“Okay,” I replied. “Give me some parameters. How much do you want me to spend?”
“Just find something you like,” he said, adding, “but not too big!” I must have viewed a dozen houses before I narrowed it down to three that he agreed to see with me. One was in the district of Holmby Hills, fabulous but enormous. He walked around the property, but there was no reaction from him at all—nothing—so we both got back into the car knowing that it wasn’t the one. Then we went to see another in the same area, on Alpine Drive. The house and eight-car garage had burned down, but it was a great location and had a lot of land. As soon as I told him, “We’d have to build,” Frank turned around and got back into the car.
I saved the best for last—a magnificent four-bedroom property on Foothill Drive above Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills. It had been owned and decorated by the agent Sandy Gallin. The music mogul David Geffen and the designer Calvin Klein had also been involved with choosing art for the place. Best of all, we wouldn’t have to do a thing, just move in with our toothbrushes. I fell in love with it. The Universal Studios head, Lew Wasserman, and his wife, Edie, owned the property either side of us, so we had the best neighbors. We also had a lot of friends in that area, including George and Jolene Schlatter as well as Bee and Sidney Korshak. It was perfect. Frank and I walked in with the agent, but he got only as far as the living room. “Is this the one you like?” he asked me.
Hoping to negotiate a deal, I replied rather cautiously, “Well, yes, but it doesn’t have a tennis court or a projection room, so it’s far from perfect.”
Frank grew impatient. “Do you want it or not?” he asked.
I nodded.
“We’ll take it,” he told the agent, who I’m sure couldn’t believe his ears.
Frank walked out without even seeing the whole property. And so it was that we bought the house we referred to thereafter as Foothill. In the woods below our property, Frank discovered a tan-colored dog with all its teeth worn down after eating bark off trees. It was a stray and must have had some collie in it. Frank took that toothless dog to the vet and had his teeth reconstructed. He called it Leroy, after the song “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” and Leroy lived with us happily until he died, always ready to give us a dentures smile.
Frank once asked me over breakfast, “If you could have a home anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
I thought of the fun times we’d had in Rome and Milan, and how stunning the European countryside was. “Italy,” I replied.
Frank almost choked on his coffee. “Are you nuts?” he cried. “They’d kill us!”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “They love you!”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” he replied. “They’d kill us with love.” He was right. I thought of the time we’d gone to the little village where Dolly had grown up near Genoa and had to be escorted through the crowds by armed police. Or the fans who’d rushed forward hysterically each time Frank had stepped from a limo or out of a ristorante. Frank was too adored in his ancestors’ country ever to live there, I realized with a sigh. My Italian dream would have to remain just that.
Instead, we continued enjoying our friends and family in the comfort of our Italian-style homes—without the danger of being killed. Not that we didn’t almost finish off a few of our friends in the process. One night the normally elegant and chic Jimmy Van Heusen was so drunk that Jilly and some of the boys had to carry him to bed. As they pulled him up the stairs, Jimmy’s pants came down until his ass was sticking out. He was a big man, and they couldn’t lift him onto the bed, so they left him on the floor, and his wife, Bobby, who was a tiny woman, just covered him up with a blanket. The following morning we were sitting around the pool when Jimmy walked out, chic as ever, head high, as if nothing had happened.
When Jack Benny came to stay at the Compound once, leaving Mary at their home in Los Angeles, he tried to keep pace with Frank, Dean, and the rest. There was no way he could win that contest, especially because he was diabetic. By the time we got to Ruby’s Dunes restaurant, Jack could hardly stand. The next thing we knew he was facedown in his mashed potatoes. Uncle Ruby helped the boys carry Jack out to a back room while we had dinner. When we’d finished, they carried him to the car and took him home. The last thing Jack said to me as I put him to bed was “Don’t tell Mary, Barbara! Whatever you do, don’t tell Mary.”
First thing next morning, Mary called up and said, “Well, I hear Jack got drunk last night.” Somebody had blabbed.
