“Shall we get to the dirt?” Kate asked. “Tell us, Nova, what’s new in Rome?”
* * *
The way Novella (and Kate) described it, Rome was everything the jet set insisted, the very start and end to it all.
The city was filled, absolutely engorged, with all manner of models and actresses and royalty. In any given hour, one might run into Errol Flynn, Anthony Quinn, and Rock Hudson, all on the same block.
“Novella’s right about all of it,” Kate said. “Mark my words. Soon it won’t be Hollywood for film, and Paris for art. It will be Rome for everything.”
Alicia was frantic to see the city, more so by the day, or the minute, now that Novella was with them, telling her stories, adding new layers to Rome’s endless tales. Kate was due to film The Window there in the fall, which made Alicia all the grumblier that she’d have to stay behind.
“Just fill out the damned forms,” Kate said. “Why do I keep telling you this?”
“It’s not that easy,” Alicia answered, as she had so many times before.
“This one can’t handle a little paperwork,” Kate said, and jerked a thumb in Alicia’s direction.
Novella smiled blandly and Alicia wondered if her English comprehension extended that far.
“If you’re not going to use the proper channels,” Kate said, “then you’ll have to find some poor sucker to marry. You’ve probably had too many aliases to do it on your own.”
Kate knew Alicia’s complete story, from Łódź to Radom to Germany and beyond. She knew the girl who went from Jewish to Catholic to whatever she was now. And Kate understood that her friend Alicia Darr was nothing more than a concoction, a dream of who she wanted to be.
“I thought you didn’t believe in marriage?” Alicia said.
“I don’t, for myself, or any serious actor. But for you, it’d be fine.”
“Thank God I’m not serious, then.”
Alicia crossed both arms across her chest.
“Actors are too involved with themselves,” Kate said. “The work is too demanding. You can’t give the necessary amount of consideration to both acting and another human being. It’s the same reason an actress shouldn’t be a mother.”
“I don’t believe in marriage either,” Novella chirped. “Because in Italy, no divorce.”
“Not to worry, a gal can get divorced here, no problem,” Kate said with a cackle. “And I know firsthand. Leesy, you should do it. Then I don’t have to listen to you bitch about your damned lack of a passport.”
“Maybe I will,” Alicia said with a sniff.
She hadn’t known Kate was so put off by her being displaced.
“I’ll get married, and go to Rome.”
“Terrific,” Kate said. “Anyone but that horrible Edmund Purdom.”
Alicia looked up.
“What’s wrong with Edmund?” she asked. “He’s very handsome.”
“And married.”
“I read that he’s separated from his wife.”
Had she read that? It sounded like it could be true, which did not necessarily mean that it was.
“Please.” Kate snorted. “Which venerable gossip columnist said that? Or did you make it up?”
“No, no, no,” Novella said, steering them to a conversation she might be able to follow. “Marrying is terrible idea if you want to go to Rome. Catholic Church. Tyrants.”
“Shelley Winters seems to have no trouble getting divorced in Italy,” Alicia said, not really joking, but the other women laughed, all the same.
The three gabbed until nearly dawn. After they said their overdue good-nights, Alicia went to bed in the blue guest room on Kate’s third floor. As she slipped between the sheets, Alicia felt happy, full, and a stitch drunk. The night had been more fun than most dates. Alicia took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered and her worries began to fade. She was so calm, and so at peace, that Alicia could nearly forget that somewhere in the city, Jack Kennedy and his new wife slumbered, side by side.
J. P. KENNEDY DAUGHTER WED TO PETER LAWFORD
Los Angeles Times, April 25, 1954
NEW YORK
Alicia left the Turtle Bay townhome in the early afternoon, still groggy though it was late in the day. She’d probably had too much wine the night before, and mornings at Kate’s were never peaceful. Phones and doorbells rang constantly as the cook and Wei Fung scuttled to and fro. The front door slammed every sixty minutes when Charles went outside to make sure no one had ticketed the car.
In no shape to hoof it the thirty-some-odd blocks uptown, Alicia hailed a cab. The driver dropped her in front of the Met, though Alicia had no plans to see the new Medieval gallery, or the Renoirs on loan. Though it probably would’ve been the more prudent idea.
