Her Serene Highness had also done no television interviews, and for years I had written letter after letter trying to get her to sit down with me. Finally, ten years after her marriage and three children later, two girls and the proper male heir, the palace authorities must have felt that it was time for their royal sovereign to be interviewed, and a date was arranged for me to come to Monte Carlo. This was to be her first television interview since the wedding.
Princess Grace greeted me in the garden of the palace just fifteen minutes later than our appointed time, which was certainly a leg up on Judy Garland. It is considered appropriate by most Europeans to curtsy to royalty. It is not appropriate for Americans to curtsy. I didn’t. Nor did I shake hands. I just sort of bowed a bit from the waist and smiled. The princess was in a casual dress and flat-heeled shoes, and we walked together to the palace swimming pool, with a tiny rowboat in the middle of it. There we sat and talked. Some excerpts:
BARBARA: Most of us think of a princess as sleeping in bed until noon. Having breakfast in bed. Ladies in waiting. Many servants. Is your life anything like what I have just described?
GRACE: People always romanticize my life. To a great deal my life is not much different from any woman who works and has a great many obligations and a great many things to do. And three childen to look after.
BARBARA: Do you think it is a very different life than if you had remained an actress and married someone in the motion picture business?
GRACE: Yes, I believe so. Because when I was acting, my private life was very much my own. And now my private life is very public.
BARBARA: And people like me come and sit and ask you all kinds of questions.
GRACE: Which are very difficult to answer.
So far, I thought, I was asking rather banal and boring questions, not at all hard to answer.
BARBARA: What was most difficult for you to adjust to as a princess and a monarch when you first came here?
GRACE: That’s a big change in anyone’s life…different culture, different language. I spoke a little bit of French but not much. I could ask the questions, but I couldn’t understand the answers.
BARBARA: Is a European husband very different from an American husband? Is Prince Rainier very different from your own brothers?
GRACE: A European husband is definitely the head of the household. There are no two ways about it. I know European men are always shocked by the relationship between an American man and wife. For instance, if an American wife contradicts her husband in public, which often happens. American women are outspoken and forthright and honest and say what they think. This shocks European men quite a bit. I mean, you would never find a European woman correcting her husband in front of other people.
BARBARA: In the early days of your marriage, did you find yourself doing it? Did you learn quickly?
GRACE: I learned a lot of things. [Laughs] I think the thing that has helped me most in my marriage and adjusting to life here is the fact that the prince and I share the same religion. It’s been a great bond between us. And I think that has helped us overcome any of the differences of our backgrounds and culture.
Note that there was no mention of the word “love.”
BARBARA: How many rooms are there in the palace here?
GRACE: I don’t know. I suppose there are over two hundred. I think I read that once.
We went on to talk of how the people regarded her. She thought many people in Monaco still considered her to be a foreigner. She continued to think of herself as an American. I asked if there was any role that tempted her to come back to films. She said, possibly Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler (who, by the way, kills herself at the end of act 4).
BARBARA: If one of your daughters wanted to be a movie star, would you object?
GRACE: I think so, yes.
BARBARA: Why?
GRACE: I don’t think it is ever a career or life one chooses for a daughter.
BARBARA: And yet you chose it for yourself. So what if your child says: “Mother, you did. Why not me?”
GRACE: I’ll face that problem when or if it comes.
BARBARA: [my final question] Your Highness, I must ask you what most Americans want to know about you. Are you happy?
GRACE: I suppose I have a certain peace of mind, yes. And my children give me a great deal of happiness and my life here has given me many satisfactions.
(Ye gods! “A certain peace of mind”? No joy? No pride? And no mention of her husband? “A certain peace of mind”? That is the best definition of happiness for Her Serene Highness Princess Grace of Monaco?)
She must have realized how this sounded, because when I thanked her most courteously, she had tears in her eyes. True, it might have been because she had never done a television interview before and answering questions that were not part of a script might have bordered on torture for her. Still, after meeting her, I always felt that she was living an unexpected life of disappointment.
It would end in 1982 in an automobile accident with her seventeen-year-old daughter, Stephanie. The car, which Grace was driving, plunged off the steep, hairpin-turn road above Monaco, fatally injuring Grace but sparing her daughter, who was only bruised and would be treated for shock. Grace was only fifty-two, and there was conjecture that she might have suffered a stroke before the accident. (Strange, the other two most beautiful and interesting women of that generation, at least to me, Audrey Hepburn and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, also died way before their time.)
I have my own rather weepy little postscript to this story. I had always heard of the enchanting and beautiful hotel La Réserve de Beaulieu, which is on the Côte d’Azur halfway between Monaco and Nice. I had friends who had gone there and had a wonderful time. So I decided to treat myself to a few days of luxury there when my interview with Grace Kelly was over. I would get some sun and relax and maybe meet a new friend or two.
