Searching for Grace Kelly

by Michael Callahan

  Laura took one tentative step closer, thrust her arm out again. “Take my hand, honey. Come on. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  Vivian’s face had turned wary, childlike, and Laura was surprised how much the metamorphosis of her expression jarred her. Vivian was the dame, the broad, the siren. Now all of that had been stripped away, revealing the frightened girl underneath. Dolly remained on her knees next to Laura, no doubt afraid to move a muscle, to interrupt the spell Laura had been casting. Laura could see Vivian’s white-gloved hand balling into a fist, then opening again, over and over, as if by itself her hand itself was waging a war over which path to take.

  They simply stood, looking at one another, saying nothing, their faces stinging in the frigid temperatures, Laura’s arm beginning to shake from being extended so long. But she was winning. She could feel the tide turning, feel Vivian’s resistance waning. She just had to be patient, wait it out. She would stand here with her arm extended all night if she had to.

  “I left Nicky a card, too,” Vivian said quietly.

  Laura tried not to show any reaction. But suddenly, the window of time for saving Vivian had just gotten a lot shorter. Damn! Why did she have to leave him a note? If Nicky had done what Laura had done, opened his card early, he could be on his way to the Barbizon this very minute. And there was no telling what he would do when he got here. They had to get Vivian off the terrace and out of the hotel. Now.

  “Honey,” Laura said gently, “it’s time to come now. Let us take care of you. It’s okay. Come.” She thrust her arm out once more.

  All of the anguish and conflict and doubt crisscrossed Vivian’s face, until she haltingly took a step toward Laura.

  She began to raise her hand.

  A gust of wind whooshed in from behind Dolly and Laura, and they turned to watch the door to the terrace swing wildly open.

  Laura whirled back around. “Vivian, it’s nothing! No one’s there! It’s just the wind! Vivian!!”

  But Vivian’s mind crashed under the weight of the moment, of the stark, ugly reminder it provided, that no matter where she went, no matter who she became, no matter how much she tried to start over, Nicola Accardi would always be there, taunting her, haunting her, around every dark street corner, lurking underneath every sinister lamppost shadow. Even if he never found her, he would always be there, the threat that she would think about the first thing when she woke up every morning and before she closed her eyes at night. He would be the ghost who would follow her, and her child, forever. She couldn’t live like that. She wouldn’t live like that.

  Vivian looked at Laura, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Laura couldn’t even hear her own screaming, even as she bolted toward the terrace ledge, Dolly yelling, wailing, scrambling to her feet behind her, as they watched Vivian, in one swift, fluid, brutal motion, swing her legs over the railing and drop away on the other side.

  Epilogue

  May 1956

  They’d picked a diner in Chelsea to meet, primarily because Chelsea was a neighborhood with no shared memories between them. In all the months she’d lived in New York, Laura couldn’t remember once being in Chelsea.

  When she walked into the diner, she spied Dolly immediately, sitting at a back table by the window, sipping tea. As she headed toward her, Laura could see Dolly had lost a good deal of additional weight and immediately felt a pinch of guilt. During those periods when she’d thought of Dolly in these past few months, she’d invariably pictured her gorging on a tray of sweets. Clearly, quite the opposite had happened. Dolly looked positively gorgeous.

  Dolly stood and they hugged. “It’s so nice to see you,” Laura said. “You look absolutely wonderful.”

  “It’s okay to say you’re surprised,” Dolly replied, settling back behind her tea. “I sure am.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Not eating,” Dolly said dryly. “As you know, I have always been the girl who turned to the bakery for support when the going got rough. But it turns out when the going gets downright catastrophic, I can’t eat at all.” She looked up, artificially cheery. “And how are you?”

  “Better,” Laura said. “At least I think better.”

