted to look into my shares in the hotels in Las Vegas and Lake Tahoe where I’d performed for years. The Boys promised me we would be alright, that we were squeaky clean and untraceable, but I grew anxious as my FBI file expanded.
I was beat down, my throat needed a rest, and I craved a break from the spotlight. My well was bone dry. I needed time to recover from decades on the road and to pursue my other interests. Painting, reading, enjoying the quiet. It didn’t take much of a push to make the decision—to my family’s surprise—but one afternoon, I pulled the plug on the whole operation. I wrote up a statement as my daughter Tina looked on in shock. It was time to retire.
Although no one in my family could see me retiring, there was one person who could.
“You’ve been running yourself into the ground, baby,” Ava said one night on the telephone. Our calls had become more frequent again since I’d ended things with Mia. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed Ava until I began looking forward to that nightly call again.
“You can say that again,” I said. “It’s over. I’m throwing in the towel. I’ve come to the point where I’ve done everything I want to do. Gone as far as I can, and it doesn’t excite me anymore.”
“Will you know what to do with yourself?”
“I’ll find things to do. You know me.”
“I do, and you have an active mind. I’m sure you’ll find something,” she said. “I’m working far less these days, and I’m so much happier not working all the time and running from the cameras.”
When the night of my final performance arrived, I hired a limo for the big day. We drove along the winding road, through the hills covered with scrub, past movie stars’ mansions and palm trees and flowering bougainvillea. We rode past the Hollywood sign set atop the rocky hill that overlooked the teeming city below, and beyond to a wide blue strip of the Pacific Ocean. I watched it all pass in quiet contemplation. I couldn’t believe this was it, my final show. It was surreal. I’d been a performer since I was a kid and couldn’t fathom never rehearsing again, never warming up, never playing another winning run in Vegas or Tahoe or Atlantic City. There’d be no more lost hours on the road in buses or on planes, or talking with strangers. Though I couldn’t imagine it, the idea of it sounded like exactly what I needed. Maybe now I could enjoy a different kind of living.
I arrived at the theater, shook hands with a few dozen people, and prepared to sing, one last time.
Grace Kelly stood in the wings, a smile on her face. Though she reminded me a bit of the woman I’d begun dating the last few months, Barbara Marx, I was struck by how Grace had aged. She was beautiful still, but her face and figure had rounded, the skin around her eyes and mouth showing her years. It wasn’t that she looked older that jarred me, but the simple fact that her aging reflected my own. We’d all changed over the years, and once again, I was struck by what I was doing here tonight.
I was retiring, saying bon voyage and good night.
When it was time to go on, I held my head high, and greeted a reverent and somber crowd. It was a beautiful night and I had only one regret.
My Ava was still on the other side of the world.
Chapter 47
Ava
I couldn’t be at Francis’s retirement because I was on set, and given the limited number of roles these days, I couldn’t turn it away. I had to keep the coffers full somehow.
Still, I regretted not being there for his big night—he’d wanted me there and I’d tried to arrange it with the director only to receive pushback. The truth was, though Francis was fifty-six years old, I couldn’t imagine him retiring and I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him give up the thing he loved most. It seemed tragic for him to lay to rest the talent that set him apart—no one could compare to my baby. He was a performer: for the love of music, for the love of his fans, for the release of all his big emotions. And they were big—bigger than those of anyone I’d ever known. It was what I loved most about him. To see him say a final good night made me uneasy.
I had my own big emotions. After I wrapped the film, I returned to London and moved through the rooms in my apartment like an apparition, wondering what came next. I knew Francis had been dating a woman named Barbara Marx and they were getting serious, but it didn’t keep him from calling me, sending flowers and letters, or singing to me over the phone.
“Little girl, I miss him,” I said, bending to scrub Cara behind the ears. She nipped at the back of my hand and then licked it just as quickly. An apology for her tendency to bite on impulse. “That’s better.”
She barked and wiggled her hind end.
I missed him so much, I found myself wishing we’d never divorced. So what if we fought? Didn’t any couple in love have their spats? Besides, we were younger then, less seasoned, more ambitious. Now we were wrapping up those days of our lives, ready to settle in for the long haul and find meaning in other things. What could possibly have more meaning than being with my friend and lover of decades? The love of my life, as it turned out.
In the predawn hours, after a restless night, I called him.