Alicia headed toward Eighty-ninth Street. Nearing Madison, she saw that roads were blocked, and the streets were packed. Policemen held signs and blew whistles. Alicia’s heart quickened as she pushed through the increasingly dense throng.
So many people for Pat Kennedy was Alicia’s first thought, before she took in the preponderance of twinsets and taffeta skirts. Bobby-soxers: which meant they were there for Peter. Sometimes a Kennedy finished in second place. It felt like a victory of some kind.
Alicia fought through the girls, and the police and barricades, too, until she reached the wrought-iron fence of St. Thomas More. She stared up at the gray Gothic building and visualized the organ playing inside. She’d never be able to hear it, on account of all the squealing.
Shortly after four o’clock, the doors flew open. The crowd released a cheer as Pat stepped out. The late sun shot between the buildings, landing perfectly to illuminate her broad and cheerful face. Pat was glorious in her white satin gown, a single strand of pearls around her neck. She carried a bouquet of white orchids. Alicia formed a small, appreciative smile. Pat was truly the most beautiful of the Kennedy sisters.
Suddenly, one girl collapsed, and a swarm of hundreds broke through a police barrier. The authorities lost control as the girls rushed the couple, knocking off Pat’s veil. It took almost thirty policemen to usher the couple safely to their car, which itself could not move for another half hour.
As the policemen cleared a path, Alicia pivoted and walked off, the pandemonium ringing behind her. She looked back one final time, as if to say good-bye.
At that moment, Jack stepped out of the church.
In Alicia’s mind, the crowd hushed and all the sun’s rays fell on him. Jack lifted his head, and caught eyes with her. He jolted, then offered a wave, followed by a quick salute, and his droll Jack smile.
Alicia started to raise her hand, but then lowered it again. She’d already given Jack Kennedy more than he deserved. He continued to stare with a laser-like heat and Alicia allowed not a twitch to her face as she pivoted and strode away, shoving through the dwindling crowd as tears rolled down her cheeks.
* * *
“Tell Jimmy what’s wrong.”
Alicia was at the town house, sobbing, as Kate, known only to herself as “Jimmy,” rubbed her back.
“I’ve never seen you in such a state. You survived the Nazis. Surely you can’t be howling about something that occurred on the Upper East Side.”
“I’m sorry,” Alicia sniffled. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s about a man.”
“A goodly number of stories start that way, don’t they?” Kate said with a cluck. “Stop your moping. A broken heart is common as a cold. And you’ve shattered plenty yourself. Hugh O’Brian. Coop. I’m sure there’re others.”
Alicia released a quivery sigh.
“I didn’t break their hearts,” she said. “Cracked their egos, maybe. But they didn’t love me, and I didn’t love them. Especially not in the way I’ve known.”
“Oh, dear, here we go.…”
“I’ve tried to distance myself,” Alicia went on. “There are a million more suitable men in this world.”
�
��There are a million men, yes, until there is one. Oh, sugar.”
Kate inched closer and slung an arm around Alicia’s shoulders.
“Look at your big heart,” she said. “Jimmy thought you were a bit of a cold fish, a tad impenetrable, almost clueless at times.”
Alicia shook her head as tears dripped off her chin, landing on her clasped hands.
“This man,” Kate said, “did you rendezvous with him today?”
“Not really. I saw him from afar, and he saw me. We didn’t speak. I don’t know why I went. We were in love once, but he’s married now.”
Kate nodded, but her expression was pinched in Hepburn-style disapproval. Alicia gave a toss of the eyes. Katharine Hepburn was in no position to judge the coveting of a married man, as Mrs. Spencer Tracy would doubtless concur. At least Alicia hadn’t acted on her desires. Meanwhile, Kate couldn’t use the bathroom without checking Spence’s schedule first.
“He wasn’t married when I met him,” Alicia added. “And the kicker is, in some ways I feel badly for the woman. He can be so self-centered and has the grace of an untrained monkey. He’s also unreliable, and riddled with all manner of physical ailments. Also, I’d be remiss not to mention his efficient lovemaking. Too efficient, if you ask me.”