  It was hard to believe it had been only five months; it felt like years. Vivian’s had not been the first jump in the history of the Barbizon, but it was the first in a long time, and beyond that it had all of the elements of high drama: the Stork Club profession (several papers had incorrectly identified Vivian as a showgirl, presumably because dead showgirls sold more papers), the gangster boyfriend, the city’s chic dormitory for girls as the backdrop. The story had been all over the papers for weeks. Nicky had gone to jail on an unrelated matter, something to do with a shady deal in Hoboken, albeit briefly. He was now out on bail pending additional charges, which Laura hoped would include murder, but she doubted it. Vivian had been right about one thing: Guys like Nicky were always getting away with it.

  The police had questioned Laura for hours. She had told them absolutely everything she could think of—about how scared Vivian had been, the pregnancy, how Nicky had evidently killed one of Vivian’s friends—until Marmy and Dad had swooped into the police station, whisking her back to Connecticut. Marmy had actually been . . . warm. Of course, she’d also been living off of all the drama over canasta and mai tais ever since.

  Dolly, fragile to begin with as that long night had unwound, had come completely unglued by the time it was over. After Vivian had plunged over the side, she’d disintegrated into utter hysteria, which didn’t subside until the ambulance men had come and injected something into her arm, right there on the terrace. Laura was herded to the police station, Dolly driven to the hospital. It had taken weeks for Laura to track her down back in Utica. They’d sent a few letters, talked briefly on the phone to set up this little reunion. Dolly was en route to her aunt’s in Brooklyn, where the Barbizon had sent her things. “I can’t step foot back in that place,” Dolly had told her on the phone.

  After Laura ordered a coffee, they began updating one another in greater detail. Laura relayed that she had returned to Smith, where the semester had just ended, and how nice it had been to be back in Northampton. Dolly talked about how she was finishing her Katie Gibbs certification at a local college near Syracuse, and how she had met a nice guy at the library she’d gone out with once and who “seems blissfully normal,” as she put it. Dolly asked Laura if she’d heard from Box and, because she could not help being Dolly, shared the unsolicited news that she’d recently seen a gossip column photo of Box and a shapely blonde, walking into a premiere at the Ziegfeld. Laura wondered how Agnes Ford felt about that. And was glad to note that she herself felt . . . nothing.

  An awkward silence descended over the table once the preliminary catch-ups were over. Dolly was absently stirring her tea, looking out onto Twenty-Third Street, when she said, “Do you think about her much?”

  “Every day,” Laura said.

  Dolly sighed. “It’s so strange, really. It comes on me at the oddest times. Like, I’ll be on a bus looking out the window, or buying apple juice, or soaking in the tub, and she’ll just come into my brain. That whole, horrible night comes into my brain.

  “Do you think,” Dolly went on, “that it will ever stop hurting? Because I would like to believe there will be a day when I will be able to think about her without it hurting.”

  “I’m not sure it will ever not hurt,” Laura said softly. “But I can only hope that, over time, it will hurt less. And the good memories will outweigh . . .” She trailed off.

  Dolly was shaking her head. “I know it doesn’t do any good to go over it anymore. I mean, I even went to see a shrink about it. Did I tell you that? I did. Just once, but I was so desperate I was willing to try anything. But basically he said what everyone says: ‘Time heals all wounds.’ Sometimes I worry that I have no right to feel this way at all. I mean, it wasn’t like she really even liked me.”


  “She loved you.” Dolly’s head jerked to attention, and their eyes met. “She wasn’t good at showing it,” Laura continued. “Who knows why. Maybe because of her family. Or maybe that’s just the way the British are. I don’t know. But I do know she cared about you—about both of us—very deeply.”

  “She didn’t tell you the whole truth about Box and Agnes.”

  “She didn’t know the whole truth. I think she didn’t say anything not to be cruel, but because she truly felt there are some things you have to learn for yourself. Which I did.”

