by Kerri Maher
She and her mother were having lunch in Philadelphia on a Monday; Fordie had picked Grace up from her little flat near the Bucks County Playhouse, where she was doing Accent on Youth before heading back to New York. She knew her parents had gone to see High Noon the night before, and from the moment she’d gotten into the car till Fordie had dropped her off and she and her mother ordered Waldorf chicken salads for lunch, all Grace and Margaret Kelly had spoken about had been Peggy’s children and Kell’s work.
By contrast, Fordie—who had seen the movie on opening night the week before—had telephoned Grace the next morning to tell her how much he loved it. He’d whistled in appreciation and said, “You added some class to that picture, Gracie. Without you, it would have been a dreary movie indeed. I can’t wait to see what you do next.” Tears of appreciation had rushed to Grace’s eyes as she held the phone to her ear and gushed her thanks to Fordie for seeing it right away.
“It was very good, Grace,” her mother replied in measured tones. “Of course, I don’t see many Westerns, but your father was quite impressed by the direction. He said it was unusual, the way the story was about the town turning on the marshal. But I’m afraid I didn’t understand the meaning of that music and the sound of the horses.”
Forget the score, Mother! Did you like my performance? But Grace replied, “I think Zinnemann was trying to convey the passing of time.”
“Yes, yes, I understood that,” said her mother impatiently. Then finally: “It was wonderful to see you in such a big picture, Grace. Your father and I were very proud. And everyone in town has seen it and told us how marvelous you were, how amazing that little Grace Kelly is in a picture with Gary Cooper!”
“Thank you, Mother,” said Grace, grasping this thread of praise, but also feeling its meagerness. She was quite certain it was the amassed opinions of family friends that pleased her mother most.
“Do you think you’ll do more movies?” Grace could hear the undercurrent in her mother’s question: Because I could get used to being the mother of a movie star.
“We’ll see what they offer me.” Grace shrugged, not wanting to give her mother the satisfaction.
“Your father says there’s much more money in film than in theater.”
“I’m not doing it for the money.” She also didn’t want to get into the issue of studio contracts with her mother.
“No.” Her mother frowned. “But you do seem to be making enough of it. That’s a lovely dress you have on.”
Grace looked down at the linen shirtdress with the wide belt she was wearing. She loved its cheerful salmon color; as soon as she’d put it on at Bonwit Teller, her mood had lifted. “Thank you.”
“Are you seeing anyone special?” her mother asked, stuffing a mouthful of chicken and walnuts into her mouth and chewing.
Of course you’d rather talk about that, Mom.
“No one special,” Grace replied, which was unfortunately true these days. Her relationship with Gene was hanging on by a thread, especially after a fight they’d had in June after a cast party in Philadelphia where she’d been working with the Playhouse in the Park. She’d hoped Gene might be able to charm the producers into getting his own work with them. But he’d spent the whole night getting so sloshed that he didn’t impress anyone with his off-key rendition of “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top.”
“This is not my idea of fun, Gene!” she’d yelled at him back at her flat.
“You wouldn’t know fun if it bonked you on the head!” he’d shouted before slamming the door behind him and walking barefoot to the nearest hotel because he was too proud—or too drunk—to come back for his loafers.
“Well, I do hope you’ll find someone soon,” said her mother. “You need someone to take care of you, Grace. And you’ve always said you wanted children.”
“I have,” Grace agreed, about the children at least. She chafed at the notion that she needed someone to take care of her. Weren’t all her lovers constantly telling her how independent she was? What an irony. Still. Making sandcastles and reading Madeline with Peggy’s mischievous little blond tots at Ocean City earlier in the summer had given her a dull ache in her womb.
Irritated, Grace pointed out, “Mother, you didn’t get married until you were twenty-six. And you took care of yourself quite well before that. You were coach of women’s teams at Penn! Dad always said you turned him down a few times before you accepted him.” Though her mother’s initial refusals were all part of her father’s shtick about how hard he’d tried to win the prize that was Margaret Majer, Grace had always been more impressed by her mother’s determination than her father’s.
