“What a riot! Did you tell her it came from Des Moines?”
Marty started laughing. “I just told them someplace in the Midwest. I wasn’t about to tell them that I made it myself.”
I stared at her for a minute, shocked.
“You have to be kidding! You mean you sewed that dress—you did all those little button holes on that silky fabric? When did you learn to do that?”
“It was easy—I’ve made all of my clothes ever since the fourth grade!”
“Fourth grade? For crying out loud, Marty—you’ve never said a word. What other secrets are you keeping from me? The next thing you’re going to tell me is that you knit your own sweaters.”
She looked at me again. “I do.”
I hardly knew what to say. “Those sweaters—that gorgeous pink cardigan, and the black-and-white tweed—are handmade? And I thought you were Younkers’s best customer!”
“I was, really—that’s where I bought my yarn and fabric. Younkers gave knitting lessons on Saturday mornings—so my sweaters only cost two dollars. With round needles, I never had to watch what I was doing and I could knit away at the movies. . . . I figured I could have twice as many clothes if I made my own.”
“Does anyone else know this?” I asked in awe.
She shook her head.
That Marty. My best friend.
“Well, if I could do that, I’d be telling the whole world!”
Chapter Six
OVER A murmur of voices, I heard someone laugh—a familiar laugh. Was I dreaming? My heart raced when I looked up as the room turned quiet.
Judy Garland was entering the Fifth Avenue revolving door with an elegant-looking man. Of course—Vincente Minnelli! They were laughing, as if they were sharing the world’s best joke.
Mr. Hutchison stepped forward to greet them and whisked the famous couple into the VIP private chamber behind the diamond counter. For a crazy moment I wanted to run up and say, “Hi, Judy! I’m one of your biggest fans!” I could see myself, sitting across from them in that special room, chatting about the old movies, the Andy Hardy comedies with Mickey Rooney, Judge Hardy, and Aunt Milly. What fun that would be.
Instead, I waited patiently at the stationery counter for the salesman to finish writing his order. He had been sorting handcrafted vellum envelopes according to size in neat stacks. I thought he had missed seeing her, when he whispered.
“She looks very young, doesn’t she?”
Young? Judy Garland is my age!
“Younger than her husband,” I allowed.
He stared at me, surprised. “You mean that’s her husband?”
Had he been living on the moon?
“They were married last week—he’s Vincente Minnelli, the movie director,” I explained. “They’re here on their honeymoon—and have a penthouse on Sutton Place.”
He made little clucking sounds as he nodded his head. Apparently, he’d missed the news of their glamorous wedding. Not us. Marty and I’d dash to the lobby of the St. Regis Hotel during lunch hour to read the latest. Photoplay had a breathtaking picture of them—Minnelli kissing Judy at their wedding; a pretty, smiling Judy holding a bouquet of huge pink peonies. She looked exquisitely lovely wearing a pale blue-gray jersey gown and an organdy bonnet—La Bohème style—set back on her head to show her long reddish-brown hair. Not since the Duke of Windsor married “that woman” had I been so swept up by a love affair.
“They were just married in Beverly Hills—in Judy’s mother’s garden,” I told the salesman, “and guess who gave her away? The head of MGM—Louis B. Mayer!”
More intriguing to me was that Ira Gershwin had been Vincente Minnelli’s best man. With that cast of notables, the wedding music must have been exceptional. I combed through stacks of magazines at the St. Regis to find out what “their song” might have been. For a start, one of her favorites among Gershwin’s was “Embraceable You,” judging from her recordings. But what about “Love Walked Right In”? Ira Gershwin’s lyrics would have been perfect, I thought, humming them to myself.
Love walked right in and drove the shadows away
Love walked right in and brought my sunniest day—
When love walked in with you.
How romantic—that is, if anyone would have the nerve to sing in that crowd. If I had been included in that VIP room, I would have asked. Instead, I was standing in the opposite corner, straining my ears. We heard whoops of laughter—that laugh as she walked along the yellow brick road. What was so funny? What could staid, old Mr. Hutchinson be saying? Did he know any jokes? Every time Judy’s bubbly laugh ricocheted off the walls, everyone smiled.
