“You work as if your next meal depended on it,” he would say. It did, for I supported myself!
Paul surprised me one afternoon by saying, “Let’s go pick out a ring!”
It was exciting. We stopped at Tiffany’s, then Cartier, before ending up at Paul Flato’s, the “jeweler to the stars.” Flato was the first designer whose work was considered comparable to European masters. We were both captivated by a particularly beautiful square-cut diamond, about six or seven karats.
Knowing you are loved by the one you love is the sweetest thing in one’s life. The weeks following that crazy cab ride through Central Park are filled with the happiest and most exciting memories. He loved me, that was for sure. I loved him, too, and gave myself to him completely, with no regrets.
Of course I told Betzi, Ware, and Jeannie, but no one else, not even Paul’s mother. Understandably, she would have had a stroke on learning he was engaged and planning to marry yet again, for the fifth time. I did put a call in to my mother, who immediately invited us both to come visit her on Martha’s Vineyard, where she and my little sisters were spending the summer.
We planned to go as soon as I closed at the Stork Club, but until then, for the next few weeks, Paul and I began to see New York together. Everything seemed so new, so much more exciting than it did before I’d met him!
We bought matching little stuffed Donald Duck dolls together, one for him, one for me. He took me to the opera, to Broadway openings, horse shows, prizefights, political rallies, and the Botanical Garden and the Aquarium in the Bronx. Being with Paul was like being in a whole new world. At night it was his custom to meet me after my last show, or we’d meet for lunch at places like Armando’s, Le Coq Rouge, Mon Paris, or 21.
One afternoon, we drove out to Ridgefield, Connecticut, about a two-hour trip from Manhattan, to Rully and Sunny’s spectacular home for dinner. Sunny gaily showed us around their enormous colonial estate in the foothills of the Berkshires and, after a delightful evening, we left.
Driving through the countryside, we stopped for a moment, off the road overlooking the Hudson River. It was nightfall and the fragrance of flowers surrounded us. Paul turned and said, “Teddy, dear—you seem to be in another world, like a fairy princess, enchanting and beautiful. I’m afraid I have fallen in love with you.”
“Don’t you be afraid, Paul. I am.”
He took me in his arms.
CHAPTER 9
MARTHA’S VINEYARD
I wanted to introduce Paul to Martha’s Vineyard, the island off Cape Cod, that had been such an important part of my childhood. We drove up along the New England coast in his car until we reached Woods Hole, where we took the ferry across the fifteen or so miles to the Vineyard. As the boat rounded the buoy and headed in toward the wharf, the smell of pine trees and bay brush carried across the hot, still water from West Chop.
To starboard we passed a colonial mansion, then considered the showplace of the island. “That’s Thorncroft,” I said as I pointed it out to Paul. “That’s Uncle Herbert’s summer home when he’s not running around at the stock exchange. My grandfather, John Herbert Ware, built it in the 1920s, and the entire family has been coming here ever since. I feel I grew up here, on this island, in this sun.”
“It’s a magnificent mansion,” Paul said.
“It’s just ‘coming home’ to me,” I replied. The Vineyard to me meant magical summers of faded blue jeans; hot summer days in a Wee Scot (that’s a sailboat) in a Vineyard Haven Yacht Club race; a gritty beach picnic in the dunes at South Beach with clams, lobsters, and corn on the cob and a roaring driftwood fire; the snapping off of Coke bottle caps with a fifty-cent piece when some idiot had forgotten to bring the opener; and fierce sunburns that almost ruined the night at the Yacht Club Dance.
As the ferry inched toward the dock, we glided by the yachts, all white and shipshape, and tiny children, in their rowboats or dinghies, waved greetings to us.
Driving up island, we turned off at Lambert’s Cove Road, and drove through miles of oak woods and scrub pine. We passed waving grassy fields and luscious green lawns. Suddenly before us stood a rambling island house, all white, with freshly painted green shutters. This was Wild Acres, Mother’s summer home. We got out at the little cutting garden near the patio and carried our bags to where my two beautiful blond sisters, Nancy and Barbara, and my mother, in a sparkling white dress, stood beaming at the door.