“Sounds like you have quite the list.”
“And that’s not all!”
Alicia twisted herself toward Kate, and tucked one leg beneath her. These things, they were all true, and that was the very problem. Jack invoked such a complex set of emotions, competing waves of rage and longing, that he was impossible to figure out.
“He’s not even that handsome!” Alicia said. “He’s too skinny, for one. His hair’s a mess and sometimes he’s less tan and more … jaundiced. I mean, compare him to Edmund Purdom, and it’s not close.”
“Good Lord, here we go with The Egyptian again.” Kate gave Alicia a thumbs-down. “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on the man. His ego is as big as the moon. His poor wife. Did you know that with his first big paycheck, he didn’t get her jewelry, or a car, but a nose bob?”
“He did?” Alicia said, touching her own nose, on reflex.
“Jack Kennedy is far more appealing than Ed Purdom, and is also far less of an ass.”
“What?” Alicia rattled in surprise. “What do you mean? Who said anything about Jack Kennedy?”
“So, you’re not in love with the senator from Massachusetts?” Kate said. “That’s not the ‘John’ character who romanced you on the Cape?”
Alicia exhaled so long and with such force, it was a wonder there was any breath left inside of her.
“Fine,” she said. “You’ve figured me out. The man I told you about was Jack Kennedy. I’m not going to ask how you know.”
She sighed again and was hit with the strong, swift relief of speaking his name. The last time Alicia had copped to Jack, she was wearing a Center Theatre tuxedo, and the listener was George.
“Sweet Leesy,” Kate said. “I won’t dissuade you from your feelings, and I certainly understand the appeal of auburn-haired Irishmen, though Spence is now mostly gray.”
“I want you to dissuade me,” Alicia said. “Jack is hopeless. Never mind that he’s married, his poor wife is married to him, and twenty other people, like his siblings and all those lackeys, each more kowtowing than the last. To speak nothing of that dreadful father.”
“His interests and demands would always come first,” Kate said, in a flat, almost weary tone. “That is true.”
Her gaze drifted toward the window.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Alicia said, “how I can love him so much when he gives me so little in return?”
Kate nodded, eyes fixed outside.
“When you love someone, what you get varies.” She regarded Alicia. “But you give because you love, not because you expect something. If you’re lucky, you may be loved back, which is a wonderful thing, but there is no guarantee.”
“That is a very depressing view of romance.”
“Is it?” Kate furrowed her brows. “True love is total devotion. And sometimes you really have to give all of yourself, every last miserable piece.”
“I don’t want that sort of relationship,” Alicia said, thinking of Kate following Spencer, fixing his hair, and his clothes, and every mess he ever made. “Love should be the story of two people, both devoted, with a cast of bit players on the side. I wouldn’t want the life that goes with Jack. I didn’t want that life, which is why I left.”
Kate let out a quick laugh.
“Is there something funny?” Alicia asked.
“Did you say that you left?”
“Not this most recent time, of course, what with Jacqueline Bouvier and all. I’m referring to when I left Hyannis Port. We were engaged, and then … a moment of clarity. I realized Jack’s life was not his own, and if I stayed with him, mine couldn’t be either.”
“You left,” Kate said again.
“I packed up my things, posted a letter, and took the next bus out of town. Luckily, I had somewhere to go thanks to a chance meeting with Don Class. I recognize your distaste for the man, but he was an escape route when I needed one, and I’m forever grateful.”
“You didn’t know about Don?” Kate said.
Alicia squinted.
“Do you mean that he’s a talent scout? I’d never heard of him until we met, so couldn’t compare him to Charles Feldman or any other agent you deem superior. But I was just a Polish girl on the Cape, selling popcorn, and dreaming big. Why, that sounds rather cinematic, doesn’t it? I should write it down.”
“No, I mean”—Kate shook her head again—“how is it you don’t know this? Everyone knows this, even people who have nothing to do with you.”
“What are you talking about?” Alicia asked, her hands going clammy. “Everyone knows what?”
