By now Paul was making many trips back and forth to Tulsa, and no matter where he was, in his office or car, he would catch my program, and phone or send me letters filled with “Bravo’s” or critiques of the songs I had chosen to sing.
CHAPTER 28
THE RANCH
During these years, Paul often confided that he longed to have a building large enough to house his growing art collection, which up until then was partly on loan to museums and partly in storage. At one time, he seriously considered building a small museum next to the beach house; even had plans drawn up, but for some reason didn’t carry it through.
Then, one afternoon, in the summer of 1945, I had just come in from swimming when Paul phoned from his office. “Get dressed, darling,” he said. “I’m coming to pick you up. I want to show you a property.” So I quickly slipped into blue jeans and a shirt, draped a towel around my wet hair, and dashed out to meet him. As we took off up the Pacific Coast Highway, toward Malibu, I asked where we were going. He smiled and said, “You’ll see, darling.” Expecting it might be a one- or two-hour drive, I curled up in the seat and started to towel-dry my hair.
About ten minutes later, just past where Sunset Boulevard meets the Coast Highway, past that famous restaurant, Chez Roland, where, it was said, Thelma Todd had been murdered years before, Paul suddenly slowed down. He pulled off to the right of the highway and stopped in front of two very large spiked iron gates.
Without explanation, he got out of the car, took a huge key from his pocket, inserted it in a recessed lock, and slowly, the huge gates opened.
We drove through and the gates closed slowly behind us. For a moment we just sat there. It was so quiet . . . like we were in another world. All around were huge trees, big bushes. A winding dirt road lay ahead. I was speechless. We drove slowly past three ponds of clear, fresh water surrounded by lilies and ferns. Paul pointed over to the left and said, “These pools are fed by the only fresh springwater close to the Pacific Coast Highway, between Santa Monica and Santa Barbara. In the early history of Los Angeles, whenever the famous bandit Joachim Murrieta rode up the coast with his men, they always stopped here to water their horses and refill their water bags.”
“How fabulous” was all I managed to say, amazed at Paul’s knowledge of the history of the place, but before I could ask him to tell me more, we passed a huge sycamore grove—the trees old, bent, and gnarled with time, but still green with foliage. Suddenly, a field of heavily laden avocado trees came into view . . . and a lemon grove across from which nestled a quaint, tiny Spanish adobe house, almost hidden in a sea of flowering bushes. “What fun it would be to live there, I thought as we sped by. Then finally, rounding a bend in the road, Paul pulled up in front of a magnificent old Spanish hacienda with a tile roof and a tower, which seemed to fit right into the hills behind it, and I heard him turn the motor off.
For the longest moment I just sat there and stared at this rambling old hacienda, half expecting a Spanish grandee to walk out the front door and greet us . . . but no one appeared.
“Look, Teddy,” Paul said, pulling me away and excitedly pointing down toward the sea. “Isn’t this view stupendous? See the sailboats and Catalina? What an incredible site.” And it was.
Past the sloping luscious green lawn, which ended where it met the lemon and avocado groves below, one could see trees, the blue Pacific and sailboats, with Catalina Island on the horizon, but there was absolutely no sign of the Pacific Coast Highway and no noise from cars speeding by—not like today. It had a sweet acrid scent of sand, clay, underbrush, and fruit, and the cool soft wind coming up the valley from the sea was enchanting.
“Paul,” I said, still mesmerized by the beauty surrounding us, “who owns this place . . . and . . . what are we doing here?”
“It’s ours, darling,” he said. “I just bought it from Claude Parker, who has owned it since the early twenties. He named it the Sentimental Canyon, and bought it from the Marquez family, who were granted the land by the king of Spain when California was under Spanish rule. Just think, Teddy,” he went on, “we are the second Americans to own this Spanish grant, which originally ran from Topanga Canyon all the way down to California Street in Santa Monica and back as far as the San Vicente Rancho. Now all that’s left of the original Boca di Santa Monica Ranch is forty acres and this great old hacienda.” He turned to me. “Do you like it, darling?”
