Lady Blue Eyes

by Barbara Sinatra

  Frank usually ignored it if someone stole from him, but he did fire one employee who’d worked for him for over thirty years because he’d been too greedy and everybody knew about it, which made Frank look weak. Eventually, he tired of having to keep tabs on his empire, though, which was especially hard to do when he was on the road. Besides, everything about being on the road had changed. Most of the famous venues he’d played had closed or been torn down. Even the Sands in Vegas was in its death throes (we would watch its demolition in November 1996 from our balcony at Caesars), and the pallies he’d had so much fun with onstage had left him alone in the spotlight.

  At the end of his eighth decade, Frank finally admitted that maybe it was time he “took it easy.” I was bemused when he told me that and wondered what it would mean for someone so driven. Whatever he decided, though, I wasn’t going to miss one minute, so at each performance he continued to give I sat right there, a few feet away, watching his every breath.

  There were other tough decisions to be made, one of which was whether or not to leave Palm Springs. I’d felt for some time that we needed to move back to L.A. to be closer to family and friends. Despite his emotional attachment to the Compound, Frank appreciated that we’d have to move from the home that was costing us a lot of money when he wasn’t working so much anymore. The Springs had given us the happiest years of our lives, but the town had changed beyond all recognition. Most of our fellow desert rats had either died or moved back to the city. We were having a hard time coping with the brutal summers, and golf was no longer such a draw. The main reason for moving, though, was our age. I wasn’t getting any younger either, but Frank was that much older and his health was beginning to fail. The decline was so gradual, but I noticed it long before anyone else did. Whatever was going on, I knew he needed to be near the best medical teams L.A. could offer.

  I’d never tried to manage Frank’s business affairs, and he would have never taken my advice, but like many wives, I’d sometimes attempt to guide him gently. If I ever wanted to sell him on an idea, I’d lay out the pros and cons and let him think about it. After a while, he’d usually come around to my idea but claim it as his own. Once that happened with the decision to move, we put the Compound on the market and made plans to buy a beach house at Malibu instead.

  We finally sold the Compound to a Canadian entrepreneur by the name of Jim Pattison. He was a big Sinatra fan who wanted not only to buy his home but to meet the man. Sadly, the day he came to view the house, Frank was in bed with a cold, so Jim never got to meet him or even see the whole interior. He bought the place anyway—along with almost all the furniture and Frank’s beloved train set. We auctioned off many of the things we no longer wanted or needed. I sat in a room high above the bidding floor and watched the auction through one-way glass. There was a frenzy for all things Sinatra, it seemed, and I was amazed by how much people paid for the most mundane of objects. Jim Pattison was bidding by phone from abroad, but there were plenty of rival bidders on the floor, raising their paddles for not much more than knickknacks.

  Even though Frank knew that the day would inevitably come, leaving the Compound was rough on him. The original moving date came and went, and Frank remained firmly entrenched, so I asked Jim if we could possibly rent the property for a little longer. He declined but allowed us to stay on as his guests. Then, one morning, Frank decided it was time. He got up, showered and changed, had breakfast, and asked for a car to be brought around to the front. With hardly a word, we walked out the door, sat in the back of the car, and told his driver to “step on it.” His twenty or so staff, many of whom had worked for him for decades, lined the driveway as we drove toward the main gate and the exit onto Frank Sinatra Drive. Staring straight ahead, unable to acknowledge their emotional farewell, Frank never once looked back.

  SEVENTEEN

  Renewing our wedding vows on our twentieth anniversary

  at Our Lady of Malibu.

  COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR

  You Will Be My Music

  My husband didn’t retire so much as walk away. The last performance he gave as a solo artist was on the night of February 25, 1995, for the Barbara Sinatra Children’s Center celebrity gala. He hadn’t sung for a while, but he’d always kept his voice warmed up, and that night—the finale of our golf tournament—he was brilliant, and I mean brilliant like the old days.

  Without any fanfare as usual, he walked onto the stage at the Marriott Desert Springs hotel after Tom Dreesen’s warm-up, went to the microphone, and launched into “I’ve Got the World on a String.” Bill Miller sat a few feet away, as he had done for so many years, his fingers playing the keys for his friend and boss for the last time. From the moment Frank opened his mouth, he had his audience of twelve hundred guests eating from the palm of his hand. It was almost as if he knew this would be the last time he’d sing in public because he drew on all his experience and strength to give us one of the most memorable performances of his life.

  A reviewer in Esquire magazine described Frank that night as “on the money.” He was certainly in sparkling form, cracking jokes between numbers like “Fly Me to the Moon” and “My Kind of Town.” There was no sign of his recent forgetfulness, no unsteadiness in his speech or instability on his feet. He was bright and fully present and enjoying every moment in the spotlight. He was meant to sing only three songs, but he did six and received one standing ovation after another. At the fourth, he joked, “Is it time to go home?” Poignantly, he finished with “The Best Is Yet to Come.” As he walked offstage, he told Tom Dreesen, “Don’t put away that suitcase!”

  Speeding home in the back of the limo, I could barely speak. Finally, I squeezed his hand and asked him, “When are you going to learn to swing?”

