The Summer I Met Jack

by Michelle Gable

  “I don’t want you to drive me. I want you to have it.”

  “Have it?”

  Kate shrugged.

  “Why not? I’m going to New York tomorrow, and I have a car there. I don’t plan to return for a long, long time.”

  “I can’t,” Alicia stuttered even as she moved closer to the glittering white car. “How would you get home?”

  “I’ll just pop inside and call George to come pick me up.”

  “George?” Alicia said, with a jerk of her head.

  With one word, Alicia was thrust back to another year, another coast, back to a time when she used to call George to pick her up.

  “George Cukor?” Kate said, meaning the famed director.

  Because of course it would not be George Neill, goofy projectionist who’d never left the Cape. An unexpected sadness shot through her.

  “Go on,” Kate said. “Take it. It’s yours.”

  “Are you sure? This seems extravagant.”

  “More than sure! At least someone will get use out of it. I’d ask you to drive me”—Kate winked—“but, to your point, right now would not be a good time to die.”

  Alicia regarded the car, and then Kate, and then took a glimpse of the eleventh green.

  “I don’t think I’m golfing today,” she said.

  “I guess that makes two of us,” Kate answered with a laugh. “Go on, take the car. Rest assured, I never offer anything that I don’t truly mean to give.”

  Before Katharine Hepburn could reconsider, Alicia shook hands with her new friend, hopped into the running car, and bombed it out of the parking lot. This driving thing was easier than she remembered.

  * * *

  An hour later, hair tangled from a high-speed jaunt up the coast, Alicia blasted into the bungalow’s driveway. She leapt from the car and exploded through the front door.

  “Fannie!” she called. “Yolanda! Daisy? Hello?”

  The home was quiet for that time of day, nothing but the whir of the fans. Where was everyone? Damn it, if Katharine Hepburn gave you a convertible, you wanted someone to tell.

  Alicia picked up the house phone and began to dial, only to remember that George—her George, not Cukor—wouldn’t answer. He was in Niagara Falls with his new wife, Doris, Paul’s niece, the girl who replaced Alicia at the candy counter. Weddings were quite the trend nowadays, Alicia thought grimly, but at least George’s had been small, instead of an over-the-top display described by newspapers as “one of the most lavish weddings Newport has seen in recent years.”

  Jack hated Newport.

  “Why isn’t anyone home to take my call?” Alicia wailed.

  As if on cue, Fred pushed through the front door.

  “Fred!” she squealed, running his way.

  He looked behind him, as if expecting some other man. Alicia was usually a dash cooler, less effusive, never more animated than “hello.”

  “Are you on something?” he asked.

  “Did you see the car out front? Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  “I did notice and was wondering—”

  “It’s mine!” she sang. “Someone gave it to me! You’ll never guess who.”

  “It’s a present?” He removed his hat. “Whoa. That’s quite the score. One of the golfing fellas?”

  “Forget golf,” Alicia said.

  “Oh geez.” He groaned. “Don’t tell me that you actually did forget golf.”

  “I chose not to go. Now, listen to this. I was walking into the club and there she was, right there in the flesh. Katharine Hepburn! She asked me to call her Kate. We gabbed for a bit, and then she gave me her car. For keeps!”

  “That’s Kate Hepburn’s?” he asked, jacking his thumb toward the window.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” Alicia lifted onto her tiptoes and clung to his shirt. “Isn’t it the best?”

  “It’s something all right,” he said, and shook her off. “But Don’s not gonna care about a Corvette. He’ll be pissed that you didn’t golf with those men.”

  “Oh, Don is mad at me all the time.” She slapped the air.

  “Can’t argue there. Christ, Alicia. I like you. I like you a lot. And hanging round Katharine Hepburn isn’t the worst idea. I mean, she’s a dyke—”

  “Fred!”

  “It’s true. And at least she won’t rough you up, or knock you up.”

  “No one can knock me up,” she said.

  “Yeah. That’s what they all think.” He rolled his eyes.