Paul’s room was charmingly done with a spool bed and antique prints, multipaned windows and wide floorboards. The room was on the second floor, with a view overlooking the tiny duck pond, and beyond that, Vineyard Sound toward the Elizabeth Islands.
After an enjoyable family dinner, the girls went with their nurse for their evening walk on the beach. Mother, Paul, and I went to a movie at the Eagle Theatre in Oak Bluffs. We bought popcorn from Darling’s candy shop and walked across the circle to the Flying Horses, the oldest merry-go-round still working in the nation. We tried for the brass ring for a free ride but didn’t catch it.
The next afternoon, Paul and I drove up island to the famous Priscilla Hancock’s to buy her luscious homemade chocolates. Then we walked South Beach in our bathing suits and wondered if there were notes in the bottles drifting ashore. The surf was high, but Paul went into it in a rush. I followed him, if only to prove I wasn’t scared, but I found myself being carried out by a strong undertow. Suddenly helpless, I lost my footing. Paul’s hand grabbed mine just in time. With a sudden strong pull, he broke through the next wave, with me in tow, and we fell laughing on the beach together.
Lying there in the warmth of the sun on this deserted beach, with only the gulls watching us, he reached over and pulled me to him and, in spite of the sand, beguiled by the smell of the sea and the taste of salt water on our bodies, we made love.
We lay there for what seemed like a long, long time. Finally opening my eyes, I saw he was watching me and picking off several little ants that were running up my arms. We both started to laugh, and it flashed through my mind how scandalous it would have been if the police or lifeguards had suddenly appeared.
We dressed, then drove home slowly across the sandspit and the beach to Vineyard Haven, with its shipyards, the ancient Seamen’s Bethel, and the side-wheeler ferry at the dock, waiting to take tourists away from this fantasyland. Then we drove up to West Chop to visit other members of my family, tanned beyond belief, busy having fun, one and all with sun-bleached hair. Like my mother, the other descendants of John Herbert Ware all lived near Thorncroft, the main house. Paul met them all—Betty Bassett, Jack Ware, and my cousins—those two stalwart six-foot-and-more von Colditz boys, who even then gave promise of conquering the world. It wasn’t long ago that one of them, Herbert von Colditz, built his own sailboat in Holland and sailed it, under sail alone, across the Atlantic, bringing his family to call on me in California after a trip through the Canal to the Pacific.
That evening after dinner, Paul, Mother, and I sat out on the sun porch facing the Sound, and watched a beautiful day turn slowly into a magical night. We could see the gulls flying over the sand dunes to their nests in the cliffs beyond and small sailboats heading homeward, their sails catching the freshening breeze, with spinnakers bulging out. We could even hear the voices and laughter of those on board as they sped past.
A perfect Vineyard day was coming to an end. How I loved it, and how I longed to stay there and never leave the peace and the unique privacy of Wild Acres . . . the green lawn leading down to our private beach . . . the view of the mainland in the distance . . . the barn at the entrance to our road, where my brothers and I had held dances and parties every summer as we grew up . . . the adorable playhouse that my sisters practically lived in. I turned to Paul and asked, “Do you really like our island?”
“It’s perfect,” he answered. “And Wild Acres is a great tribute to you, Louise. I hope you will let me come for a visit again.”
“Not without me,” I said. Mother smiled. I decided to leave th
em together, so I excused myself and ran upstairs to kiss my sisters good night.
Of course, they wanted to know all about Paul . . . and especially his silver car—a sleek DeSoto Airflow. It looked like a bullet, and they couldn’t wait to go for a ride. The next morning, he took them on the road through the woods leading to our house and amazed them by steering the car with only his pinkie on the wheel. To this day they have never forgotten.
Later, when I joined Paul, he told me that Mother was not too happy about my marrying a man twice my age, who had been married four times and divorced four times.
“Your mother is really quite right to object, since you are so much younger and have never been married before. And of course, my record isn’t that good, but I told her I love you and would like us to be engaged, since I have never been engaged before . . . and I asked that she approve.”