Grace’s mother crunched another mouthful of salad, then dabbed her mouth with a napkin before replying dismissively, “I was just biding my time. And I did enjoy having someone to take care of things once we got married. Your father . . . likes to do things himself, and I have found my life is easier when I let him.”
Somehow that didn’t sound like a man taking care of his wife. “All right, Mother,” Grace said lightly, glancing down at her watch. Another half an hour and it wouldn’t be rude for her to excuse herself to get back to New York.
* * *
I watched a repeat airing of The Rich Boy on television last night,” said Sandy at the start of their second year of classes together. “And I was impressed all over again, Grace. Your work there was exceptional. Do you know why?”
“Because I felt so connected to the character,” she replied—knowing the answer would please her teacher both because it was the truth (he was uncannily good at sensing a lie) and because it was the core of all his lessons: How does your character feel? What does she want? How well do you understand her?
“Exactly,” he said, leaning toward her and looking intently into her face through his chunky black-rimmed glasses. They magnified his eyes slightly, and Grace always felt a bit like he was looking at her through a microscope. Sometimes she felt like her own glasses provided a shield from his probing, though he rarely let her wear them during their sessions. “You must practice as you’ll be in front of the camera and onstage,” he told her.
“Right, blind,” she only half-jested in reply.
“How can we get you to connect with all your characters as deeply as you connected with Paula?” He blinked, and it was the only move he made; the rest of him was like a statue as he waited for her answer.
Grace wished she had a great answer. Even a passable answer. But the truth—that she understood Paula because in so many ways she was Paula, and she wasn’t yet sure how to be anyone else—was certainly not a good answer. Unable to tell the truth, she paraphrased his advice: “I need to find my common ground with my other characters. I need to try to understand what makes them tick.”
“Precisely,” he said, not letting up his intensity. “The key is making the director believe you can play the role. And you will, Grace. You will. It’s a matter of time and experience, and word getting out that not only are you a very fine actress, you’re dependable as well. Rarely have I worked with an actress as punctual and thoughtful as you.” Thoughtful. Punctual. Pliable. Better compliments for a housewife than for an actress.
There were times she wished she were a wounded bird like Marilyn, or a tough broad like Katharine—a personality that would force people to take notice of her. Her height was her most commanding feature, and it cost her roles. Instead, she was a well-mannered girl from Philadelphia who sent her teachers boxes of homemade fudge for their birthdays, which she assumed was part of what Sandy was referring to now when he described her as thoughtful. Nothing at all to do with her talent.
She tried to be grateful that the television work continued to come in, and she had another chance at playing a woman of the Wild West in The Kill. Sandy and Don both said she seemed more relaxed in that program than she had in High Noon, and she could feel it in the way the lines and gestures came to her w
ith so much more fluidity. Even Katy Jurado called her up when she saw it and said, “Nice work, Grace.”
She couldn’t have been more surprised when Jay Kanter telephoned her at the very end of September. “Grace? That screen test you did at that dump studio back in forty-nine is still paying dividends. John Ford wants you to come out to California for a color test this week. Get this: he’s doing a remake of Red Dust with none other than the original star, Clark Gable. And he wants to shoot on location in Africa.”
“No,” Grace breathed. Clark Gable? Africa? She couldn’t imagine a better opportunity that didn’t combine the words Elia Kazan and Broadway.
“Yes,” laughed Jay, “yes, yes, yes, Graciebird.” Grace liked this nickname for her and had taken to calling him Jaybird in reply.
“My goodness! I must admit I’m speechless.” And her heart was thudding in her throat.
“You only need to say one word, and I’ll book your flight out.”
“Yes!” she said.
* * *
John Ford did the test himself. “He doesn’t want to waste any time,” Jay had told her on the phone the morning before she headed to the studio.
It was impossible to read the director’s expression, though, as his round glasses had tinted lenses, and his soft face was inscrutable beneath his high forehead and receding hairline. “Thank you, Miss Kelly,” he said after she’d read for the part of Linda Nordley. She’d thought a great deal about the part on the flight from New York to Los Angeles, and she couldn’t help it—her best way to understand Linda was to admit that the two of them shared the same goal: to impress Clark Gable.