I’d grown up with Judy—we were two years apart. From the front row of the Story City Theater, we’d seen her movies, memorized her songs, copied her hair style, and followed the Academy Awards and her career. Now, with her latest hit, The Clock, directed by Minnelli, she was MGM’s biggest star. Had their romance begun when it was filmed here in the city?
Walter Winchell and Louella Parsons covered every detail. Now they were just as captivated by the Italian film director Minnelli. According to those gossip columnists, he was suave, sophisticated, worldly, charming, kind, elegant, cosmopolitan, dashing, a genius, and mature. Never a mention that he was old and almost twice her age, for heaven’s sake.
When the newlyweds emerged from Tiffany’s private chamber, I had goose bumps from head to toe. Minnelli’s arm was around Judy’s small waist, and her shoulder-length reddish-brown curls bounced like a little girl’s. She looked up at him with a satisfied giggle as the doorman assisted them onto Fifth Avenue. They disappeared in a limousine. All that was left was the smile on Hutchison’s face.
Marty caught my eye—time for lunch. We quickly changed out of our Bonwit’s dresses and headed for the Horn & Hardart Automat across Fifty-seventh Street near Sixth Avenue.
We went to the Automat every day, and I considered it a miracle in the same category as the wonder of Rockefeller Center. It was a dazzling room of chrome and carried the intoxicating aroma of freshly roasted coffee, hot cinnamon rolls, legendary macaroni and cheese, and delectable cherry pies (or so we’d heard). Our meal for the day was always the cheapest sandwich, usually egg salad, made with white bread. The Automat catered to everyone from bank presidents to girls like us, and the rows of sparkling chrome-and-glass compartments, the chrome-plated slots where the nickels went—even the brass dolphin-shaped spigot on the coffee urn, always glistened.
As soon as we’d inserted our nickels for our sandwich and a drink, we found our favorite window seat.
Marty was saying, “Minnelli is not exactly what you’d call handsome with that Italian nose—he’s more the sophisticated type. So protective the way he held her hand.”
“Held her hand? I missed that—but how did you like her piqué dress?”
“Linen,” Marty said, sipping her iced tea. “And no hat—so California.”
“Well, I wished they hadn’t vanished into the VIP room.”
“Who could blame them—every reporter was chasing after those newlyweds,” Marty said, “though no one could miss that boisterous laugh.”
“It was a resonant laugh—which carries,” I said, remembering how happy Judy looked.
“I guess. But I’d love to know what Minnelli bought her. Remember, he’d designed a pearl engagement ring and a gold wedding ring with pearls—so maybe he decided to buy her a diamond, after all.” We finished our sandwiches, and watched the lunch-hour crowd along Fifty-seventh Street as Marty took out a cigarette. “Who was that other man who tagged along?”
“What man?” I hadn’t noticed anyone.
“There were three altogether,” Marty insisted.
And she was right; later we read all the details. The mystery man was Nick Shenck, who had been sent by the studio with instructions to purchase them a Tiffany wedding present from MGM. Anything they wanted. Imagine, anything at Tiffany?
At first Judy had chosen a simple gold brooch, until M
r. Shenck encouraged her to try emeralds. Hesitating, she had tried on an emerald bracelet with square diamonds and a matching brooch that could be broken into two clips. She had laughed as she showed off the stunning bracelet. Mr. Shenck insisted that Minnelli, too, choose a present. His choice was an elegant gold Patek Philippe watch.
The emeralds were an exceptional choice. Symbolic, maybe? Something from the Emerald City to remember? I knew I’d always remember how happy Judy Garland was that day. Laughing and laughing.