Alan Shepard was with us at the bar one night when Jack walked in. Frank had met most of the Apollo astronauts at various benefits over the years, and Alan was in Palm Springs to play golf in Dinah’s tournament. “Oh, my God!” Jack complained to everyone at the bar when he arrived. “I’ve just got back from Mexico City, and the altitude up there was so high!” We all fell over laughing, and Jack suddenly realized who he was talking to—the first American in space.
Greg Peck and Veronique were frequent visitors too, and Vero is still one of my closest friends. Greg and Frank had always been close, and Frank called him Ahab after his character in Moby Dick (“the movie with a fish”), but when Greg’s son Jonathan died, in 1975, Frank was one of the first at his side. He did the same for Dean Martin twelve years later when his son Dino was killed in a plane crash. That was one of the best things about my husband—if something went wrong in your life, boom, he was there. And if you had him on your side, it was like having an army at your disposal. Furthermore, he was on your side if you were right or wrong, and that is something very special in a friend; you don’t find that so often. Frank was the same with Sammy Davis, Jr., when he lost an eye in a car accident; Frank went to see Sammy in the hospital and then brought him back to Palm Springs to recuperate. Sammy loved Frank, so even though he was depressed, just being with his hero helped get him through that terrible time.
Frank took friendship and loyalty very seriously and believed that true friendship could only be tested in times of need. People just had to get word to him and he’d drop what he was doing and go spend time with them. He’d travel long distances to brighten someone’s day, and I went with him to numerous hospitals and homes for retired singers and actors to cheer up old friends. He took me to see Gene Kelly in Santa Monica when he was first sick and to the bedside of John Wayne when he was dying. “The Duke” and Frank had been friends for years and were as close as brothers, even though they were diametrically opposed politically and kidded each other constantly about it. They knew each other from the days when Frank hung out with Humphrey Bogart, Jimmy Cagney, and all those great movie stars, who took a shine to the skinny kid with the sticking-out ears. Frank had already taken me to visit John Wayne at his home in Newport Beach, and I liked him very much. He was a big drinker of tequila and a heavy smoker, but he had a terrific sense of humor and that incredible roar of a laugh.
Frank and Gene Kelly had been in several films together, and for Anchors Aweigh Gene taught Frank how to dance outside studio hours. Frank called Gene “the Irish taskmaster” but he never forgot that kindness. Thanks to Gene, Frank could really move. He could even jump up in the air and click his heels together, and he loved to do that. He was also a terrific ballroom dancer, which was terribly romantic, but he didn’t dance in public because as soon as he was on the floor, women would ask to cut in. When visiting Gene, I asked his nurse if she’d mind giving me a vitamin shot I needed. Gene laughed at me from his bed. “Sure, Barbara, put all your medical care on my bill and save Frank some money!”
At the Motion Picture Home, Frank took me to meet a couple of comedians he’d worked with decades earlier. His love for comedians knew no bounds. One year he even went out on tour with a bunch of old comics who weren’t working so much anymore, people like Charlie Callas, Jan Murray, Richard Stein, Jack Carter, and Norm Crosby. He did it as a kindness to them, but it was a lot of fun for him too. As Burt Lancaster once said, “If you say to Frank ‘I’m having a problem,’ then it becomes his pro
blem.” Frank really had a calling for that.
Generosity came easily to Frank, and not just because he had a lot to give. Sure, he made great money; he knew he always could, and it meant little or nothing to him. He had a heart the size of New Jersey, and he wanted those he cared about to share in his success. There were some who played him for a sucker, of course, and managed to get anything they wanted out of him. Others stole from him more blatantly. Glancing one day at the CCTV monitors, I spotted a bunch of “the guys” who were emptying one of our refrigerators of steaks and whole hams and hiding bottles of wine under their coats before shuffling out. When I showed Frank what they were doing, he shrugged and replied, “They must need it more than we do.” He couldn’t have cared less, although in his later years it did begin to upset him when people tried to rip him off.