“I need to see you, Francis. Can you meet me in New York?”
“It’s always too long between visits, Angel,” he said, exuberant at my admission.
“I want to wake up to you every day.”
Our conversation was the only impetus I needed. Something was brewing inside of me—inside of both of us—I could feel it. We were heading in a new direction together. Something familiar yet different, something better.
The following day I arrived at JFK on an afternoon plane, all smiles though my heart fluttered with nerves. Francis picked me up in his Cadillac and we headed into the city to his apartment. Rather than our usual feverish ways with each other, we took our time putting my things away, refreshing ourselves, and dressing to go out. We enjoyed an intimate dinner in a new restaurant in Midtown, complete with candles and jazz and a back booth out of the way of the hubbub.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see you, baby,” I said, raising my glass and clinking it against his. “To us.”
“To us.” He took a sip but kept his eyes on mine. He’d aged, the lines around his eyes deepened, the creases at his lips had become grooves. He was nearly bald, too, underneath his expensive toupees but not a single thing made him less attractive. His vivid eyes held more sadness and light than ever, and I felt like I was home again.
We talked long into the night, following dinner with drinks and a walk through the city streets. Back at the apartment, we snuggled on the sofa together. When I yawned, he reached for my water glass and set it on the coffee table, then took my hand in his. Wordlessly, he led me to the bedroom. We paused beside the bed. He cradled my face in his hands, kissed my eyelids, and found my lips. He rubbed my shoulders, loosening the last of the knots until I felt as liquid as warm brandy.
“That’s nice,” I said, groaning.
“You know what’s nice?” he said, kissing my ear, trailing his lips down my neck. “The smell of your skin.” His pupils were dilated with desire.
It had been too long and suddenly I wanted him more than ever, if differently. Gone was the eager burn of young love and new love and wild, insatiable love. In its place was a confident, knowing tenderness—a fulfilment we found nowhere else outside of the sphere we created together.
“Make love to me, Francis,” I said. “Like you mean it.”
His smile lit his face and he nodded. “With you, I always mean it, Angel.”
“I hope that never changes,” I said, covering his mouth with mine, wrapping my arms around his neck.
Slowly he unzipped my dress, pushing it over my shoulders until the cotton garment slid down my body to the floor. “God, you’re as beautiful as ever.” He buried his face in my hair.
I unbuttoned his shirt and then moved to the top button of his trousers. He was ready for me and I for him. I led him to the bed and lay back on the coverlet. His hands were tender as he caressed me, his lips upon my skin. Even after all this time, we still desired each other like it was the first time. I thought briefly of that first time. The meal we’d had, the knowing drive back to my place as the electricity crackled between us, and the all-consuming heat crowned with the sensation of falling. Falling in love forever.
“We belong together, don’t we?” I whispered in his ear.
His eyes captured mine. “Marry me. Again,” he said gruffly.
I smiled and wrapped myself around him. “I just might this time, baby. I just might.”
Chapter 48
Ava
Reenie couldn’t believe the news. I still could scarcely believe it myself.
“You’re sure?” she asked as we wound through the streets in the West End of London, popping in and out of boutiques and department stores. “You’re going to marry Mr. Sinatra?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said.
We were shopping for my trousseau. I’d already bought several pieces of lingerie, two skirts, and a pair of comfortable trousers for lounging. I was still on the hunt for just the right outfit for the wedding ceremony itself. I wanted something feminine and white but not overly fancy.
“What do you mean you think so?” she said, searching through a rack of women’s suit skirts. “You’d better be sure or you’ll both be heartbroken all over again.”
“And smeared in the media. Yes, I know.” I sighed. I was completely certain I loved that man more than just about anything, but doubts had cropped up as I considered how much I enjoyed my time alone and my independence. What would Francis and I do together? Would we be happy? He’d mentioned coming out of retirement again already, something I’d suspected would happen. I wondered if he would expect me to always come with him on tour. I also wondered if he’d really be happy selling the place in Palm Springs, far from his kids and the rest of his family, while we lived in New York.
As Reenie and I checked out at Selfridges, the smell of fish and chips wafted down the street and we followed our noses to the stand. We bought two orders of salty chips and perfectly crisped fish and found a park bench nearby.
“What do I have to lose this time?” I asked, after a deliciously greasy bite. I wiped my mouth and reached into the newspaper cone that had slowly begun to wilt as it absorbed more oil.