“Do I like it? Oh, Paul,” I cried, “it’s wonderful! But what about the little house we passed on the way up here? Who lives there?”
“No one, darling. It’s a guesthouse . . . and beyond are the stables and homes for the ranch hands . . . but right now, let’s go exploring.” And that’s just what we did. First, the hacienda itself, with its charming old rooms and, to my delight, a theater with a stage, which I secretly claimed as mine.
Almost immediately Paul began making plans to rebuild the hacienda, to create a courtyard that would lead to the entrance of a museum, large enough to house his growing art collection. Paul had topsoil transported from there to the beach, and arranged for a lawn to be sown and a high fence to be built, and soon we were no longer just a pretty house sitting in sand, by the sea, but a pretty house sitting on the only prettiest green lawn on Santa Monica’s seashore.
FOR ME, THE summer of 1945 passed by too swiftly. As I remember it, our marriage seemed to be on the verge of an even higher plane of feeling. We were becoming increasingly sensitive to each other and to the hundred thousand different ways you see and feel and know the one you love and appreciate. There were the good times and the not so good, but above all, I loved and was loved. I felt serenely secure in my marriage, which was all the more exciting because it had successfully bridged the storms of time, war, separation, and other people. Sometimes on a Sunday, Paul’s two youngest sons, Paul and Gordon, would come for lunch. They were adorable boys. Well mannered and interested in everything. One Sunday we took them with us to see a matinee performance of Pagliacci, with the great tenor Giovanni Martinelli singing the leading role. It was a wonderful afternoon.
On August 6, 1945, President Harry Truman gave the order to drop the atom bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, completely wiping out the city. Five days later a second bomb destroyed Nagasaki, and Japan sued for peace.
On September 1 (Tokyo time), the Japanese Delegation surrendered to General Douglas MacArthur aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay. Paul and I were at the beach house when we heard President Truman and General MacArthur speak, and with tears of gratitude we thanked God that the world was at long last at peace.
The following day, Sunday, September 2, 1945, the world celebrated VJ Day. It was the hottest day at the beach in years; the temperature was 100 degrees. Paul and I spent the morning swimming in the sea and, later, as we relaxed in the large lounge chairs on the cool green grass lawn, we talked about the future of our world at peace.
We recalled that although we had met just prior to the actual outbreak of war, the world had been in an almost constant restless state. We spoke of our love and friendship. How fortunate that, in spite of the chaos of war and the two years of separation, we had found each other again.
I had most certainly grown up a great deal since I’d first met Paul, and like all married couples we had weathered quite a few storms. He wasn’t the easiest of husbands. We did, however, try to understand each other, and the trying seemed to be the key. Even though he was a very important businessman and a resourceful one, I felt he needed me, and I knew I needed him.
I was now more mature and capable of understanding the man and the genius inside this man, which drove him to incessantly reach out for greater goals. He was at this time working to make the changeover in Spartan from wartime to postwar production and he worked endlessly and hard to accomplish this.
At the same time, he was in constant contact regarding the plans for the ranch house and the museum. John Byers, who had been the architect for the beach house, was to do the ranch house. Jack Bonar was to do the inte
rior decorating and the Macco Construction Company to be the builders. This took months of preparation and years to bring to reality, as did the magnificent reconversion of the lawns, orchards, gardens, and courtyard, which landscape artist William Beresford designed. All this, so Paul’s precious art objects, tapestries, paintings, furniture, and statuary could be safely and securely displayed in a setting worthy of them.
In the doing, Paul was always leaving for somewhere. To Spartan in Tulsa, to the Pierre in New York, or to Bakersfield to check on a new oil well. I appreciated his desire to spread his wings and fly, but like any woman in love I hated to be left behind when the moment of parting arrived, and I never understood why he didn’t want me to go with him.
Rudyard Kipling once wrote: “He travels the fastest who travels alone.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote, “The heights by great men reached and kept / Were not attained by sudden flight, / But they, while their companions slept, / Were toiling upward in the night.”
