As everyone stood waiting eagerly to catch their first sight of him, he sat back in the car. I tried to persuade him to stay, but he wouldn’t budge. I knew how far to push it, so I finally leaned in and asked him, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You go have fun.” And off he went, back to the Hôtel de Paris bar. Taking a deep breath and fixing a smile on my face, I turned to explain why the guest of honor wouldn’t be attending the dinner thrown for him. Mary came hurrying down the steps as I began walking up them. “Where’s Frank going?” she asked, with something akin to panic in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I replied, “but he had a terrible migraine and he simply had to go to bed.”
A few feet away I heard Don Rickles tell Mary’s husband, “Frank has an earache. He had to go back and see a doctor.” Bobby claimed Frank had twisted his ankle. My darling husband hadn’t given us enough time to get our stories straight. We could almost hear the buzz sweep across the party as our absurdly conflicting alibis were repeated and contradicted. Our little gang, regrouping later by the bar, could only shrug off the confusion we’d caused. Mary laughed it off and was extremely gracious about it. It was pretty obvious that Frank was going to do exactly what he wanted to do, and that was that. I didn’t care; I had a great time, dancing the night away in that most fabulous of settings.
When I finally got back to our hotel, I knew Frank would be waiting in the little lobby bar we loved. He was sitting grinning like the cat with the cream at our corner table. “Was that worth spending half a lifetime on the road for?” he asked, proffering me a drink.
“It was a beautiful party, darling,” I told him, “and I slept like a baby all the way home.”
Having always had such happy days and nights in Monaco and the South of France, we had every reason to believe our delightful annual routine would continue for years to come. One terrible summer, however, more than a decade into our glorious ritual, that all changed.
After our usual month in the company of Grace and Rainier, we were due to fly to New York for Frank to keep a ten-day engagement with Buddy Rich at Carnegie Hall. On our last day, Grace invited us to Roc Agel for tennis and a picnic in the verdant hills surrounding the family farm. We had a perfect day, and then we prepared to leave. I hugged Grace good-bye and thanked her once again. “See you next year, if not before!” I cried as she waved us off. The road back down the hill to Monte Carlo was steep, full of twists and turns overlooking a sheer cliff. I had traveled down it with Grace before, when she drove me to the hospital in her old Rover to say good-bye to Henry Ittleson before he died. Grace was a fast driver but a good one. She knew the road well, and I felt completely safe. On this occasion, though, we had Frank’s driver Bruno take us. When we got to our hotel, we packed, and then we flew to New York as planned.
The next day we received a telephone call from Rainier. “There’s been a terrible accident,” he told us, his voice breaking. “Grace and Stephanie were driving down from Roc Agel, and they went off the road. They’re in the hospital. Stephanie will be all right, thank God, but they’re not sure about Grace.” We were badly shaken, and Frank offered to cancel his concerts and fly straight back. Rainier insisted there was no need, intimating that Grace might survive. Leaving Frank to face his waiting fans, Bobby and I flew back to Monaco but learned almost as soon as we landed that dear Gracie had died. When Frank heard the news, he said it felt as if his heart had been pierced.
Monaco went into national mourning, and the public displays of grief lasted weeks. Bobby and I attended the private family vigil and dinner before Grace’s funeral, which was a huge affair. We were shepherded into a cordoned-off area away from the thousands of subjects who lined the narrow streets in searing heat. Rainier, ash gray, walked down from the palace with Albert and Caroline. It was surely the saddest of days. We walked back up to the palace afterward, and when we got there Bobby passed out from the heat. Someone grabbed him and fetched him a chair, and dear Albert looked after him; he was unbelievably thoughtful like that—even on the day of his mother’s funeral.
We knew exactly where the accident had happened, on a steep hairpin bend with rocks alongside the cliff. I asked Bobby to drive me there so I could see where Grace had somehow driven her Rover down a ravine. We got out and saw the marks on the road and knew we were in the right spot, so we left flowers and said a prayer. It was all we could think to do.
Rainier was never the same after Grace died. I don’t think he ever got over it.