  Alicia didn’t explain that this was plain fact. Of course, no man wanted to hear about a lady’s medical problems, not even someone as uncouth as Fred.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked. “When Don kicks you out? Never mind an income, where are you going to live?”

  Alicia pursed her lips and glanced outside.

  “I have a car,” she said.

  “You’re going to live in a car?!”

  “Of course not!”

  “So instead you’ll sell a gift from Katharine Hepburn?”

  Alicia frowned.

  “No,” she said. “I could, if I got desperate. Not that I’d want to.”

  Alicia was so weary of this feeling, of always being thin on cash. For two years she’d imagined her big break as being just around the corner, and with it her money problems gone. But, so far, her career had been made of many minor breaks, and Alicia only ever had enough to squeak by in between. She’d have to be more penurious when it came to the latest fashions, and not so prone to impulse buys. But certain Newport newlyweds needed a pair of cold meat forks from Cartier. They really did.

  “Is this what you want?” Fred asked, sweeping his hand, meaning the house they stood in, but also more. “Because it seems like you don’t.”

  “I don’t plan to live here forever, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s not. Don Class makes stars. Isn’t that why you’re here? Isn’t that why any pretty blonde comes to Hollywood?”

  “So, I’m merely another blonde?” Alicia sniffed, and crossed her arms.

  “No. That’s my point. You’re special, and you have a talent the others don’t. I can never figure out whether you’re on the brink of something great, or about to lose it all. You could be the next Marilyn Monroe, if you wanted to.”

  “I do not want that at all.”

  Fred shook his head. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of business cards. Sighing, he shuffled through them.

  “Until you figure out what the hell you’re doing…”

  He flicked a card at her, which Alicia caught before it hit the floor.

  “Confidential magazine,” he said, and then tossed another. “Hedda Hopper. She writes a gossip column for the Los Angeles Times.”

  “You know I read Hedda’s column every day.”

  “When I want to pick up extra cash,” he said. “I sell some stories. They have to be true, mind you, otherwise don’t bother.”

  Fred cleared his throat.

  “‘Gary Cooper continues to get around at high speed. His latest darling: Alicia Darr, a Viennese actress…’”

  “That was you?” Alicia said as her mouth fell open.

  “You’re welcome on the ‘Viennese’ bit.”

  “Oh, Fred.” She sighed. “You have no idea how much trouble that caused me.”

  “I have some idea,” he said. “I won’t name names, but we can congress about it later.”

  Alicia swallowed the lump that’d risen in her throat. How did Fred know about Jack? He’d never said a thing. Though, she supposed, that was very much Fred’s style.

  “Well,” Alicia said, “I hope you weren’t the one who told the papers about my nose job.”

  “Wasn’t me,” he swore. “Cross my heart.”

  Alicia pored over the cards.

  “So, this is your job?” she asked. “How you get by?”

  “Nah. It’s more of a side gig.”

  “Side gig to what?” Alicia looked up. “I’ve always wondered.
”

  “It’s hard to explain,” he said. “Mostly I’m the guy who sorts out personal problems for the rich and famous.”

  Fred put on his hat.

  “If you call,” he said, “tell them you work for me. It will give you credibility.”

  “Go figure,” Alicia said with a smirk.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to fetch Daisy from the Beach Club. She’s gotten into some mix-up with two sheikhs and a shah.”

  Alicia nodded, half listening, as she stared at the cards. Peddling gossip was a seedy endeavor but Alicia was in dire need of cash. Plus, she had a nose for details, and this might give her something to do when dinners or dates went stale.

  Within minutes, Alicia found herself in the kitchen, phone in hand, dialing straight through to Hedda Hopper, the best in the biz.

  “Yes, hello,” she said to the person who picked up. “I’d like to report a sighting. Katharine Hepburn was kicked out of the Wilshire Country Club for wearing shorts.”

  JUNE 2016

  LOS ANGELES

  Serena and Lee sit in the dining room of a Spanish-style beach home in Southern California. A lawyer named Leonard is across from them.