“Did she?”
“Yes,” he said. “She did,” and then he laughed. “You know, when I asked her to tell me what she thought you would need for an allowance to run a house . . .”
“But, Paul, we aren’t going to have a house,” I exclaimed, “not yet. We’re only going to be engaged.”
“I know, but I wanted her thought.”
“So?”
“ ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘it depends on where you are going to make your home. If it is a New York apartment, that’s one thing, a log cabin, another.’ ” As he told me this, he smiled a very understanding smile and said, “Teddy, I realized right then that your doll of a mother would never interfere. She is a great lady.”
On our last day, we rented a small sailboat in Edgartown, slipped out of the harbor, and sailed over to Chappaquiddick Island. “Someday we’ll come back here, Teddy,” Paul said. I knew he loved his own California beach and this was a new experience for him . . . a test for me, too, because had Paul not liked the island lifestyle, I might have been slightly turned off. I was so happy he liked my island.
That afternoon, we drove to Menemsha, a fishing village with fresh lobsters and clams. Nestled into the surrounding hills, the quaint community of small graying summer homes was known for its picturesque fishing fleet. We walked out to the Coast Guard Station at the end of the dock. As we walked, shells crunched underfoot. “Let’s try the clams,” he said, and we made a beeline for the clam bar, where we each finished off twelve little necks on the half shell.
“And now?” Paul asked.
“To Gay Head.” Gay Head was the Indian reservation where the harpooner in Moby-Dick came from. We headed for the cliffs topped by the huge lighthouse at the end of the island. We climbed, digging our toes into blue, black, red, and yellow clay. Time and the pounding surf had finally worn away most of the colored clay into the sea, which stretched below. Paul bought a clay ashtray from an Indian. He also presented me with a ninety-eight-cent beaded ring . . . “Till Flato’s is ready,” he said.
At sunset, we drove home to a feast Mother had prepared. We left Wild Acres the next morning, and I fought back tears as we said good-bye to my beautiful mother and adorable, teasing sisters. We hurried to catch the first ferry to the mainland, then drove to New York.
On the way, I noticed Paul made notes occasionally in a little book. Though we were together constantly, he never discussed his business with me, and I knew little of his wealth and power. It was only later that I discovered that each corner where he had made a notation was the future location of a Tidewater Oil gas station.
CHAPTER 10
SUTTON PLACE
Several weeks later, while having dinner at the Louis XIV Restaurant in Rockefeller Plaza, Paul told me he was planning to leave soon for London on business. He wanted to take some of my records with him. He had met the great Wagnerian opera singer Kirsten Flagstad, had told her about my voice, and had asked her advice.
She immediately recommended that he contact the world-renowned singing teacher Madame Blanche Marchesi, in London. She was the daughter of Mathilde and Salvatore Marchesi, who were the famous teachers of Nellie Melba, Etelka Gerster, and Sybil Sanderson, the beautiful singer from California who was acclaimed as the “Girl with the Eiffel Tower Voice.”
“So, Teddy, I was planning to see her and will ask her to listen to your recordings.”
I realized that Paul was serious, and suddenly I was scared that no matter what he thought, maybe I didn’t have the true vocal ability for a career in concert or opera. Nevertheless, by the time Paul was ready to sail for Southampton, he was loaded down with my demo recordings. That very night, out at dinner, Paul took my hand and slipped the real engagement ring onto my finger. He gave me a great big kiss and said, “Now, darling, it’s official. We’re engaged.”
I looked down at the ring and whispered, “It’s more beautiful than when you picked it out.”
“You chose it, too, Teddy,” Paul said. “Are you pleased?”
“Pleased?” I laughed. “I’m ecstatic . . . elated . . . delighted . . . delirious . . . with joy . . . and I’ll never take it off. Never. I swear.”
“Good.” Paul smiled, and then called for the check. “Come on, Teddy, I have another surprise for you. We can’t be late!”