  Later that year, Frank celebrated his eightieth birthday. We’d been married for nineteen years, yet it seemed like only yesterday that my darling husband-to-be had called me the morning of our wedding to tell me he couldn’t wait for me to be his bride. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to mark his milestone birthday. Everyone, that is, except Frank. I thought it would be nice to do something special, but I was thinking more of a quiet dinner with friends, which is exactly what we had when George and Jolene threw us an intimate dinner at their house with the Pecks and the Douglases. FS wasn’t going to be allowed to get away with just that, though. The Empire State Building was bathed in blue light for Ol’ Blue Eyes’s birthday, and plans had been afoot for months for an all-star televised tribute—Frank Sinatra: 80 Years My Way. With all proceeds being shared between the children’s center and a Los Angeles AIDS charity, stars of screen and stage would perform, including Bruce Springsteen, Tony Bennett, Bono, Ray Charles, Bob Dylan, Greg Peck, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Little Richard, Roseanne, Vic Damone, Angela Lansbury, Patti LaBelle, Tom Selleck, and Natalie Cole, among many others who stepped up at L.A.’s Shrine Auditorium. George was executive producer in charge of the special, which he described as “a loving birthday card to Frank.”

  Frank was more than a little nervous about the show. He wasn’t feeling well, and he didn’t know if he wanted to have cameras zooming in on him. I knew that if I could just get him there, though, he’d love it. The night before the show was to be taped, I invited Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan to dinner to break the ice, and the three of them got on like a house on fire. Along with several others who’d be performing the next night, they drank, goofed around, and sang together at the piano. It was an incredible evening.

  On the night of the show, Frank received a standing ovation just for making an entrance. He joked that it was “for still being alive.” He and I sat at a small, spotlit table ringside and watched one great star after another pay their respects. Bruce Springsteen opened the proceedings by calling Frank “the patron saint of New Jersey,” and then he sang “Angel Eyes,” the number Frank had bowed out with when he’d “retired” all those years before.

  Arnold Schwarzenegger, the future governor of California, spoke of Frank’s incredible fund-raising
, which he estimated had netted over a billion dollars for numerous charities throughout the years. (That night alone added another million.) Ray Charles did a fabulous version of “Ol’ Man River,” and Tony Bennett sang “(He’s) Got the World on a String.” There were old movie clips and news footage showing images of Frank’s remarkable life. Bono recorded a special video singing “Two Shots of Happy, One Shot of Sad.” There was a can-can routine by the Moulin Rouge Dancers, before Bob Dylan (who was going to sing “That’s Life” but couldn’t get along with it) sang an interesting acoustic number instead called “Restless Farewell,” which had the same sentiment as “My Way” and which Frank was visibly moved by when he heard the lyrics. The final verse goes:

  So I’ll make my stand

  And remain as I am

  And bid farewell and not give a damn.

  Patti LaBelle sang an incredible version of “The House I Live In,” the song Frank recorded in the sixties to defuse racial tension, and hers was the only performance that he stood to applaud. The finale, of course, was “New York, New York,” in which Frank was invited onto the stage to join in. It was the last time he would ever stand before an audience.

  Soon afterward, he told his friend Larry King that he’d never sing again in public. “Those days are just gone,” he added. “But I’m very, very happy.”

  A few days after our twentieth wedding anniversary, in July 1996, Frank and I renewed our wedding vows at Our Lady of Malibu Catholic Church. It was a beautiful day. The traditional Catholic ceremony was attended by Bobby, Steve and Eydie, Peggy Lee, Frank Jr., and many others.

  Repeating our marriage vows again seemed to take on even greater significance at that time of our lives and proved to be a deeply emotional experience for us both. In front of a handpicked group of friends, we repeated the sacred words we’d said to each other three times already—in Palm Springs, Florida, and New York—and promised once more to love and cherish each other “till death us do part.”

  Twenty-four years after we’d first started dating, we were still together, still in love. We had defied all the critics; we’d lost money for those foolish enough to gamble on us not staying together more than a few months. We’d risen above all the attempts of those who tried to break us up. Ours was a deep and lasting love, full of trust and loyalty, and not just on my part. Frank had been hit on by just about every glamorous star in the world but not only had he married me, he’d stuck with me for all those years. This was a man who was perfectly capable of leaving if he grew bored, but he’d stayed—and so had I. Was it easy? Not always. Frank could be quite a handful. Was it calm? Rarely. I never knew what drama each day would bring. But was it fun? Oh yes; a thousand times yes. And romantic too. As I’d promised myself as a restless tomboy back in sleepy little Bosworth, I would never, ever be bored.

  After the ceremony, we threw a party for seventy guests in the yard behind our Malibu beach house—the venue of many a memorable Sinatra Summer Pasta Party. We served an Italian dinner, of course, and during the toasts Frank announced gamely, “We’re going to do it again in twenty years!” As friends and family stood or sat around in the dunes, Bob Newhart and Don Rickles gave speeches and R. J. Wagner made the toast. An old friend from Vegas, the singer Frankie Randall, stood up and announced that he’d “brought something to the party.” As he summoned us to stand by the piano, he performed a song he’d written for our anniversary called “Twenty Years Ago Today.” He claimed it was based on Frank’s words to me over the many years he’d known us. It was so touching that we had copies of the song made and sent to our friends, and Frankie still performs it for me each time I see him. It goes

  It was twenty years ago today that you said you loved me in every single way.