Apparently, it was enough. The next day as she swam at the pool of the Hotel Bel-Air, where MGM had put her up, she was interrupted by a bellhop who handed her a red telephone connected to an extremely long cord, setting it on a chaise by the pool and indicating she should take the call. Wrapping a towel around her torso, she sat and put the sun-warmed receiver to her ear. “Hello?”
“You did it, Grace! Ford wants you for the picture. This time, you will have to sign a contract, but don’t worry—I’ll make sure it’s good enough for you and leaves you time to work in New York. Congratulations, Graciebird! This is a big break. You’re on your way.”
It was all so exciting, she didn’t even mind about the contract—not that day. She called her uncle George right away and suggested they meet at Musso & Frank. In one of the smooth red booths, she and George and William toasted her success with goblets of red wine and rare steaks.
“Hard to believe this wine is made just a hundred miles north of here,” commented William, looking into the deep ruby liquid in his glass.
“When I was your age,” said George to Grace, “all California wine was considered swill. Amazing how times change.”
“This is just one step up from swill,” William said, squinting into his glass. “Maybe two steps. But sometimes a rough red is just what you need.” He winked at George, who smirked back, and Grace blushed to know they were sharing an intimate joke.
Clearing his voice and raising his glass, William declared, “To Grace!” George and Grace clinked their glasses to his.
“We are so proud of you,” said Uncle George.
“And we can’t wait for the gossip on Clark Gable!” said William wickedly.
Grace laughed and drank the wine, which was deliciously rough. It suited her mood. She’d be in Africa for her twenty-third birthday! With Clark Gable and Ava Gardner. She wondered if Ava would bring her husband, Frank Sinatra. Miraculously, she felt no nerves, just excitement like champagne bubbles in her veins.
While she and her uncle and William ate with gusto, Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn came in, arm in arm. Grace was the first to see them, and she put her hand on her uncle’s forearm and squeezed gleefully.
His eyes, and William’s, and every other eyeball in the place followed the couple to their seats at a table in the center of the restaurant. Kate and Spencer didn’t seem to notice, and they laughed and chatted with the maître d’ like old friends. Before they’d even ordered, two cocktails arrived for them. It looked like an old-fashioned for Spencer and a gimlet for Kate. Once they were left alone at the table and their eyes fell to their menus, the rest of the Musso & Frank patrons went back to their own meals.
“That’ll be you someday,” said Uncle George.
Grace laughed. “Hardly. You flatter me.”
“You’re ten times the beauty she is,” said William.
“That’s entirely in the eye of the beholder,” said Grace, “and I know I’m not ten times the talent.”
“Don’t let your charming innate modesty get in the way of proving yourself wrong, niece,” said George warningly.
“I’ll do my best,” she said, sensing for the first time in her whole life that it just might be possible.
Two weeks later the contract arrived by courier at her apartment in New York. Jay and his boss, Lew Wasserman, had promised to make it more favorable to Grace, but she couldn’t see how on earth she’d ever get back to New York if she was promising to do three pictures a year for MGM for seven years! Blood really boiling, she called Jay.
“I want every other year off from movies,” she told her agent. “Otherwise, I’ll never be able to get anything done in theater.”
Jay hesitated.
“And you can tell them,” added Grace, “that more money won’t sway me, since I make much more money as a model and television actress than they’re offering or even likely to come up to. Anyway, it’s not about the money,” she said, remembering she’d said the exact same thing to her mother a few months before. Saying it again to Jay made her feel stronger, bolder, truer. “It’s about time to be the actress I’ve trained to be.”
“I’ll try, Graciebird,” said Jay.
Grace hadn’t been encouraged by Jay’s tone, but the next day he told her they’d agreed. “MGM really wants you, Grace. I’ve never seen Dore Schary agree to anything like this before.”