106 Morningside Dr.
Dear Family,
What a week! Did you see the picture of the Queen Mary when it arrived? We were there when it steamed in from Europe—packed with over 14,000 servicemen and women! Guiding it into the harbor were dirigibles, aircraft carriers, tugs and ships tooting their horns. A band played “Don’t Fence Me In,” flags flew, and people carried gigantic banners with “Welcome Home” signs. It was so exciting when they came down the gangplank—imagine how they felt hitting American soil. We cheered with thousands of New Yorkers till we were hoarse. I hoped I’d recognize someone from home, but I didn’t. Red Cross ladies were dispensing 35,000 half-pint cartons of milk!! Did you know servicepeople could seldom drink milk in Europe? Of course, Mayor La Guardia and the military dignitaries welcomed them with fanfare, and the photographers and reporters were rushing around like crazy.
You’ll never guess who came in to Tiffany! Judy Garland and Vincente Minnelli! You can imagine how thrilled we were to see them on their honeymoon. Their latest movie, The Clock, is a big hit; people are standing in a line around the block. It was filmed here in Manhattan with scenes of Grand Central Station and the Biltmore Hotel—the clock at the Biltmore is a famous meeting place—you can see why New Yorkers love it.
You wrote how hot it is at home—here, too! Nevertheless, the girls from Long Island will be here this weekend. Hot or not, they love our apartment.
Love, Marjorie
Our apartment was never too hot for those girls! The phone again . . .
“Hi Sheila—Friday night?” Marty looked at me. “Okay with us. . . . Can’t wait to tell you the latest—we just saw Judy Garland and Vincente Minnelli!” I heard Sheila’s high squeal over the phone from across the room. Marty covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Anita.”
“Hi Anita . . . you bet we did—saw them in person . . . no, he doesn’t look like a fuddy-duddy; you’d fall for him in a minute. Did you read about Judy’s birthday party for her sister, Dorothy? They took over La Martinique. . . . And she sang “Embraceable You” with the Merry Macs—I hear she was a knockout in a blue brocaded hostess gown!” Marty was fanning herself with a newspaper.
“There’s a sale at Macy’s? . . . Two pairs of heels?” Marty asked as she turned to me.
That Anita! When we’re limited to two pair of shoes a year?
“Really—” Marty said. “No, we couldn’t make it to Macy’s if they’re giving shoes away—we only have an hour for lunch. We’re stuck out here,” Marty sighed, “shopping around our neighborhood. . . .”
“Where? At Bergdorf’s, m’dear!”
We howled when Marty hung up.
Chapter Seven
WE WERE sipping lemonade while sharing our Judy Garland story with Mrs. Shuttleworth when she suddenly realized she had forgotten to tell us something.
“Why don’t you girls go to the midshipmen’s dances? It’s the patriotic thing for you to do.”
Midshipmen’s dances?
“Where?” we asked in unison.
“Right over at Barnard College—every Saturday night.”
“Where’s Barnard?” I asked.
“Oh, you girls.” She shook her head. “Don’t tell me you don’t know? It’s a girls’ school next to Columbia.”
“But can we just walk in if we aren’t enrolled there?” asked Marty.
“Oh, for land’s sake,” Mrs. Shuttleworth counseled. “Just walk in like you’re Barnard girls.”
Barnard girls? How would Barnard girls dress for a dance?
Marty chose a tailored pink sharkskin dress, and I went with my sundress and white sandals. We freshened up our Stocking Stick–painted legs, and kept our pincurls in until just before we walked out the door. In this humidity, those curls wouldn’t last long.
When we arrived, our confidence immediately dropped a notch. Women outnumbered the men at least two to one, if not three to one.
“These are rich girls. And they know how to dress,” Marty whispered. The clothes looked straight out of Mademoiselle, and the hairdos were the latest styles.
“We could be hugging the wall for a long time,” Marty acknowledged.
Someone put “Jeepers Creepers” on the phonograph, jitterbugging swept across the dance floor, and we headed for the punch bowl.
FOUR HOURS LATER, we were out of breath from running up three flights of stairs to the apartment. I slumped into the nearest chair, kicking off my high heels.
“Honestly—aren’t they the smoothest?”
“Tell me about it! But just wait till I tell you the hysterical thing that happened”—Marty laughed as she went to the kitchen for ice cubes—“soon as I cool off— Good grief, it is hot!”
I was fanning myself with a newspaper when the telephone rang. Marty grabbed it.