Still, his kindness and consideration always won out. We were at a dinner party one night with Bennett Cerf and Betty Bacall when Frank wandered into a guest room to collect a pack of cigarettes from his overcoat. There he found the producer Arthur Hornblow finishing up a telephone call to a woman. “I hope she’s pretty,” Frank said softly. Arthur replied that she was; it was his mother, Susie, who was in poor health in Florida but still excited about the latest Yankee scores.
“What I wouldn’t give for one more telephone call with my mom,” Frank told him wistfully.
At his suggestion, they called Arthur’s mother back and put Frank on the line. “Is this really Frank Sinatra?” she asked. “You sound too much like him not to be. I love your voice.”
“Well, I love your voice too, Susie,” Frank said. “Tell you what—I’m going to call you every Saturday night at six o’clock, and we’ll chew over the Yankees’ performance, okay?” He kept his promise and never missed a Saturday evening call to Susie Hornblow until the day she died. For good measure, he sent flowers to her on Mother’s Day and to other widowed mothers in the same hospital. Frank added her name to his list of lonely women he’d call on a regular basis. They included a relative of Freeman Gosden’s and several single mothers. Few believed them when they claimed that Ol’ Blue Eyes was a frequent caller, but they knew the truth and that was all that mattered.
When the Shah of Iran was allowed into America briefly by President Carter for urgent medical treatment, Frank went to visit him in the hospital in New York. The shah had been deposed by then, and his presence on U.S. soil was highly controversial, but that didn’t bother Frank—he was always for the underdog. During Frank’s visit to the heavily guarded private room, the shah commented on a Bulgari pendant he was wearing around his neck, a birthday gift from me. Frank rarely took it off, but that day he undid the clasp without thinking and handed it to his friend as a keepsake. It was the last time he would ever see the shah alive. In keeping with his philosophy of kindness to widows, Frank made sure to keep in contact with Empress Farah, who eventually settled in Washington, D.C.
Greg Peck certainly never forgot Frank’s kindness when his son died, and they adored each other mutually. Greg and Veronique somehow managed to move on from their personal tragedy and became stalwarts of our parties at home and abroad. We had so many laughs with those two, especially at the Compound. Every night was like a Vegas act with our cast of friends. We might have the singer Frankie Randall at the piano, and maybe Liza Minnelli or Dean Martin singing. We had the best comics (natural and professional) with us for days at a time, so the stories, antics, and jokes were never-ending. The Pecks had a hilarious comedy routine they used to perform about baseball, in which Greg would try to explain to his French wife what a “strike” was. We’d laugh until our sides hurt. Greg had a few other tricks up his sleeve too. One night he walked into the bar, his face somber, and said, “Girls and boys, I have an announcement to make. Veronique’s left me and I’m very broken up about it. I wanted you to hear it first, but it’s over.” For a moment, none of us knew what to say. Then he added, “But I’ve met a girl in Cathedral City. Her name’s Trixie, and I’ve invited her over. Do you mind?”
Cue Veronique, who walked into the room in a dress cut up to her thighs and down to her breastbone, wearing a big black wig, high heels, and fishnet hose. She was smoking a cigarette through a long holder. As Greg announced, “This is Trixie, everybody,” she teetered to the bar and ordered a drink in a funny accent. Frank almost fell off his chair. The funniest of all was Walter Annenberg, who was so fascinated he pulled up a chair and sat right next to her. She took a puff of her cigarette and blew smoke into his face out of the side of her mouth. He absolutely adored “Trixie,” and we all had a lot of laughs that night.
Vero is still great fun, although the days are over now when she’d be the first to jump at the chance to play tennis or come horseback riding with me. I’d loved horses ever since I’d ridden Pansy the pony as a kid in Bosworth. I had several great animals, including an Appaloosa, which was a present from my old school friend Winnie Markley and her husband.
One of my best horses came from the singer Wayne Newton. Frank and he were in a show together in Vegas, and after the concert that night Wayne told me that one of his Arabian mares was about to foal at his ranch not far from town. “Do you want to come and watch?” he asked.