I arrived in time for cocktails and was given a small table in the lovely garden. I ordered a glass of wine and sipped it alone. There were Americans at adjoining tables. No one looked in my direction. I was just a single woman sitting alone, and they obviously didn’t recognize me, if indeed they had ever even seen me on TV. I finished my glass of wine, and when cocktail time was over I sat on the restaurant’s terrace and had my dinner alone. The next morning I went down to the area of the small swimming pool. All around me were smiling couples, chatting away. I sunned alone, had a large lunch alone, more cocktails alone, and yet another dinner alone. The next morning I canceled the rest of the weekend and took the first plane home to New York.
I don’t know who was more lonely, Princess Grace or I.
Born in My Heart
MY HOMECOMING WAS A happy one, made all the more so because Lee and I were about to begin the most joyous chapter of our life together. After three miscarriages, too many hormones, and way too many thermometers, Lee and I came to a conclusion that was both exciting and scary.
We would adopt a child.
Back in the sixties it wasn’t as difficult to adopt a baby as it is today. Roe v. Wade, the landmark decision by the Supreme Court upholding a woman’s right to abortion, would not become federal law until 1973. We thought we were pretty advanced in our thinking, but single mothers were neither cherished nor applauded. Babies born out of wedlock were called “illegitimate.” Pregnant unmarried women were said to be “in trouble” and had a hard time making a go of it. They were often sent away on a seven-or eight-month “vacation” by their anxious parents so they could have their baby away from neighbors’ judgmental eyes, and then many times the baby would be put up for adoption. As a result of society’s stigma, there were more unwanted babies available than there are today.
Lee and I went to an adoption agency. At the interview, I expressed my concern that I might not be considered the best candidate because I worked full-time, but the counselor told me that wouldn’t be a problem. She also told us that there was a long waiting list. We put our name on the list and said we would wait.
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And then this miracle occurred. Lee and I were going to the theater one night with a couple who weren’t exactly close friends, more like acquaintances. I used to double-date with the woman occasionally before she and I each married. When we ran into each other one day, we said, “We must get together.” This was the night we got together.
The woman, let us call her Jane, was now married to an extremely wealthy man, whom we shall call John. His family owned a very large lumber company. After the theater, over supper at Sardi’s, a popular theater-district restaurant that catered to a show business clientele, Jane told us that she and John had, two years earlier, privately adopted a baby girl. They now wanted to adopt a boy. And not just any boy. A tall, blond, fair-skinned boy to mirror their blond, blue-eyed, fair-skinned daughter. Since they were short and dark-haired, they obviously weren’t thrilled with their own looks.
Jane and John were so determined to find that tall blond boy that they were once again pursuing private adoption. Most adoption agencies at the time divulged few details about a child’s natural parents; even basic facts like health and family background were kept secret. So Jane and John had asked their company’s lawyers to locate prospective unwed mothers of suitable backgrounds and physical characteristics who planned to give up their babies for adoption. The lawyers also met, if possible, with the fathers. The lawyers had a checklist of what to look for when interviewing the parents—for example, had they attended high school, had they graduated? The lawyers were also instructed to find out if the parents had any possible genetically inherited diseases, like diabetes.
I remember being shocked at their calculated approach toward custom-tailoring their children, although in these days of “designer babies” it doesn’t seem that strange. But then all I could think of was Nietzsche’s belief in a superior being and Darwin’s theories about the survival of the fittest. Lee and I didn’t care what the sex of our child would be or his or her hair color or height. We just wanted a healthy baby.
Then came an offer we couldn’t refuse.
Jane and John wanted a boy. Period. Again, back in the sixties, there was no way of knowing before the baby was born what sex it would be. So they were looking for a couple who would absolutely agree to take the baby if the child was a girl. Lee and I looked at each other and said, almost simultaneously: “We will.”
We told no one. We did not decorate a nursery. We did not buy a layette. We waited quietly.
Jane called from time to time to say the lawyers had met this woman or that couple, but no one who fitted their specifications. Finally they felt they had found just the right candidate. The mother-to-be was single and came from a good family. The parents did not know their daughter was pregnant. She was living in a different state, and was only nineteen, so she did not feel she could take on the responsibility of raising a child. Both she and the father-to-be were tall and fair-haired. No known hereditary diseases.
We continued to wait.
Then came the unforgettable day. I had just gotten off the air and was myself being interviewed by a print journalist when my phone rang. It was Lee.
“It’s a girl,” Lee said. “She’s ours!”
I looked at the woman who was interviewing me and burst into tears. “I’m a mother,” I sobbed happily, and swore her to secrecy.
Actually I swore everyone in the office close to me to secrecy. I didn’t want the word to reach the papers for fear our baby’s biological mother would learn we were the parents. But what I really wanted to do was to rush up and down Rockefeller Plaza and shout out the news, “We have a baby! We have a baby! Hallelujah!” I was out of my mind with joy and couldn’t wait to see her.
That night Lee and I laughed and cried. We made love without worrying whether or not it was the right time of the month. We bought airline tickets to fly to the state where the baby was born. The hospital told us we’d have to wait until the infant was four days old before she could leave the hospital. The birth mother was fine. She had no idea who we were and had no desire to meet us. Nor did we want to meet her.
