Next, Charles said, “We also need airplanes.”
“What?” I asked.
“They need to have private planes to fly them from the HemisFair in San Antonio to Houston for your ball.”
Not many people had private planes big enough unless they were attached to companies, which would certainly not lend them for this purpose. The planes had to seat twenty people each. The prince and princess flew on separate planes (for the sake of their children, in case disaster struck) and divided their guests between the two of them. I found friends with the two planes with twenty seats. However, I gave no thought to the luggage. When the big day arrived, it was chaos. Once those two private planes were unloaded, nobody knew which luggage was to go in which limo. I had no way to help sort it out.
I remember everybody milling around the airport tarmac, disgruntled and hot under the Texas sun, asking these very elegant people which of the bags belonged to them. These people were not accustomed to being involved in anything so mundane. The limousines puffed away, while dukes and duchesses and ministers of this and that waded through piles of suitcases to claim their personal belongings.
I decided not to worry about it. I was going to take care of Grace and Rainier. So off I went, leaving everybody else to deal with the luggage fiasco. I wouldn’t do that today, but being young, I thought, “They’ll manage.” And they did.
I had heard that the couple’s favorite song was “True Love” from Princess Grace’s film High Society. I thought, “I’ll get the Houston Choir to sing it when they arrive.” How romantic—a one-hundred-voice choir trilling in the soft night air. I asked the choir members to dress in black because I didn’t want them to look like colorful lollipops.
I wore a beautiful white organza dress with bronze beads and an organza purple coat, another gift from Rodriguez. Local jewelers offered glittering accessories. I chose a magnificent sixty-carat sapphire surrounded by diamonds on a diamond chain. I had the finery but had only fifteen minutes to dress, with so many party details to check! I didn’t have to ask people for favors; God provided. Something always appeared when I needed it. The ball was a success. Everyone had fun, and Grace and Rainier danced and talked to the guests as if they were old friends. They stayed until long after midnight, enchanting everyone. (They must have liked us because they invited Bob and me to accompany them on their trip to Mexico to see the ruins of Chichén Itzá. We accepted and had fun!)
When we aired the show about the prince and princess’s royal visit to Texas in 1968, it was a ratings bonanza. I had come a long way from those early days in my TV career.
I had hoped my TV show would assuage my need to socialize, and it did for a time. But my marriage encountered other obstacles that proved insurmountable.
While the men in my social circle to this point had been tantalizing, a man was about to enter my life who seemed far more than a temptation. He made the prospect of leaving my old life a much more enticing notion.
Charles de Chambrun, the man I had met through the HemisFair event, had invited me to France. I went, even though, with children and a daily TV show, it was not easy. As charming as Charles was, I felt I could not go alone. So I invited Camilla Blaffer to chaperone me. She spoke perfect French and was thrilled to be introduced into the circle of the oldest and best titles of France.
We arrived in Paris to find that Charles had been called away on state business. But he had arranged everything perfectly, asking the Duke and Duchess de la Rochefoucauld to become my guardian angels. She was the most celebrated hostess in Paris and he was the twenty-first duke. These French aristocrats invited me on boar shoots and for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at a glamorous palace every day. It was heady wine—and plenty of it flowed in the goblets of this gilded group.
Charles de Chambrun returned and said, “This is amazing. I come back to find you are everybody’s best friend.”
Charles had arranged for me to stay at the Ritz Hotel, where I met the exclusive and reclusive Charles Ritz, whose father had built both Ritz hotels. Ritz had no children and took a fatherly fancy to me. He took great pride in my social success. I became known at the hotel as the “daughter” of the Ritz, where I never took the elevator but always ran the stairs to exercise. The staff loved to tell Mr. Ritz that I ran up and down five flights of stairs in high heels. I never paid a hotel bill at the Ritz, and I was even allowed to have parties, all a gift from the legendary Mr. Ritz. As if that wasn’t enough, he had me to lunch with Coco Chanel and the Cartier family before I left.
Meanwhile, Charles de Chambrun introduced me to the heirs to the French throne, Princess Napoléon and the Countess of Paris, granddaughter of the last king. I learned to curtsy and to whom. With the Ritz as my palace and sponsors such as Charles and the duchess, I was enjoying the bubbles of my frothy new life. And romance in Paris, the most romantic of cities, did come.
By the end of the trip, the only Frenchman I considered marrying was Raymond Marcellin, French minister of the interior. This minister appoints the governors and the mayors and controls the French equivalents of the CIA and FBI. Everybody admired and feared Marcellin, as he had access to everybody’s secrets.
I met him with Claude de Kemoularia, who became French ambassador to the UN. Claude’s wife laughingly introduced me often as her husband’s American girlfriend. (As there was no romance whatever, I thought it was funny. But my mother said, “She introduced you as what? That’s not funny!”) With Claude I met the Rothschilds and had lunch at Château Mouton Rothschild, the château that produces the famous wine.
Then he introduced me to Raymond Marcellin. “You will not be sorry,” he said. I was not sorry.