“I’d love to!” I replied. When we reached the stables, the vet was already there. Once he told us that the foal was the wrong way around and in distress, I threw my full-length mink onto the straw and forgot about my gown as I jumped in to help. Wayne watched as I assisted the vet in turning the foal, even though he warned me that the contractions could break a man’s arm. First one hoof came out, then another, and finally this perfect foal emerged panting and wet as we laughed and cried and hugged each other. Wayne then delighted me further with the announcement “I’m calling her Barbara Ann,” adding, “and she’s yours.” I was over the moon.
A few years later I met the head of Occidental, Armand Hammer, at a party and told him about Barbara Ann. Knowing what a great breeder Wayne was, he offered to fly her to his stud in Florida and breed her with the top stallion in the country. The chestnut foal that was born was named Sinatra Hammer Newton, Sinny for short.
Several of our guests in the desert enjoyed horseback riding too and were only too willing to try out one of my steeds. One customer who wasn’t quite so willing, though, was George Schlatter. Poor George was a terrible rider, and everyone teased him about it. To save his face, I decided to lend him my Peruvian Paso, named Tsar d’Oro, which absolutely anyone could ride. I took “Horhay” to one side and told him, “You ride Tsar tomorrow, and I guarantee you’ll be the best of them all, even better than Jolene.” He came to the stables a little less reluctantly than usual and let me help him up onto that horse. Sure enough, he was fine. Before long he was prancing all over the desert like a king. Jolene couldn’t believe it. Neither could R. J. Wagner, who’d seen George ride before. All was going great until George rode Tsar back to the stable, lifted the rein over his head, and got off on the wrong side. With an enormous crash, he fell butt-first onto the dirt while the horse panicked and began dancing all around him. George was hollering and trying to get out of the way until we eventually managed to get him up unharmed. After he’d dusted himself off, he turned to all of us and pleaded, “Whatever you do, please don’t tell Frank!”
We drove back to the Compound to find Frank sitting by the pool, his nose in a book. He didn’t even look up. He just said, “Hey, Hopalong, why don’t you buy your own horse?”
The fun and frolics didn’t stop when we went on the road; in fact, in many ways they intensified, because Frank was usually so wound up after shows that he needed to wind down superfast.
We were in Gstaad visiting Roger Moore when Frank got into a late-night argument in a bar with the biggest Arab I’d ever seen. Looking up from where I was chatting with Jolene and George, I suddenly spotted my husband poking his finger in the chest of this man-mountain and thought, Uh-oh.
I nudged Jolene, who nudged George and said, “Your friend’s in trouble. Do som
ething.”
George almost choked on his drink. “Have you seen the size of him?” he asked. “Frank’s not that much of a friend!” We laughed but sent him to rescue Frank anyway. Fortunately George is a big guy too, so he pushed his way between the two men and asked what the problem was. The man, who looked like he wanted to kill Frank, complained about something he’d said. With his back to Frank, George told him, “You’re right. My friend is very rude and I’m going to tell him as soon as this is over. But if we get into this beef, we’re going to hurt each other, so why ruin our night just because he’s a schmuck who’s out of line?”
Frank, meanwhile, was standing behind George yelling, “You tell that son of a bitch!” to which George turned around and replied, “I’m telling him, Frank.”
The man countered, “You’ll tell him he’s rude?” George assured him he would, in between assuring Frank behind his back that he’d sort the man out. “And another thing,” started Frank. George said, “No other things, Frank. Please, no.” He then turned and offered the aggrieved party a stack of signed Sinatra albums. Eventually, Frank cottoned on to what George was doing, and that tickled him so much, the drama was over. Jolene and I drained our glasses and suggested we leave.
With the help of our friends, I’d try to come up with all sorts of ways to entertain Frank on the road and keep him out of trouble. It didn’t always work out. On a tour of the Far East with George and Jolene, Frank had a surprise lined up for me. At the hotel we’d booked months in advance, he’d asked for the best suite, which had an enormous balcony overlooking Hong Kong Harbor. He’d been in it once before and couldn’t wait to share its incredible views with me. I knew nothing about that, but I did know Jolene had planned a kimono party in which we were all to dress up and eat Asian food.
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