We stayed in contact with him because he was so dear to us, but it just wasn’t the same for us either. We went back to Monaco for a few more summers, but it didn’t feel the same in the palace without Grace. She was a woman’s woman as much as she was a man’s woman, a truly special lady. She was so gorgeous and so good, and she handled all her charity work so elegantly, yet she had that fun side to her too. After a few years, we decided not to return to Monaco, and we never did, although Bobby still visits and he and I are now on the board of trustees of the Princess Grace Foundation–USA.
To remind us of happier times in Monte Carlo, Frank created what is still one of my favorite paintings. It is a vivid starburst of oranges and reds and yellows, exactly like one of the chrysanthemum fireworks that ended Grace’s galas. He called it Monaco Boom. For us both, that picture represented some of the best days of our lives. Each time I see it, I think of Frank and I think of Grace and I cannot help but smile.
TWELVE
Out with Henry and Nancy Kissinger, as well as
Greg and Veronique Peck.
COURTESY OF THE NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
I Get a Kick Out of You
Probably one of the bravest things I ever did in my life was to organize a surprise sixty-fifth birthday party for Frank. The man who so enjoyed springing surprises on those he loved did not enjoy being surprised in return.
In the months leading up to his birthday, I’d asked him, “If you could have anything you wanted in the world, darling, what would it be?”
He thought about it for a while before replying, “I’d have a fantastic jazz orchestra and I’d be the only one sitting there while they blow at me.”
I thought long and hard about how I could possibly arrange that and came up with a plan to make a jazz orchestra the finale to a party thrown in his honor. It might not be exactly what he’d asked for, but it would be close. The trouble with Frank was that there was always a risk he’d turn around and walk away. I figured that if our closest friends were there, at least we could go ahead without him. With a guest list of 250, Frank’s party would be impossible to keep secret if I held it at home. It would work only if I held it at the fifteen-acre desert ranch where I kept my horses—the last place on earth Frank would go. Taking my courage in both hands, I decided on a Western-style cookout with barbecue ribs, chicken, chili, and hot dogs. It took me months to get everything ready: the food, the tent off the side of our barn, the decoration of the stables with hay bales and gingham. Sworn to secrecy, Jilly helped me with the entertainment, which was to include the country singer Mel Tillis and the full jazz orchestra Frank had asked for. I never thought I’d be able to pull it off.
I invited almost everyone we knew, including the entire kitchen cabinet—President-Elect Reagan, Walter Annenberg, and Spiro Agnew. The rest of the guest list included Paul Anka, Fred Astaire, Tony Bennett, Peggy Lee, Alfred Bloomingdale, Frank Capra, Mary Benny, Don Drysdale, Morton Downey, Armand Deutsch, Sammy Davis, Jr., Johnny Carson, Henry Fonda, Peter Falk, Cary Grant, the Firestones, the Gosdens, Harry James, the Kluges, Dean Martin, Mort Viner, Jack Lemmon, Burt Lancaster, the Korshaks, Robert Mitchum, Roger Moore, Tony Orlando, Wayne Newton, Steve Ross, Don Rickles, the Pecks, the Schlatters, the Wagners, Jimmy Stewart, Orson Welles, and Dinah Shore. Most were invited along with their wives, husbands, or significant others.
Their invitations read:
Please keep this under your Stetson but I’m tossing a surprise birthday par
ty for my blue-eyed cowboy on December 12 at 7:15 p.m. at Dominick’s restaurant, Rancho Mirage, Highway 111. Keep it under your Stetson but wear it. The party will be Western attire. You can be a good guy or a bad guy, a homesteader or a dance hall queen. We want to see you there and don’t breathe a word. I’ve got an itchy trigger-fingered posse ready for anyone who blabs. Please RSVP, ya hear! Love, BAS. P.S. No gifts please.
On the night of the party, I asked our friends to meet at Dominick’s restaurant before being transported to the ranch in a convoy of yellow school buses. When Milton Berle’s wife, Ruth, arrived and saw the stables, she quipped, “Oh, so that’s where Frank was born!”