Both of these quotes might have been written to describe Paul—driven as if by some inner force not only to accomplish one job successfully, but, even before its conclusion, to be seeking another. Not solely for monetary gain, but for his own satisfaction and expression. Work was his very own happiness, which he could not share with another. This was Paul. He was happy to be married—confident and secure in his marriage—but apparently unable to resist his compulsion to conquer new projects.
Late one afternoon, the telephone rang. It was Livingston Pomeroy. I hadn’t seen him since our prison days in Italy.
“Teddy,” he said, “I’m on my way to the Orient. Can I stop by for a moment to say hi?”
“Pom—by all means do,” I replied. “And stay for dinner.”
Immediately, I called Paul at the office to tell him.
“Why don’t you two just have dinner together,” he said. “After all, I’m sure you have lots to talk about. Besides, I have a full evening of work to do at the office.”
Livingston arrived, and it was fun recalling the mad escapades we had gone through in Rome. We had barely finished dinner when Paul walked in. As I introduced them I noticed Paul seemed taken aback by the apparent boyish attractiveness of this young man.
After a few moments, Livingston looked at his watch and said, “Well, if I hope to make my plane I’d better leave.” Then, looking directly at Paul he asked, “Mr. Getty, do you mind if I kiss your wife good-bye?”
“Why, uh, no,” Paul replied. “Of course not. Go right ahead.”
Then he watched as Livingston leaned over, put his arms around me, and kissed me very tenderly on the mouth.
After what seemed more than a moment, Livingston released me, and a bit flustered, excitedly grabbed Paul’s hand, pumping it up and down, all the while saying, “Thanks, Mr. Getty. Good-bye, Teddy, cara, I love you.” And with that, he bounded out the door, through the patio, and down the street to his waiting car.
We stood quietly for a moment as it sped off. Walking back to the patio, Paul grabbed my hand. “I must say, Teddy, that was quite a kiss. Livingston really looked as though he meant it.”
I smiled. “Yes . . . I think he did.” I always wondered about this kiss, and never saw Pom Pom again.
WHEN HELEN AINSWORTH and Mr. Morton decided to be my agents, after my Santa Barbara concert, I was thrilled because NCAC was world-renowned and I was very grateful to have that office send me out on concert tours . . . which also resulted in my own radio show over the American Broadcasting System.
Helen, who resembled Kate Smith, was a wonderful human being. Kind and helpful to all her clients, she worked hard to set them on their way, but beneath that infectious laugh of hers was a woman who, in childhood, had been utterly destroyed by her very prominent father, Dr. Schumate.
When she was young, he was embarrassed of her size, and insisted she always walk behind him whenever they were together, thus shattering her self-esteem. Finally, after graduating from Mills College, she married, later divorced, came to Los Angeles, and joined the West Coast offices of National.
One day, I had an interview at Universal Studios, and was promptly sent to sing in the Casbah sequence of the film Scheherazade, based on the life of Rimsky-Korsakov and starring Jean-Pierre Aumont and Yvonne De Carlo.
After recording my songs and posing for press release pictures, I sang a concert at Marymount College. Paul was there, and in his diary he recorded, Teddy’s concert a success, I’m proud of her.
The following afternoon, Paul and I went to hear La Traviata at the Shrine, and that evening Paul and Jefty O’Connor attended a reception for Admiral Bull Halsey at Mayor Bowron’s house. When Paul arrived home, he was exuberant. He said, “Teddy, tonight I shook hands with a hero.”
Late the next afternoon I heard a car swerve into the garage and come to a fast stop. It was Paul. He rushed into the house and called, “Teddy—Robert—hurry, help me pack. I’m leaving on the California Limited for Tulsa.” He had one suitcase full of clothes and four suitcases full of books. I drove him to the railway station in Pasadena and, again, he was off on one of those whirlwind tours of his factory, oil wells, and hotel.