  It seems like only yesterday but it was twenty years ago today.

  When I first saw you I knew one day I’d make you mine

  My life’s valentine; until the end of time.

  I’ve loved caring for you knowing you were by my side.

  You were a special gift when you became my bride.

  Looking back at all we’ve shared together, day by day

  Expecting the unexpected in everything I’d say

  You lovingly adjusted to my ups and downs in life

  I’ve treasured you through all these years

  As my lover and my wife …

  Twenty years from now as I look at you and smile

  I’ll kiss you and remind you that it’s all been worthwhile.

  One thing I’ve learned from you is to cherish what we have

  And so I’ll live each moment as if it were our last.

  Even though we were still so happy together, there was no longer any escaping the fact that Frank was getting old. He never lost his humor about it, though, and he wasn’t ready to give up just yet. The person who’d defied the odds from his near fatal birth and lived every day since as if it was his last was not going to go gently into that good night. For his eighty-first birthday, when someone asked him what he wanted, he replied, “Another birthday?”

  Once Frank was no longer pushing himself so hard with constant touring and performing, though, his body—and his mind—was finally able to relax. Some claimed that without his music he lost the will to live, but I don’t think that at all. It was more a case of admitting his age at last and allowing himself to act it. He stopped wearing his toupee. He grew a beard again; he slept more and didn’t exercise as much. His hearing, sight, and balance weren’t what they used to be, but his passion for reading and crosswords had never diminished, so he spent more and more time at home, curled up with a dog or three, his nose in a newspaper or book, and a cat on his shoulder. His occasional lazy mornings of slouching around in his pajamas became the norm, and sometimes he didn’t bother to get dressed at all.

  Sadly, when he felt well enough to go out, the press hounded him with even more fervor than they had before. Whenever we left the house, we’d send out two or three cars in different directions first so that the press couldn’t be sure which one to follow. If they followed ours, I kept Frank’s head down on the backseat. But as soon as we arrived anywhere, restaurant staff knew there were big bucks to be made if they tipped off the newspapers. No matter how generous Frank had always been with waiters and valet drivers, most seemed unable to resist the chance to make themselves an even bigger tip by picking up the phone. Not surprisingly, perhaps, we chose to stay in rather than run the gauntlet of the media. Because we’d always enjoyed card games and I’d never stopped playing gin rummy with friends like Bee Korshak, Anne Douglas, and Quique Jourdan during the day, I decided to set up a weekly tournament.

  Friends would arrive in time for cocktails and canapés, followed by a game of gin rummy or poker, and then dinner. We had eight players every week, including our regulars from the Beach Group, Jack and Felicia Lemmon, Greg and Veronique Peck, Angie Dickinson, Bob Newhart, Dick and Dolly Martin, Dick Van Dyke and his wife Michelle, R. J. Wagner, and Jill St. John. The guest list varied, depending on whether we were at the Foothill house or in Malibu and who was available. We didn’t play for big money, but that didn’t keep us from being competitive. I’d been able to hold my own in poker ever since Bob Oliver taught me back in Long Beach, but I was playing against a lot of actors whose faces were extremely difficult to read. Fortunately, after one of my potent Bloody Marys or a “Barbara martini,” their guard would soon drop.

  Our card nights became regular fixtures and something we all looked forward to. They have never stopped to this day. The beauty of the arrangement was that, because we were home with friends, Frank could join us if he felt like it or he could stay in bed or on the couch watching TV in his den. People could take a break from the game and drop in to see him if they wanted, and he’d almost always join us for dinner. If he was having a bad day, we’d leave him be. He had Vine and nurses to help him get around and make sure he took his cocktail of pills. If he was in good form, he’d wander into where we were and say something like “You’re al
l under arrest!” Wearing his pajamas and dressing gown, he’d pull up a chair next to mine and I’d show him my hand. He was such a fine actor that his face would never once change expression; he was unbelievable like that.

  Not that he was always well enough to join us. With alarming frequency, Frank was rushed to the hospital because of problems with his breathing, his heart, or high blood pressure. He beat off pneumonia once or twice in spite of the fact that he never stopped smoking; he developed bladder cancer and had ongoing problems with his colon. Each time he was admitted to the hospital, he created such a fuss with anyone who’d listen about wanting to “get the hell out of here” that he’d almost always be released prematurely. Despite his feistiness, in January 1997 he was hospitalized for the third time in eight months with pneumonia after a suspected heart attack. Putting on a brave face, I had to go in his place to launch a limited-edition Artist Label magnum of Korbel champagne, decorated with one of his paintings and sold in aid of the children’s center. At the recently closed Chasen’s, I told the waiting media and celebrities, including Sharon Stone and David Letterman, that Frank was “doing great” and blithely assured them he was “home with a bottle of bubbly to salute you.”