She smoothed her hand across the scarf she’d tied over her hair. “Well, for starters, your home here in London. You’ll have to move your things, give up your apartment. I know you’re lonely, Miss G, but you’re also about the most fiercely independent person I’ve ever met.”
I paused midbite. That was definitely true—I didn’t like to be told what to do or to be hampered by someone else, but I also didn’t like living alone anymore.
“And then there’s the issue of Mr. S. Is he ready to be with one woman?”
“Am I ready to be with one man?” I countered.
We both laughed, but the certainty I’d felt the last couple of weeks teetered on the edge of a precipice as doubt did its thing, creeping into my head and planting seeds.
Suddenly no longer hungry, I dumped the remainder of my lunch in a nearby trash can.
* * *
The ringing phone pierced the quiet of late evening. I rolled over in bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and glanced at the clock. It had to be Francis, at three o’clock in the morning. And yet, I hesitated as I picked up the phone.
“Hi, baby.”
“Were you dreaming of me?”
“I wasn’t dreaming of anything. Passed out cold after a full day of shopping and drinks with Reenie.”
“You never were much of a romantic, were you?”
“You know me. I prefer a dash of realism with my romance.”
“Did you find a nice dress? I want my wife looking her best.”
“I did. I . . .” My words trailed off.
His wife. I’d be his wife again, and as much as I liked the sound of that, I also feared it.
He could sense something was off. I heard it in the way he cleared his throat, shifted the phone to his other ear. “We should start the official plans. I have a break in my schedule next week. I guess we should do it in Vegas. Less fuss.”
I thought of Las Vegas, all red rock and dust and a sun so hot your skin felt like it was frying in the middle of the day. The noise, the crowds, the chaotic energy of too much pleasure in one place. Something I’d long since left behind.
“I thought we were going to get hitched at City Hall in New York?” I said. “We can pay a visit to your mama. I’d love to give ol’ Dolly a squeeze. I’ve missed her.”
“I can’t get there in time. I have one day off and then I have to be back in Los Angeles for a shoot.”
Los Angeles, land of dreams and broken people and more ghosts than I cared to confront. I never liked the city and could tolerate it even less so now. At this point, I’d almost call it a phobia.
“Francis, where will we live? In Palm Springs? I thought we’d decided on New York.”
“Mostly in New York, sure, but I need to keep the Palm Springs house for now because it’s closer to my management team. You can do whatever you want to the house, baby. Money isn’t important. I have plenty of that now. So how about it?”
“In New York?” I said hopefully.
“In Palm Springs.”
I was still for what felt like a long time, thinking, processing, working through a tide of emotions. Of dashed hopes and dreams—of grief—and finally, of acceptance. If we were really meant to be, wouldn’t we have come together a long time ago? What about the hundreds of other times over the years when we met up in various cities, in various countries, had a few hot nights and then went after each other’s throats again?
“Angel?”
I sighed heavily. “Baby, you should marry Barbara, not me. She’ll suit you better in the end. We may love each other, but I’m not made to be a wife. I tried it three times and failed miserably. And we’ve tried a thousand times already, haven’t we? But Barbara will look the other way when you argue or when you’re gone for weeks and leave her in that city that I detest. I can’t do it. If we were together, I’d want all of you the way you want all of me, and I just don’t know if either of us is capable of such a thing.”
This time he didn’t cuss and plead. He wasn’t volatile and angry.
We really were star-crossed lovers, wretched for each other and completely incapable of being together. Tears slipped down my face as the truth I had known long ago settled into my bones. It was finally over, really over, after all these years. We were destined to live apart, and I wasn’t even a wistful romantic type, but my Francis had always done that to me.
“I have to go,” Francis said, his voice thick with emotion.
“I know, baby,” I whispered. “I do, too.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too. For always.”
Chapter 49
Frank
For the thousandth time, I was disappointed by the woman I loved but now, I was resigned to it. Ava and I were a perfect, terrible fit and I knew she was right. Still, in the end, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted a companion, a woman who kept me in line and looked after me. If it wasn’t going to be the woman who had my heart, it would be the woman who was there, and I did love Barbara, too, in my way. We had a large wedding with plenty of star power and friends and, of course, the kids, though they didn’t like Barbara much.