Maxim’s was then the grand restaurant of Paris, not because of the food, but because of its ambiance. It was the place to see and be seen. Marcellin came driving up in a ministerial car with flags flying on the fenders. Everyone was bowing and saying, “This way, Monsieur le Ministre.” The waiters stood at attention and the other guests were awed. I was impressed.
When I arrived back at the Ritz, there were flowers. After that, there were flowers every day, the car with the flags at my disposal, and dinners for whomever I chose at his palace on the Place Beauveau.
In France, the ministers reside in the palaces of former kings. Marie Antoinette’s silver “resided” at Marcellin’s palace. Fully uniformed grenadiers stood guard in the courtyard. The grandeur of another era unfolded before my eyes.
Raymond did not play the society role; thus, naturally, everyone wanted to know him. He took me on wonderful outings, including a helicopter ride over château country and dinners with celebrities such as actress Brigitte Bardot and with the most sought-after couple in the world, Liz Taylor and Richard Burton.
When I refused his expensive gifts (as a lady should), he bought me jewels, had them wrapped, and sent them anonymously to the hotel for my mother. I thought these were little remembrances from friends—until I got home and my mother unwrapped some magnificent pieces. (She really thought they were for her and wore them all.)
Marcellin had another marvelous asset as far as I was concerned. He was strongly anticommunist. At a time when the world was afraid of communists, placating them, and refusing to acknowledge that they wanted to conquer us all, Raymond stood firmly against them. Of course, being the head of the French domestic and international intelligence agencies, he had knowledge that few people in the world were privy to.
Charles de Chambrun felt differently. “The world just has to accept communism for a while,” Charles told me. “It will probably only survive a hundred years.”
Aghast, I protested, “You cannot mean that you will just lie down and accept their rule?”
“There is nothing we can do to stop them,” he replied. “No country is strong enough. You think the United States is so strong. But your armed forces are in disarray. The communists have the bomb and they will use it. We must not destroy the world.”
“Charles, what about you and your children? Don’t
you care that you will be a slave and your children even worse?” I asked.
“There is nothing we can do,” he said again with a shrug. “It is inevitable.”
I remained silent. I knew he would never listen to me. But in my head, I screamed, “I will never ever accept communism. I will die first.” And I meant it.
Marcellin took me seriously. Together we had some intense evenings, planning and hoping that somehow, some way, the world would wake up in time, rally its forces, and fight. He shared my fear that communists were slowly taking over the world and its resources while America slept and played and talked about the awful Nazis. The Nazis were indeed awful, but they were gone, while the communists were planning a Cuban empire in South America, a new communist Africa via Angola, and a trap for the oil of the Middle East. Every day they were moving. They absorbed the governments of Tibet, North Korea, and the five countries around Afghanistan. They controlled Eastern Europe and were moving toward Vietnam and Cambodia.
I had no time for Brigitte Bardot. I wanted to save the world. The world, however, thought I was crazy. Even my mother wearily said to me one day, “Must we always discuss communism and how we must save the world? I don’t want to save the world. Please save the world without me.”
I was outraged. How could my mother care so little when the world was crumbling around us? She didn’t care, and the world didn’t either. But Marcellin did.
He told me, “You think like a man and look like a woman. I adore you. Marry me!”
I discussed it with one of my closest friends, Isabelle d’Ornano, born a Polish princess. Her uncle was married to Jackie Kennedy’s sister, Lee. She had married the Conte d’Ornano, the owner of Orlane Cosmetics.
She said, “Joanne, you are entirely too American. If you become a French political wife, you will have to change. French politics are different from America’s. The wife must submerge herself in her husband and stay in the background. Can you do that?”
I said nothing, but I had my doubts.
Another friend, the beautiful Sophia Bouboulis, who was to become the muse to artist Fernando Botero, said, “Marcellin fell in love with you as you are. He has had many mistresses. He can have any French woman he wants. He has given this a lot of thought. As a French politician, he is taking a big chance, marrying an American. He fell in love with you as you are. Do not change.”
But there was a larger concern than whether or not I would have to change. I had two little boys who had always lived in the same big house on twelve acres with everything little boys want: a pool, a lake, horses, and dogs. They did not speak French. I spoke enough French to manage and even spoke enough to lunch with President Bourguiba of Tunisia, who spoke no English. How could I uproot them and move to a city where they knew no one, among people they did not understand in a tight culture of rules and regulations? They were accustomed to a free and easy life. To place them with a man who had never married and who did not have any interest in them? No, no, no.
And, of course, there was the same old problem that prevented me from accepting Marcellin’s or any other proposals. I was still married.
Bob and I had basically been going our separate ways for quite some time, but as long as I was married, I was not going to tarnish my husband’s or my name by stepping outside the prescribed rules. And I didn’t. But men such as Marcellin were being introduced into my life, and Bob was not alone at this time either.
Bob and I were mostly happy for sixteen years before our goals became too divergent to reconcile. I am forever grateful that we had two lovely children, the Kings of my heart, my sons, Beau and Robin. I will always love Bob for the fine man he was.