To make sure that Frank was also dressed up, I told him that we’d been invited to a Western-style party for the birthday of his friend the cardiologist Danny Kaplan. I hired cowgirl and cowboy costumes for us and managed to get him into his blue suede jacket, red neckerchief, and tan cowboy hat without too much complaint. Then we got into his car. Mr. Punctual was driving, but as we approached the street near the stables, I suddenly said, “Oh, Frank, I have a sick horse and I just have to stop by and check on it before we go to dinner.” It was all part of my master plan.
But master plans need the master to be compliant. “No,” he replied flatly, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “We’ll be late. You can see it tomorrow.”
My heart almost stopped. “But I have to,” I protested. “I promised the vet.”
“No way, baby,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not going to the stables tonight, least of all dressed like this!” We were almost at the intersection where he’d have to turn so as not to be late for his own party, something he’d never forgive me for.
In desperation and thinking of our waiting guests, I panicked and cried, “Frank, if you love me, if you’ve ever loved me, then make this turn here—right now!” He looked across at me as if I had gone raving mad, but he knew how much I cared for my horses, and by playing on his own love for animals, I finally broke him.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” he cried as he made the turn. Driving too fast, he bumped us up the track. The moment he pulled into the yard and saw all the party lights he got the message. “So this is what it’s about,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. He knew then that I’d truly surprised him, although I don’t think he was too thrilled about it. His friends were waiting, and thank goodness, everything went according to plan. I could tell Frank was nervous all night, though, because he wasn’t completely in control and he didn’t like that at all. Toward the end of the evening, he told me, “I want to go home,” and Frank had never said that.
“Wait a minute!” I cried. “You’ve got to hear the jazz orchestra. That’s the part you said you really wanted.” He did stay for that, sitting up front by himself just as he’d wished while they played him a terrific set. But then he really did want to go home, so that was the end of that. He never thanked me for organizing his surprise party, but he didn’t tell me, “Never do that again!” either. Not that I had any plans to.
I think part of the reason Frank didn’t enjoy being surprised was his masculine vanity. He’d always been a little vain in an old-fashioned Italian way. Extraordinarily for someone who’d chosen a career as an entertainer, he hated to be the center of attention, especially as he got older. One of the sexiest men in the world was in his seventh decade, and he didn’t like the way that made him look and feel.
The natural side effects of the aging process began to bother Frank, and it was his thinning hair that troubled him the most. After combing it across the top of his head for a while, he decided to do something about it. “I don’t care what I look like at home,” he said, “but if I’m going to continue working, then I think maybe I should get a toupee.” He found a great wig maker in New York named Joe Paris, who matched Frank’s own hair pretty well. He didn’t bother wearing Joe’s toupee at home or with people he knew, and he didn’t mind personal photographs being taken of him without it; he’d just put it on for the benefit of his public. The fact that Frank’s hair was thinning never bothered me one little bit. I even toyed with the idea of planting a big red kiss on his bald spot like I used to do with old Pa Hillis in Bosworth, but of course Frank would never have held still long enough.
Frank also suffered intermittent hearing problems, not helped by his eardrum having been punctured at birth. The medical condition that kept him from serving in the war flared up repeatedly all his life. During one European tour, he managed to go onstage in London and Dublin despite a raging ear infection. By the time I got him home, he had to have his eardrum completely rebuilt in what was pioneering surgery for the time. The deafness this caused worsened as Frank aged, and that really bothered him too—especially onstage, where he’d stand near the drummer to ensure he could follow the beat or ask for strong bass notes in his orchestral arrangements. “Give me a little extra support on the horns, fellas,” he’d tell the band.
He’d always been critical of his voice, and that only intensified the older he got. He never liked to discuss a performance afterward because he knew when his voice wasn’t as good as it used to be. If someone told him he’d been great, he’d reply, “It was a nice crowd, but my reed was off” or “I wasn’t so good on the third number.” Strangely, in spite of his hearing problems, he had the most incredible ear, which often drove those he worked with nuts. There could be an orchestra of a hundred musicians, and if one played a single bum note he’d know exactly who was responsible. “I could have sworn you were here yesterday for rehearsals,” he’d say, or he’d ask pointedly, “Where are you working next week?”