“Oh, Alicia.” Kate chuckled sadly, both eyes closed. “Sweet girl, that was no ‘chance meeting.’ Joe Kennedy sent Class to find you, at your movie theater.”
“To find me? Why?”
Her heart pounded.
“The Ambassador paid Don Class thirty grand to get you out of Hyannis Port, and away from his boy.”
JUNE 2016
LOS ANGELES
At first, Serena resisted Lee’s invitation to stay at his house. A hotel would suit fine, and shacking up with a stranger is ill-advised, the one lesson a girl might learn from a mother who leaves.
But Lee promised her something better than a hotel, even more private, in the form of a two-bedroom guesthouse located beside a pool. The amenities impressed, certainly as compared to whatever grimy budget motel she would’ve been able to afford. Serena is to be reimbursed by the estate, but that implies she has money to spend. She maxed out her credit card for plane fare, and unless Leonard the lawyer can front her cash, the promise of reimbursement is beside the point.
With little choice, Serena accepted Lee’s offer and immediately realized his wealth was greater than suspected. She’d guessed at the Perenchios’ status, thanks to Big Jim Perenchio’s Rolex and Italian leather shoes, not to mention Lee’s inattention to the cost of things. Also, his sisters had an irritating propensity to broadcast their wealth, as if they were being paid for advertising space.
“Jim Perenchio! The world’s cheapest billionaire!”
They used the word “billionaire” so frequently, Serena assumed they were exaggerating. But Lee’s house tells her: not so.
“I don’t know,” Lee said, blushing, mumbling when Serena probed for details, “eight thousand square feet, give or take.”
Lee’s home has a pool, and a pool house. A tennis court. An art gallery. A room entirely for hanging the book bags of children who’d grown. It’s located in Brentwood, the fancy neighborhood where O. J. Simpson stabbed his ex-wife. Serena would’ve expected someone with that much money would live on the ocean. Later she’d learn about the house on Kauai and the beach riddle would be solved.
It’s the day after t
heir meeting with the lawyer, and it takes Alicia some time to find Lee. He’s in the sunroom, sipping coffee and pecking on his computer.
“I thought I asked you to start wearing a tracking device?” Serena halfway jokes as she saunters in.
“Hilarious,” he replies, barely looking up from the screen.
As Lee is between his Stanford graduation and Silicon Valley job, Serena wonders what this clicking and clacking is about. She leans over his shoulder. The ends of her hair tickle his collarbone, giving him chills.
“What are you working on?” she asks, thinking that Lee smells like a shower.
“Googling Alicia Corning Clark,” he says. “To see if there are any mentions of her having a kid. There’s nothing in the scrapbook. I’ve subscribed to, like, eleventy million newspaper sites—”
“Eleventy million?” Serena makes a face. “What kind of number is that?”
“It’s made up,” he says. “For emphasis. You know what I mean.”
She does, sort of. But why not use a real figure?
“Anyhow,” he says, eyes narrowing, a mite bearish. “I’m trying to pin down Alicia and it’s not easy. Her name was Barbara first. Then it was Alicia and Alicja—with a j—and Alice Marie and plain Alice, on occasion. Her last name is no easier. She’s had five of them, and often uses two or more at the same time, in any order.”
She had several occupations, too, Lee goes on to say, and newspapers mention varying birth years and homes. She is reportedly Polish but, every so often, is inexplicably “Viennese.” And then there are her paramours, coming quickly and in large numbers. Somehow Alicia has Hugh O’Brian “breathless” on the sixth and is “getting around at high speed” with Gary Cooper by the twelfth. The articles seem to be in clusters, a flurry of antics, and then Alicia disappears for months or years at a time. Lee is tracking the information on a spreadsheet. Alicia Clark: a mathematical problem to solve.
“This woman was nuts,” he says. “All the men, the fighting in bars, the breaking and entering and bouncing of checks.”
Serena nods, thinking it’s not so outlandish that Alicia might be her grandmother, considering her mother’s temperament. Not that Novella was any sort of schoolmarm. After all, she was a key player in many peccadilloes—stripteases, love affairs, what have you.
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