  “Thank you for coming all this way,” he says.

  Leonard explains that he’s semiretired. His office is in New York, but he prefers California this time of year; any time of year, really. Another stroke of luck, Lee thinks. If the directive was for New York, Serena would be there, if not still in Rome.

  “Shall we get to it?” Leonard asks. “Angela is going to take notes.”

  Leonard’s personal secretary is at the table, too. She wears a diamond ring, which is too big for her finger. It slips with the slightest movement and she’s constantly returning it to faceup. Each time she does, Leonard’s eyes flit in her direction.

  “I’m relieved the letter made it to you,” Leonard says. “We had a hell of a time tracking you down.”

  “Allora, it’s quite the miracle,” Serena says. “Especially with the Italian mail system.”

  “Yes, I’ve read about that.”

  The girl surprises Leonard. He expected someone blonder, lighter. Her hair is very, very dark—black almost—and her skin is olive-toned. Then he notices her uniquely colored eyes, framed in thick black lashes, and has to wonder.

  “It was opened,” Serena says. “Your letter. Probably because you addressed it in purple ink.”

  Leonard glares at Angela. Why’d he spend hours researching the vagaries of the Italian postal system if she wasn’t going to follow his instructions? Angela smiles and shrugs. It all turned out fine.

  “Well, back to business,” Leonard says.

  He asks Serena how much she knows about the deceased, Alicia Darr Purdom Corning Clark. Angela holds a (purple) pen hovered above a notepad. Her ring slips again.

  “Mostly the headlines,” Serena says. “She was a friend of my grandmother’s. They lived together in Rome for several years. When I was young, we visited her in the Bahamas, and sometimes she came to see us.”

  “What about her background?” Leonard asks. “How much information did Ms. Palmisano provide there?”

  Serena blinks. Miss Palmisano?

  “Novella,” Leonard qualifies. “Your grandmother.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, I know that Mrs. Corning Clark married three times. Her most recent husband was a Bahamian bodybuilder. She was Polish, a displaced person from the war who emigrated to the States in 1950, or so. My grandmother said she was quite social. She had a lot of boyfriends.”

  “Yes, all of those things are true,” Leonard says.

  True, but not enough. How will he ever explain the full extent of Alicia? Entire books could be written about the woman and still never come close to addressing her complex life.

  He pushes a brown scrapbook across the table.

  “For your amusement,” he says. “She saved most press written about her.”

  Serena glances at but does not touch the book. Lee opens to a random page and flips through several more. Serena catches some headlines. Gary Cooper. Ty Power. Edmund Purdom. Warren Beatty. Roberto Rossellini. JFK.

  “To be as direct as possible,” Leonard says, “we have reason to suspect that you are related to Alicia Corning Clark.”

  “Related?” Serena wrinkles her nose. “Were she and my grandmother siblings?”

  It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Nonna did often say Alicia was “like a sister.”

  “Siblings?” Leonard frowns. “No. We think you’re Mrs. Clark’s granddaughter.”

  He drops the news on her, like a weight.

  “On my father’s side?” Serena says, unable to work out the equation. “It’s possible, but he was Persian, not Polish.”

  “On your maternal side,” Leonard says. “Benedetta Palmisano. That is your mother’s name, correct?”

  “That’s her given name, yes. She’s been married many times, and has changed her first name and her last. I haven’t spoken to her in years.”

  She gives Lee a weak smile. Last night she’d told him the full story. When Serena was two, her mother left her in the care of Novella, in order to “find herself,” which involved sampling the various communes, cults, and drug dens of the world.

  “She was never settled,” Nova used to say. “From the minute she was born.”

  At first, her mother called on holidays, and Serena’s birthday, too. Then the calls became letters, and then postcards, and soon faded to nothing at all.

  “Don’t be sad,” Serena said to Lee when he’d gotten teary. “I don’t remember her. I had a wonderful life with Nonna and I never wanted for more.”

  “So, you haven’t been in touch with your mother recently?” Leonard asks, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “No.” Serena shakes her head. “There’s a strong possibility she’s dead. She was a bit of a risk taker. Is a risk taker?”