The following week, during the filming of the Casbah sequence at Universal Studios, I suddenly became very ill. It was the first time in my life I had ever been so sick. Harry was on the set and rushed me to a doctor. I don’t remember too much about it except that I was able to live through the pain, return to the studio, and film the scene. I went home to bed, and the next morning I awoke feeling fine.
That evening I telephoned Paul in Tulsa and told him all about it. I also told him that NCAC had an offer from an independent producer, who, having seen me on the set of Scheherazade, wanted me to play the part of a singer in a movie that was to be shot in January. They suggested I read the script. NCAC did, and thought it would be good for me.
Paul said, “That’s great, darling, but it’s a long way off. And before you sign a contract, have Tom look it over.”
IT WAS SATURDAY, December 15—Paul’s birthday. He was in Tulsa. I sent him a huge bouquet of red roses and chrysanthemums. As usual, he was at the factory from nine to six, even though it was a Saturday, supervising the changeover from military vehicle to trailer manufacturing.
I was upset thinking he would not be home for Christmas, but on December 21, he arrived just in time to host a small dinner party I was giving, honoring Vivianne Della Chiesa, who was in Los Angeles on a concert tour.
On Christmas Eve, we stayed at home. Robert was perched atop a ladder, trimming the Christmas tree, and our house was already welcoming the holiday, with a beautiful Christmas wreath on the front door, a life-size Santa Claus on the lawn, white pots filled with red poinsettias on tables in the patio entrance, and boxes and boxes of ornaments piled high in the living room.
To my knowledge, the only serious fight I ever had with Paul Getty was on this December 24, 1945. I had just finished wrapping the gifts Paul had chosen to give his two youngest sons, Paul and Gordon. Happily, I carried them downstairs to show Paul, who was sitting in his favorite big green chair in the living room, going through a huge pile of business papers, which should have been taboo on Christmas . . . But he looked up, smiled, and said, “Thanks, darling, these wrappings are truly beautiful—I hope the boys also like what’s inside.”
“Of course they will, Paul,” I replied. “Only you better hurry up and deliver them. Christmas is tomorrow, and I’m sure the boys will wake up at dawn to see what Santa has left under their tree.”
“Oh, Teddy, why don’t you phone and see if they can come and pick them up? I’m sure Mrs. Rork can drive them out this afternoon.”
“Paul Getty, are you mad?” I said. “One doesn’t ask one’s children to come and pick up Christmas gifts from their father’s house. The excitement is to surprise them on Christmas morning . . . Also, you can’t expect their grandmother to drive. It’s Christmas Eve, she’s probably extremely busy, and furthermore, the traffic will be horrendous this aft
ernoon. No, you must go now, it won’t take you long.”
Paul, annoyed, looked up, put down his paper, and said, “Just call, Teddy.”
“No, I won’t,” I snapped back. And with that, I pulled the enormous Christmas wreath off the door, slammed it over his head, and ran as fast as I could upstairs. I could hear him swearing, “Damn you, Teddy, I’m going to beat you up for this!” So I rushed into the bathroom, grabbed my large hand mirror and scared though I was, faced him as he stormed in. For a moment I thought he was really going to hit me, but I managed to say, “Don’t you dare, Paul Getty, or I’ll—” and I raised my hand mirror. He stopped, turned, and walked out. I slammed the door shut, locked it, and burst into tears.
Later, I heard a door slam, heard some bells on the front gate jingle, and in minutes saw a sudden burst of exhaust as his car shot out of the garage onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Looking back, I realized that, beyond his being furious at having to give up his precious time, was the worry that maybe the wreath might have ruined his face-lift.
Hours later, he came home and knocked on my door. I opened it, and he stood there for just a moment looking at me; then, taking me in his arms, he whispered, “You were right, darling, forgive me.” Unexpectedly, desire for this man swept over me as he kissed my mouth and breasts and passionately pulled me down on our bed. The zipper refusing him, he tore off my negligee and entered me. During those next hours, we were one—the exquisite coming together—the peace of love.
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 21