  “I don’t know. I just keep thinking the same thought, over and over, that we should have been able to help her. Should have seen the signs. Should have done something—”

  Laura cut her off. “You can’t do this. It isn’t like I haven’t had those same internal monologues, over and over and over. I have. But you can’t hold yourself responsible for other people’s choices, even tragic ones. Vivian was nothing if not strong-willed. She was always going to live on her terms. And she was going to . . .” The remainder went unspoken. She was going to die on her own terms, too.

  Out on the sidewalk, their goodbye felt stilted, awkward. They hugged again tightly, promised to call, promised to write. But as Laura watched Dolly walk up toward Eighth Avenue, she felt sadness creep into her heart. Because something told her she would never see Dolly again. Their unlikely friendship had been a summer romance of a different sort. And had, like hers with Box, been irreparably damaged by the actions of another woman. Tragedy may bring people closer together. But once it’s over, the only thing anyone wants to do is forget.

  MacDougal Books & Letters looked different in the light of spring. Laura couldn’t put her finger on it at first, then realized, as she stepped out of the cab and walked down the few steps, that the door had been freshly painted in a shiny coat of black.

  She pushed it open, heard the familiar tinkle of the gold bell that had welcomed her on so many prior visits. A lifetime ago.

  Why did she think it would look radically different? It had been a little over six months since her last visit. The shelves were still crammed with books of all shapes and sizes, the schoolhouse pendant lights hung from the ceiling, and the worn wooden counter remained stationed at the left, complete with the old rusty cash register. No one was browsing. Laura knew the shop would be quiet on a Tuesday morning. Connie must be in the back. He’s far too trusting leaving the place unattended like this.

  She walked around, glancing at some of the new fiction, took a minute to step to the magazine rack and flip through the current issue of Mademoiselle, at its ironic motto: “The magazine for smart young women.” On the cover there was a photograph of a beautiful model in a flowered swimsuit standing on a tropical beach, and along with teasers for stories on the new cottons and new swimwear there was one that declared, “What’s new in suburbia.”

  “If you want to buy it, it’s thirty-five cents.”

  Laura looked up into the face not of Connie Offing, but Pete Kelly. He was leaning against the counter, nestling a push broom. His hair was still a messy tangle of competing angles, some going one way, another patch the next, but it appeared he’d gained a few pounds, which actually filled him out, made him appear a few years older. They’d all grown up in the last year.

  Laura was glad she’d worn a pretty outfit, a slightly flouncy blue-and-white California dress with cap sleeves and matching white flats. She didn’t care what Mademoiselle or any other fashion magazine said; it was warm out, and she was wearing her new white shoes, Memorial Day be damned. What was that saying Vivian had always been quoting? “Fashion can be bought. Style one must possess.”

  It was nice to think about her and smile.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve traded in your bartender’s apron for sweeping the floors,” Laura said.

  “Temporary reassignment,” Pete replied. “Just looking after the place while Connie’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh no. What happened?”

  “No, no, don’t worry, he’s going to be fine. He just decided he’d had enough trouble with the foot, so he had some surgery to alleviate the pain. He’ll be up and about in no time.”

  “Thank God.” She was going to add something and stopped.

  He studied her, so intently that Laura was forced to look away and out the window, onto MacDougal Street. “The window is sparkling,” she remarked. “You’ve been busy. Connie should have had an operation ages ago.” She glanced around. “It looks nice.”

  Pete set the push broom aside. “Ah, it’s nothing.” He took in a deep breath. “So . . . what brings you back to town?”

  “Well, final exams were last week. I’m mulling whether to take a job as a nanny on the Cape for the month of August, believe it or not. Can you imagine that? Me as a governess?”

  His quiet intensity, the one she had never completely been able to put out of her head, returned in full force to greet her. “I’ve imagined a lot of things about you.”

  She had to look away again. She didn’t know what to do with her arms, now fidgety and rubbery and flailing, crossed, then uncrossed, at her sides, then hands clasped behind her back, then back to the front, hands now rubbing together. “And you? What have you been up to, other than sweeping floors and polishing windows?”

  “Still at the bar a few nights. Writing’s gone well, though. I finished the book.”