Remember, this was long before the idea of “open adoptions” became a reality or even an option. The identity of adopted children and their birth parents was kept sealed and not available to the child or the new parents. This was considered the best way. The adoptive parents could handle the situation however they wanted and tell their child whatever they wanted.
I don’t know if Jane and John ever found their fair-haired, blue-eyed, very tall son. After the birth of the baby, we lost touch. But let me just tell you that my daughter has blue eyes, fair hair, and today she is slightly over six feet tall.
I immediately told my parents and sister, who were living in New York at the time, about the baby’s birth. They were ecstatic. We decided to name the baby Jacqueline after my sister. This was fine with Lee. For my sister this naming was truly meaningful. She was now in her early forties. She would never have her own child, and baby Jackie would help to fill that need.
Right after I told my family I told my producer, but I also said that I would not mention the baby’s birth on the air, nor would I send out announcements. Again, I was afraid the birth mother would put two and two together and realize that I was the woman who now was parent to her baby and I didn’t want her to be in touch with me—or eventually with Jackie. To this day, she never has been. She must have wanted secrecy, too.
All we knew about our baby was that she was healthy. We knew there was no diabetes in her family. We were also told the mother had a high IQ and that she was not Jewish. In turn the birth mother knew almost nothing about us except that we were married and would be loving parents. She didn’t care in what religion her baby would be raised. We paid all the birth mother’s hospital expenses and her lawyer’s fee. That was that.
The same day as the wondrous phone call, I called my cousin Lorraine in Asbury Park, New Jersey. She had followed her father into the clothing business and owned a children’s store. Lorraine, who knew much more about what I would need for the baby than I did, immediately sent me a complete layette—bibs, diaper covers, undershirts, one-piece jumpers, blankets, sheets, towels. She also sent a bathinette and a changing table with compartments for diapers, everything I would need. A close friend loaned me her own baby’s bassinet and, later, her crib.
The new baby would sleep in what had been our library. It had dark brown fake leather walls. Very chic for a library, very grim for a nursery. No time to paint. Our creative set designer on Today made us huge pastel butterflies. We hung them on the walls, and the room was suddenly enchanting. We hastily called a domestic employment agency, did some quick interviewing, and hired an experienced baby nurse.
Four days after the baby’s birth, we flew to pick her up. On the one hand I was impatient with desire to hold her in my arms. On the other hand I was nervous. Would I even know how to hold her? I hadn’t had much experience with babies and had no parenting lessons. Maternal instinct would have to make everything all right. I had brought with me a soft, flannel one-piece pink bunting for our new daughter, along with a white cuddly blanket, diapers, a bottle, formula—whatever I was told was necessary. I was more or less prepared.
I didn’t want to go to the receiving floor where the baby was to be delivered to us because I was afraid of meeting the birth mother. Lee went upstairs with the bunting. A nurse then dressed the infant and put her into Lee’s arms. He came downstairs and put our baby in my arms.
Even as I write this, I get tears in my eyes. I cannot properly express my joy as I welcomed this tiny pink bundle. Her face was partially covered by the blanket, so I gently pulled it back. My daughter, Jackie, was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. Perfect features. One little dimple in her left cheek. My cousin Shirley, when she first saw Jackie, said: “She has a mouth like a rosebud.” No hair, just some blond fuzz. Blue eyes. Perfect hands and feet. Perfect.
According to the baby book I immediately began to keep, our daughter weighed seven pounds and was twe
nty-one inches long, a little longer than average. Later on I also noted in the book that she smiled spontaneously at the age of one month. (Could it have been gas?) She discovered her hands and feet at twelve weeks and recognized Lee and me easily by four months. She crawled by eight months and was, of course, the most brilliant baby ever born. Not only that, she may well have been the only baby born that year who had to lie about her age.
After receiving Jackie, Lee and I went immediately to the airport. “How old is the baby?” we were asked at the check-in counter. “Four days,” we said proudly. “Too young to fly,” said the ticket agent. “A baby has to be eight days old to be allowed to fly.”
We turned in our tickets and went to another airline. “Eight days,” we said, and we boarded a plane with our sleeping infant.
I changed her diaper on the plane. Awkwardly. Diapers were cloth then and fastened with huge safety pins. I stabbed myself several times before I got the hang of it. I fed her a bottle. I held her to my chest, to my face, to my lips. “She is ours,” Lee kept saying. “She is ours.” Seven days earlier we had no way of knowing if we would ever have a child. Now we were parents.
And my parents were grandparents. My sister was her aunt. From the time of the baby’s birth, there was no thought in their minds that she wasn’t their flesh and blood. I don’t think they ever used the word “adoption” to me. Their newborn granddaughter was theirs, and by “theirs” I mean all three of them. And that was fine with me. I wanted them to feel that the child was as much a part of them as she was of Lee and me. Judging from the way they doted on her, they did. All three couldn’t get enough of her.
When Jackie was born, Lee’s son and daughter were in their late teens. They were very sweet with her, but they had their own interests as well as other younger half sisters and brothers, for their mother had also remarried. So although they held their new baby sister, made the proper cooing noises, and never expressed any jealousy, Jackie was not really a part of their lives.
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