He hailed a cab. After a short ride across town, we pulled up in front of a huge apartment house on the East River: Number 1 Sutton Place South, right on the corner of 57th Street. There, we were met by the resident manager, who escorted us up to the penthouse. At the doorway, he handed Paul the keys.
We crossed the threshold into one of the most exquisite apartments in the city of New York. From the marble-floored entrance hall, we walked through a music room and into a drawing room at least forty feet long, with a high, gilded ceiling and elegant French furnishings. On one wall hung a seventeenth-century Beauvais tapestry. Opposite was a great marble fireplace flanked by two French doors. The doors led out to a terrace; I later found to my amazement that it ran around the entire penthouse. I could circle the whole block from 57th to 58th Street without leaving the apartment.
Although it was ten in the evening, every room was lighted, as if we had been expected. On the coffee table in front of the couch, facing the fireplace, was a champagne bucket with a bottle and two glasses, just waiting.
As we walked through the rooms, he told me he was no longer at the Plaza, that he’d leased the penthouse from the Hon. Mrs. Frederick Guest (Amy, daughter of American entrepreneur Henry Phipps), and had moved in that morning. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“Like it? Of course I like it! It’s fantastic, but aren’t you going to be lonely living here by yourself? It’s so huge.”
“Not if you are with me.”
“Paul, you know I can’t do that. What would people say?”
“What they say anyway.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I know . . . but your mother . . .”
“And yours, and society.”
“But we are engaged.”
“Yes, but only as of tonight.” I looked at the ring on my finger, sparkling in the moonlight. “Darling, it’s sooo beautiful,” I said. “And I’m so proud of it.”
“Well, I’m proud to be marrying the granddaughter of Henry Charles Lytton,” Paul replied, putting his arms around me.
My mouth dropped open as I looked at him. “What did you say? Why did you say that? You don’t even know my grandfather. Maybe you wouldn’t like him.”
“Oh, but I do! I met him yesterday.”
“You . . . ? You mean . . .”
“I mean, I decided to call on him, and I did. In fact, I went up to see him at his apartment, and we had a most interesting talk. He is a brilliant businessman, remarkable for his age—ninety-one, isn’t he? Thinks I might be good for you.”
“Oh, does he? Did you tell him you’ve been married four times?”
“Yes.”
“And divorced four times?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say to that?”
“That you will be good for me!” This made him smile. “He was pl
eased that we are engaged. Of course, he doesn’t approve of separations, therefore he thinks it unwise for you to study in London. Thinks you can study here. Still, he admires your spirit and courage in making a career for yourself, and wishes you well.”
“He was a singer himself when he was young.”
“I know. A baritone. Still has a great speaking voice. And, by the way, he invited us to come out to Roslyn for lunch any Sunday. Shall we go?”
I could only nod, for I was still in shock at what Paul had said—that he was “proud to be marrying the granddaughter of Henry Charles Lytton.” After what Dad and Bailey had done—and why they’d done it—it meant the world to me to hear Paul say those words. It was all I needed to make me accept who I was and no longer be afraid or ashamed.
From the terrace, the view of the city in every direction was astonishing, especially at night. And, in the late 1930s, the buildings, though not so high or close together, still resembled a jungle of sparkling lights. We stood looking down at the East River, watching the ships head upstream until they disappeared under the 59th Street Bridge, which connects Manhattan to Queens, or downriver, past the tip of Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty, leading out to sea.
All at once, I became aware that the roar of the city traffic had been muffled by sweet music drifting out to us from the drawing room. “That’s the new Muzak system I had installed. Isn’t it great?” Paul said. Muzak was a novelty then—not yet in every airport, elevator, and public restroom—and very fashionable.
“Come, Teddy,” Paul said. “Let’s dance.” I followed him inside and into his arms and we twirled around the room, ending up on the couch in front of the marble fireplace, which Paul had miraculously lighted. I remember as if it were yesterday that I leaned back and closed my eyes for just a moment and then heard a cork pop and the sound of two glasses being filled. There was Paul, offering me a glass of champagne and saying, “To us, Teddy. I’m happy. Are you?”
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 6