  “Wonderland?”

  “The very same.”

  “Tell me,” she said, laughing, “does she get a happy ending?”

  “You’ll have to buy the book to find out.” His smile, warm and inviting, jarred her. She had thought that if she ever saw him again, all of that would be gone, vanished, like so much about her time living in New York already was. Vivian’s face appeared again in her brain, and she fought to shake it out. “It’s nice to see you,” he said.

  “You, too.” Say something. “I got your letter,” she continued. “That was very kind. It meant a lot to me.”

  He shrugged. “You didn’t reply. I didn’t know how you’d reacted to it. But I just wanted you to know . . . Well, you know.”

  “No, no, I’m sorry. It’s just been so . . .” She shrugged. “I couldn’t even be sure how I would feel once I came back to the city. I haven’t been here since everything happened. And back then I couldn’t ever imagine coming back.”

  “Have you spoken to Dolly? How is she?”

  Laura told him about their coffee. He asked if she’d heard from others. She’d gotten a few cards and notes, the most surprising being one from Metzger, on a pale blue note card embossed simply, THE BARBIZON HOTEL. “Hope you are doing well and readjusting,” it read. “I wish you every good thing.” It was signed, simply, “Your friend, Anne Metzger.”

  Pete was now directly in front of her, searching her eyes. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to keep talking about this. I was just asking . . . Actually, I have to be honest: I don’t know what to say.”

  “I know what to say to you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  He kept looking at her.

  “I need you to understand,” she continued. “Sometimes in life, we pick the wrong door. The one real thing in my life in all my months here in New York was the one thing I let slip away. And I cannot tell you how often I have thought of that and regretted it. I didn’t answer your letter not because I didn’t want to, but because I was afraid to. I owed you an honest response, and I was afraid if I did that—if I allowed myself to do that, all the way through—and you weren’t receptive . . .” She trailed off. “I know that’s cowardly. But I’m not as strong as you are. Or as brave.”

  “I think you’re incredibly brave,” he muttered quietly. He pulled her into him and hugged her, pressed the side of his face against hers. “I’m here.”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Yes, you can. Don’t be afraid. Let it out. I’m here. I’ve got you. For once, Laura, for once—don’t take what you think you should. Take what you really need.”<
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  And so she did. She wept, and clung to him, and wept more, quietly at first, then forcefully, her body shaking in his grip, until no more tears would come.

  Neither of them moved to break the embrace. They stood, not quite standing still, not quite swaying, as if dancing in place. She allowed herself the liberating freedom of nuzzling into his chest, her eyes once again glancing out of the sparkling window. He kissed her temple.

  She didn’t ever want to be anywhere else.

  “It’s so sunny and warm outside,” she said.

  “Summer’s coming.”

  “Yes, summer,” she said. She looked up at him. “Will you take me back to Atlantic City?”

  He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. “Of course,” he said, his face a portrait of pure, unfiltered joy. “But this time, I’m making sure you bring a notebook.”

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

  —E. L. Doctorow

  I may have driven the car, but I had a lot of help with directions.

  First and foremost, my deepest gratitude to the incredible members of my writing group, Philomena Papirnik and Manuel Moreno. Your unfailing dedication, incisive critiques, and throaty cheerleading saw me through many an “I can’t write another word” night. I owe this book to you.

  My agent, the fabulous Jane Dystel, believed in this project from the start, and she and her partner, Miriam Goderich, provided invaluable counsel navigating these new waters. My editor at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Nicole Angeloro, not only dove passionately into the story, but resurfaced with thoughtful edits that took the book across the finish line.

  Novels may be stories of imagination, but they require thorough research in order to ring true. My editor at Vanity Fair, David Friend, immediately seized on my pitch for a magazine piece about the Barbizon, and the story I wrote put me on the road to this novel. To him and the esteemed Graydon Carter, I express my sincere appreciation for their continual indulgence in letting me roam around the glamorous past for stories.