  Then she pauses, thinks for a second. Did Leonard say that Alicia Corning Clark was her maternal grandmother? That must mean …

  “You are wrong,” Serena says. “Novella Palmisano is my grandmother.”

  “I understand that’s what you’ve been told, and it might even be true.”

  “Of course it’s true. I don’t know what Mrs. Clark might’ve claimed, but she was half mad, at least according to my nonna.”

  Serena looks at Lee as if he could confirm. He nods dutifully, his show of support.

  “Alicia had a very energetic imagination,” Serena says, making a hand motion, like something exploding overhead. “It’s likely she made it up.”

  Alicia Corning Clark was nothing but antics. To wit, the scrapbook is open to an article that references a bar brawl. There are also a “strip club scandal,” home invasions, and numerous arrests.

  “Perhaps she claimed my mother was her daughter,” Serena says, “and not Nova’s. But it cannot be true.”

  “I’m confused,” Lee interjects. “I thought you flew us—I mean her—to California because she was named in the will.”

  Leonard stands and tugs on his slacks, which are struggling to stay up over his belly. He pads over to the window, and gazes toward the street.

  “Mrs. Corning Clark named the doorman and bellman in her will,” he says. “And an elevator operator, too, as well as the caretaker of her Bahamian estate and multiple charities. As I mentioned, she had several wills, most of them undated, all conflicting.”

  Sounds like you’re a top-notch lawyer, Lee thinks to himself.

  “Then what do I have to do with this?” Serena asks. “If I’m not mentioned?”

  Leonard returns to the table.

  “Before we can address the various others,” he says, “we must first determine whether she has blood heirs.”

  “But Alicia never had children.”

  “We’d like to confirm,” he says. “Which is why you’ll need a DNA test.”

  “What?” Serena scoffs. “I will not do that.”

  “It’s th
e only way to sort this out, the only way to know for sure.”

  Serena sits with the information, and what he’s asked her to do. Why doesn’t she want a DNA test? What is she afraid of? Lee looks at her, curiously.

  The lawyer’s stomach grumbles. Why is the girl being so difficult? Just take the damned test, and maybe become rich. Jesus, he doesn’t have time for this. It’s eleven minutes past noon.

  “Listen, we can go round and round about Mrs. Corning Clark’s wild imagination or what she’s said to me and others. But what is more convincing than DNA? It’s not too often I get to use science to solve a legal problem.”

  “And who would my supposed grandfather be?” Serena asks.

  She’s never had a grandfather. Novella’s pregnancy with Benedetta made the papers, as she had to announce her retirement from café society. Nova refused to name the father, until divorce was legalized in Italy. When it finally was, la dolce vita had ended, and everyone scattered to other countries, to other lives. There was no one left to care.

  “Miss Palmisano,” Leonard says. “Let’s not speculate about any grandfather until we get this test out of the way.”

  He places both hands on the table.

  “I’ve arranged an appointment for you at a lab,” he says, “the day after next. Angela, hand her the card.”

  Angela hands her the card. Oh dear, the boss is getting hungry. This will all come to a very terse end.

  “We can meet again after the test,” Leonard says. “Feel free to take the scrapbook, acquaint yourself with Alicia Darr Purdom Corning Clark. Angela, please show them the door.”

  Angela hastily ushers them from the room. Serena walks like a drunk, unbalanced and befuddled. Lee scuffles along, scrapbook beneath his arm. As they enter the foyer, Leonard calls out to Serena one last time.

  “Good luck,” he says. “I have to admit, I hope you’re Alicia’s granddaughter. I knew the woman fifty years and despite the furs and the diamonds and the fabulous life, there was always something sad about her. I think she would’ve wanted a granddaughter. Lord knows she never had that kind of uncomplicated love.”

  Also ringsiding: Prince Mahmoud Pahley, brother of the shah of Iran, with Mr. and Mrs. Roy Davis and Alicia Darr.