Despite his exacting standards, musicians, arrangers, and orchestra leaders loved working with Frank because he was the greatest. There was a force field of energy surrounding him that everybody fed off, and because he expected the best, he brought out the best in people. Those musicians would rather play for Frank than for almost anybody else. Just to be able to say they’d worked with the most important singer of his generation was worth the gig. Gordon Jenkins (whom Frank called “Lefty” because he was left-handed) arranged a great many of Frank’s songs, and the two of them really got along. Lefty had been on the periphery of my life one way or another since before my Riviera days. Of a song that Gordon wrote in an autobiographical suite about Frank’s life called “Before the Music Ends,” he told me, “You’re in that one, Barbara.” I listened but couldn’t hear any reference to me until Gordon explained, “It’s in the line ‘You won’t hear me talking about saving shoes; baby’s got fifty-seven pairs!’ ”
That wasn’t the only song in which I was referred to. Not long after we were married, Frank recorded a number called “I Love My Wife” from the Broadway show of the same name, set in New Jersey, which he sang just for me. Deciding that wasn’t good enough, he had Jimmy Van Heusen and David Mack write a number specially for me called “Barbara.” He surprised me by announcing it during one of his performances in Las Vegas as “a new song for a special lady,” then sang it directly to me from the front of the stage. The first line was, “Where there is sunshine, there is Barbara.”
Talk about romantic.
Without a doubt, my happiest times with Frank were spent in the company of friends at home or at play. He was never more relaxed than when he was off duty. As an ardent fan of baseball, he had boxes at the Dodger and Yankee stadiums, which were always great fun to go to, especially when Bobby joined us with whichever girlfriend he had in tow at the time. Frank and Dean Martin even started their own rival baseball teams (although I think they only ever played one game). My husband’s team, which included Bobby, Tommy Lasorda, and Pat Henry, was called Old Blue Eyes, and Dean’s was called Old Red Eyes. They started playing around three in the morning, and with the score tied at dawn, they went home. Pat said it was the only game that was stopped on account of light.
At Yankee Stadium, Frank would don a baseball cap and bomber jacket and watch the game sitting with the likes of Yogi Berra. Frank was a great friend of J
oe DiMaggio, who married Marilyn Monroe, and was also friendly with O. J. Simpson. I met O. J. once at a disco with his wife, Nicole, who was adorable; it was so sad how that ended. At Dodger Stadium in L.A., Frank would go to the locker room and give a pep talk to the players. Frank would sit on the first-base side, across from Tommy Lasorda in the dugout, eating hot dogs and drinking beer. Tommy was a huge Sinatra fan and had a wall in his office crammed with photographs of Frank. Don Rickles went into that office one day and asked Tommy, “Hey, where are my photos?”
Frank didn’t much care for horseracing, which he thought was too slow, but he loved boxing, having been a featherweight fighter like his father, Marty, and his uncle Babe. Sugar Ray Robinson and Muhammad Ali, both of whom I met and loved, were friends. They were sweet and soft-spoken, not at all aggressive. At the famous Ali-Holmes fight in Vegas, we were sitting so close to the ring that I ended up splattered in blood and sweat. Frank also supported Joe Louis, the “Brown Bomber,” until the end of his days, visiting him in Vegas and ultimately paying for him to be in the care of our friend Dr. Michael DeBakey in Houston when Joe suffered a stroke.
Home was the one place Frank could completely relax, and we still had a few to choose from. Frank had gifted his remote Pinyon Crest property to a religious order as a retreat, and we’d soon give up the New York apartment. The Coldwater Canyon house was sold after I was followed home one day by two men and Frank realized that I could have been trapped by the gates with no one to help me. The house was on the edge of a deep canyon, and there wasn’t even anywhere to turn. I was saved only when I picked up the (broken) car telephone in Frank’s Rolls-Royce and pretended to call for help. It was the days before cell phones, but the antenna on the phone went up and the would-be robbers saw that and reversed back down the hill. The dilemma was where we should buy in L.A. once we moved from the canyon. After skimming through a few property listings, Frank announced, “I’m too tired to look for a house. You do it.”
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