“Hey—this is not Checker Cab.” Marty slammed down the receiver. “And that’s twice today.” She handed me a glass of ice water and plopped down on the studio couch.
“Well, the funniest darn thing happened,” she said, swirling her glass around. “Did you see the redhead I danced with first? He was from Harvard—had to mention it twice. Then my stupid Stocking-Stick goo came off on his whites—was he mad! That’s when John asked me for a dance and rescued me.”
“I wish I’d have seen that,” I said, setting down my drink. “That guy has shoulders like a quarterback.” I conjured up an image of John, though all I could think of was Jim.
My guy. I leaned against the back of the chair with “That Old Black Magic”—the song for our last dance—going round in my head. I noticed him immediately when we walked in. Who wouldn’t? The other gals certainly did, the way they sidled up to him without any shame—out-and-out flirting! He looked like Jimmy Stewart in The Philadelphia Story the way a lock of dark hair would fall over his forehead. When he approached me, I almost fell face-forward onto the dance floor.
“My name’s Jim,” he offered, with a hint of a smile.
He had an easy drawl and said he was from Virginia. When he found out I was from Iowa, he didn’t blink an eye as we began to dance.
“You’re a Southerner?” I asked.
“Come on—Virginia isn’t the Deep South. Would you call Iowa the Old West?” He teased. “I recognized your Kappa key right away. Their house was close to our fraternity—we learned most of your songs.”
“You’re kidding—which one’s your favorite?”
“Oh, you know the one—‘My girl’s a Kappa—she chews tobacca.’ ” He smiled and a lock of hair fell over his forehead again. Ohmygosh!
After our first dance, a couple began to jitterbug, elbowing us to the edge of the floor. Jim looked at them and raised his eyebrows.
“Not your style?” I asked, hoping he’d say no. It wasn’t that I didn’t like jitterbugging—I’d give anything if I could. But being so gangly, I didn’t know what to do with my elbows.
He laughed. “’Fraid not.” We found chairs in a far corner, and he brought over glasses of fruit punch. I couldn’t wait to hear more about him. He told me he had a younger brother, had graduated with a degree in chemical engineering, and was a Phi Delt.
“Chemistry? That’s impressive—toughest course I ever took. Organic chemistry was a real struggle.”
“You took organic?” He looked surprised.
“Well, you know how they’re urging girls to become scientists because of the war.”
“Good idea—how’d you like setting up the lab?”
“That finished me—my Bunsen
burner blew up the rubber hoses!”
He laughed. “So what’s your major now?” His penetrating eyes gave me shivers.
“Actually,” I hedged, not ready to confide about the cello, “I have so many interests—it’s hard to settle on one. So, my roommate and I decided to try Manhattan for the summer and find a job. Believe it or not, we’re working at Tiffany.”
“Tiffany!” he echoed.
I continued as nonchalantly as possible; how we’d come to New York to find a glamorous job on Fifth Avenue, a pied-à-terre in Manhattan, and a chance to check out the nightclub scene.
Had I spread it on too thick?
Jim whistled and raised his eyebrows.
As soon as we heard the opening bars to “That Old Black Magic,” we were on the dance floor again.
That old black magic has me in its spell,
That old black magic that you weave so well—
I adored the way he moved—
Icy fingers up
And down my spine
That same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine.
Those brown eyes that penetrate mine.
That same old tingle that I feel
Inside—
And I loved how I fit right under his chin.
In a spin, loving the spin I’m in,
Under that old black magic called love.
Ohmygosh!
Were they blinking the lights? Time to go?
So soon?
“Yeah.” Jim laughed. “We have curfew in the navy.”
I looked around for Marty, and found her dancing with a tall football type. I pointed her out to Jim.
“Hey, I know that guy,” he said. “His name is John.”
How could we have been so lucky? Taking—stealing the cutest guys away from the “Bah-nad” girls. They’d never let us back!
Jim and John escorted us to the lobby of our apartment building. The desk clerk made an obvious point of watching our every move. Before they left, I held my breath and then heard the three most beautiful words in the English language. “How about next Saturday?”
Summer at Tiffany Page 6