It was pretty nice to feel wanted, to feel seen, Grace had to admit with a satisfied grin as she hung up the phone. I could get used to this, she thought as she went to pack her bags.
Chapter 10
1974
Under a benevolent May sun, Grace stood with Frank Sinatra and her old Hollywood roommate and fellow actress, Rita Gam, and felt the heat reflecting up from the white Carrara marble of the wide, curved staircase where they stood surveying the hundreds of people in the stone palace courtyard. Behind them were the Renaissance arches of the Hercule Gallery, one of Grace’s favorite parts of the palace with its pleasingly regular columns, graceful arcades, and colorful frescoes of myths and heroes. Much of the stone of the courtyard had been covered with green grassy sod in honor of the Texas barbecue picnic theme of the event, Rainier’s Silver Jubilee.
“I still don’t get what roast pork has to do with Monaco,” said Frank, holding up a sandwich dripping with spicy brown gravy, “but this is the best slop I’ve had outside the Lone Star State.”
Grace laughed, pleased not just that her friends were enjoying themselves, but that the Monégasques who were eating and laughing, whose children were playing throw the horseshoe and riding ponies, all glowed with surprised delight. She finally—finally—felt accepted by them, in this eighteenth year as their Princess. This past Christmas, when she and Rainier had sat in this very courtyard handing out presents to every small child who lived in Monaco, as they had done from the earliest years of their marriage, she’d noticed that even the grandparents had begun to thank her. For many years, they had held back or greeted her stiffly and Rainier warmly. But last year, as today, even the oldest Monégasques approached her with wide smiles and enthusiastic embraces. “Merci, votre Altesse Sérénissime. Nous sommes si heureux que vous soyez ici.” Thank you, most Serene Highness. We are so glad you are here.
Secure in their lo
ve and respect, Grace had felt comfortable taking a risk with the theme of Rainier’s twenty-fifth-anniversary celebration. “I wanted us to do something different,” she explained to Frank and Rita. “One of the best vacations Rainier and I ever took was to a ranch in Texas a few years ago. We wanted to share some of that joy with Monaco.” Even after all this time, it felt embarrassing to say our subjects, especially in the company of old friends, and she found herself avoiding it. When she woke up in the morning and felt the pillow under her head, her fingers in the folds of her soft cotton nightgown, she was just Grace Kelly of Philadelphia. The idea that she had subjects was absurd.
But there they were, basking in the mild spring warmth. She caught Rainier’s eyes—he was below, helping a little boy aim a toy gun at a tin bull. He winked at her, and for a moment she was twenty-six again, seeing her prince and seeing him see her. He was dark and handsome, with the most impeccable social graces of any man she’d ever met. The best compliments she’d ever received. Your intelligence shows in all your pictures. It’s what makes you so beautiful. . . . You have a keen eye, the best ability to distinguish between true fashion and mere trends, of any woman I’ve met. . . . I can’t imagine what you see in me. . . . So much of his courtly flattery had been in the letters they’d written to each other at the end of nineteen fifty-five. She wondered where they were, those letters. So much had gotten misplaced in the many waves of palace renovations and restorations. And the compliments seemed to have been lost with them. She’d learned that fleeting moments like his wink a moment ago weren’t much more than a performance of love for any audience member that might be watching. They weren’t binding, nor were they enduring.
Grace turned her attention back to the palace, which she’d come to think of as her own Globe Theatre. Open to the elements and quite intimate in scale (How small the palace seemed when I first saw it!), each of its set pieces helped the members of the Grimaldi family play their roles. From the Hercule Gallery, Serene Highnesses could look down on their subjects to wave beneficently, present new heirs, or lead Monaco in times of trial and hardship. But they were not as far removed from their people as were the kings and queens of England at Buckingham Palace, and Grace preferred this closeness with the people who left their work behind to pay homage to their rulers. Slowly, Grace had come to understand that her role was to soften the effect of the medieval ramparts, the harsh climb of the ancient fortress walls from the craggy rock on which it sat. How ironic that her demeanor, once labeled icy and untouchable, was now valued for its accessibility and authenticity.