CHAPTER 13
Kings of Heart
My sons, Beau and Robin King, born seven years apart, seem more like only children to me than brothers. They do not resemble one another in looks or personality. What they have in common are character traits: both are Christians, and both are honorable, honest, and patriotic Americans.
Beau has a gift for conversation and a caring and understanding personality—when it really matters. When it is not crucial, you may not see much of him. We can talk, working out our problems through open communication, and Beau never holds grudges. If he gets mad, he gets over it. That is the mark of a real man.
He is always there to support and protect me too, often saying, “Mother, why do you work so hard? Don’t worry about the future. I will take care of you.” In fact, a few years ago he picked me up, took me to his home, and said, “Mother, this is your room. Anywhere I live, you will always have a home. You will never be alone and never have to worry about money because I will always take care of you.”
Though he wants to take care of me, he knows my work is important to me, so when he realized that I needed to learn how to use a computer to accomplish my goals, he bought me one, and he also paid to set up my website (www.joanneherring.com). Without the computer, I would never have been able to write this book, and by spreading the word about my desire to help the people of Afghanistan, the website has helped my work immensely.
Beau is a practical man. Nothing interferes when he homes in on a target. He needed to know law and accounting, for example, so he studied them. He spoke Spanish, but not perfectly, so he went back to school, and now he speaks and reads fluent Spanish. No minute is wasted (no words either). He rises at five a.m. each day to work out, then takes his Rollerblades or bike to the office. I could not possibly keep his schedule or want to!
Maybe he was exchanged in the hospital nursery.
He is totally dependable, but he is not nurturing. (Neither am I. I so appreciate those people in my life who are! Like Desiree Howe, my best friend and the most nurturing person I know. She taught me how to express love and has a rare gift of relating to people. She has been an inspiration to me and to Beau. Hers is a true gift.)
My other son, Robin, is enchanting, an amusing conversationalist who is extremely knowledgeable about politics and history. He reads the Encyclopaedia Britannica for fun! (How did I get these eggheads?) Robin doesn’t talk about things, though; he just does them: he thinks deeply and analytically about a situation, then gets the job done. His talents have led him to work for the Reagan administration, as assistant to celebrity promoter Earl Blackwell, and for business tycoon Donald Trump.
His love of animals has led him not only to own racehorses but also to adopt dogs from the roadside—and he cares for their health and well-being more than he does his own.
His concern for others extends well beyond dogs and horses, of course. He also cares for my health and well-being, studying my needs and making me exercise and eat the right foods. When I am sick he is there, and he stays with me until I am well. He gave me a 4G smart phone so I can stay in touch wherever my work takes me, and he’s teaching me to use it. He also brought me an iPod, which can read to me and does everything but dance, really. Robin also made me go to handgun school so that I could carry the derringer he gave me—a gun so small it fits in a purse. He made me learn kickboxing too, so don’t fool with me, buddy. I’m prepared!
When the boys were young, we lived in a gorgeous house, and at various times in their lives, we could have bought them whatever they desired. But we believed that things become meaningless when you can have everything. When I didn’t have anything, I learned to yearn! Anticipation is half the joy of getting what you desire. So instead, each year, months before Christmas, we told Beau and Robin to choose two big gifts and three small presents for Santa Claus to bring them.
“Remember,” we told them, “there have to be toys for everybody. Don’t ask for too much.” They anguished for months over their choices. Then, a week before Christmas, we cleaned out their toy boxes and gave everything away to needy children.
As a matter of fact, Beau didn’t get a bicycle until he was eleven, and he had to work to pay for half of it by using it to deliver heavy newspapers. (Most of the other paper boys did their deliveries by car.) Sometimes we helped him if it rained, but so
metimes he delivered the papers by himself in the rain. That was tough training, but it paid off: today he is a responsible, upstanding man.
My parents (“Dee” and “Granda” to the boys) lived just down the street when the boys were growing up. My father in particular helped raise Beau and Robin. He believed that all children need to feel they are the best at something—anything! His goal was always to teach the boys self-worth through accomplishment. He would spend hours launching clay pigeons for the boys to shoot, for example. They started shooting at age four and became such brilliant shots that we were told by some that they were Olympic material.
On one topic, however, my father and I disagreed. I said the boys could never have motorcycles. They were too dangerous, and that was final (which would be any mother’s response). Often when I’d drive in our neighborhood, I’d notice kids on motorcycles and tsk-tsk at their risky riding. When the kids saw me, they would disappear into the woods like roaches scattering in the light. “Who are those kids?” I idly wondered.
You guessed it. They were my kids. My father had defied me and bought them motorcycles. I was livid. “How dare you do this!” I yelled. “You know I am terrified of those contraptions. They’re dangerous!”
“But the boys spend most of their time fixing them!” he countered. He was teaching them about business, he told me. The boys were buying and selling used motorcycles.
Beau, fourteen at the time, had to write the ads, bargain with the customers, buy the used bikes, and learn to repair them until they were functional enough to sell. I think that early work is part of what makes Beau so successful today at buying and selling land. Today he has twenty companies in five states and has sold more than one hundred subdivisions.
Diplomacy and Diamonds Page 8