“I have to talk to you about something,” she said. “Before we go to the theater.”
“What is it?”
She walked past me to the living room, set down her things and went to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. “It’s about the fella you’ve been going with.”
“Archie? What about him?” It had been more than a week since I’d seen or heard from him, but I didn’t want to let on.
“Well, you know Evelyn, the young girl who just joined this season as a pony, you know the one, blond, voluptuous.” She held her hands in front of her bosoms and pretended to squeeze.
“Yes,” I said. Oh God, don’t tell me he’d been wooing her, too, how humiliating, poaching from under my very nose. What a fool to think he was interested in me and me alone.
“She’s from Cincinnati, she just moved here recently, and she said he’s very well-known in that town, very well-known,” she emphasized. “In the papers weekly, apparently, comes from a wealthy family.”
“Well, he built his own fortune, actually, but never mind … go on.”
“You’re not going to like this, and I’m only telling what I heard because the other girls have been talking about it in the dressing room and I don’t want you to have them whispering behind your back, it’s not right—”
“Just spit it out, Lillian,” I snapped, furious already at whatever it was she was about to tell me.
“He’s engaged.”
“What?”
“To be married.”
“To Evelyn?”
“No.” She almost laughed and I shot her a look that made her straighten up. “No, not Evelyn, but she knows about him, and it’s been all over the papers back in Cincinnati, some woman from his hometown.”
“That can’t be right,” I said, confused, caught completely off guard. How could this be? Why would a man go to great lengths to find out where I perform, send me gifts, flowers, take me to dinner and want to know so much about me if he’s already engaged to another woman? It made no sense.
“That’s what I said, it seemed false, but she was adamant about it, she even brought in a newspaper clipping.” Lillian reached into her pocket and unfolded a cutout. She looked at it as if she weren’t sure she should show me.
“Just give it to me already,” I said, standing up and taking it from her hands.
MISS MOYER AND MR. CARMICHAEL, PROMINENT COMMUNITY PLAYERS, ANNOUNCE ENGAGEMENT
I looked at Lillian, who stood nervously watching me, then I read some more.
Miss Lutz of 62 McKnight St. last night proved a delightful hostess to the members of her bridge club in honor of Miss Moyer, who announced her betrothal to Archibald Carmichael of this city.
A huge cake, topped with a miniature bride and bridegroom, formed the centerpiece of the attractive table. A dainty luncheon was served with an elaborate display of daffodils and snapdragons, which complemented the decorations …
“Repulsive.” I crumpled the clipping in my hand and threw it across the room. “Who knows about this?”
Lillian looked worried and shrugged. “I’m not sure, there’s been quite a bit of talk.”
“To think that I wasted a perfectly good evening on him.” I tried to smile, act as though I didn’t care. “Thanks for telling me. Come on, let’s not be late.” I picked up my shoes, threw them in my bag and ushered her out the door.
I suffered through a week of silent humiliation. None of the girls at the theater said a word to me about it, though it was clear from the way they stopped talking about Archie completely that they’d all heard. When Ruthie brought it up back at the apartment, I told her it was old news and that it wasn’t worth our precious time. But it felt awful to have things end so abruptly before they’d even really begun, without any proper explanation or apology.
I didn’t go out after the shows at all that week; it was even hard to put on a big smile onstage. All I wanted to do was finish up my acts, go home and go to sleep. And I was furious at myself for feeling this way. I barely knew the guy, for God’s sake. Three times, we’d met only three times, but each time had left an imprint on me, a swell of excitement and longing that was all new. And more than that, I felt so ridiculous, embarrassed that I had put so much faith in this stranger, that I’d believed every word he said. How could he say those things and make me feel how I felt, and be carrying on with, not just carrying on, actually planning a life, with another woman. The whole thing made me sick.
During the intermission on Friday night’s Frolic there was a knock at the dressing room door.
“Olive, you have a visitor.” The stage manager popped his head in. “It’s a Mr. Archibald Carmichael to see you.”
There was a gasp. The girls in the room spun around, watching to see what I’d do. In some way I wanted to see him, to let him explain himself, at least give me some pathetic excuse to make him look ridiculous and make me feel better about it all. But I felt all eyes on me and I was no pushover.
“I’m not interested in seeing him,” I said firmly. “Send him away.”
A moment later there was another knock. “Flowers, Olive, and a note.”
“I don’t want those either, tell him to take them with him.” I looked in the mirror and puckered my lips, checked my makeup and my hair. “The nerve of some men,” I said loudly enough for everyone to hear.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After all the good press following the new Midnight Frolic, I’d been approached by Albolene cold cream to sit for one of their advertisements. The money was good, but more than anything, I was excited about appearing in magazines and maybe even a well-placed billboard.
After rehearsal, I freshened up and reapplied my makeup—even though I knew I’d be having it all redone when I arrived at the studio.
I was about to leave for my sitting when Howie popped his head into the dressing room. “Ziegfeld wants to see you.”
“Now?” I checked the time. “Any idea what it’s about?”
“He didn’t say.”
I hadn’t been alone with Ziegfeld since the incident in his car. He’d commended the uptick in ticket sales at the late night performance in front of Howie and some of the other girls, and though he hadn’t singled me out as the reason, I’d felt he was pleased with the new act. It was almost as if I hadn’t slapped him across the face. I even started to wonder whether he’d really tried to kiss me, or had it simply been a friendly kiss good night; but no, as I recalled the details, it was far more than that. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor to meet him, and I wondered briefly if he might even be calling me up to apologize, though I quickly dismissed that idea, imagining instead a request to rejoin the Follies. Or maybe he wanted to discuss a new number in the Frolic—though surely Howie would have been part of that conversation.
“Mr. Ziegfeld,” I said, standing the moment he opened his office door. “Nice to see you,” I added slightly awkwardly.
“Miss Shine, lovely as always.” Maybe it was all water under the bridge. “Thank you for seeing me. Please—” He motioned for me to enter his office, then he closed the door behind me and took a seat at his large dark wooden desk.
“How’s the Frolic going?” he asked.
“I’d say it’s going very well, Mr. Ziegfeld, don’t you think? The audience seems very responsive.”
“Yes, you’re doing good work, and Howie tells me the flying act was your idea?”
“I just thought it would be a whole lot of fun. We should all be having fun at all times, don’t you think, Mr. Ziegfeld, otherwise what’s the point in it all?” I was trying to be upbeat and cheery. No need for bad feelings or hostility. It hadn’t even happened.
He clasped his hands together. “I live to entertain,” he said. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to see you today. I have a proposition.” He smiled.
I considered it a poor choice of words given our last encounter, but I didn’t let on. “I’m intrigued.”
“I’d like you to take the show on the roa
d this August,” he said. “I’m putting together a traveling Follies troupe this summer, and I’d like you to join them.”
My stomach dropped. He was kicking me off the stage altogether. How could he? After I’d made the Frolic a big success in just a few weeks. Was he punishing me again for declining his advances?
“Well, what do you say, Miss Shine?”
“But I’m the lead in the Frolic,” I said. Everyone knew it was the second-rate girls who made up the traveling troupes—he saved the very best for Manhattan. “You said yourself it was my act that had improved the sales.”
“I don’t believe I said that, Miss Shine. Besides, you’d be one of the principals on the road.”
“But what about the—”
“We can find another girl to fill your shoes here, it’s just for a few weeks.”
He was making light of this all, acting blasé, but I could feel the weight of it. Once some other girl took over my role, I would be replaceable. But what could I do? Everything came down to Ziegfeld. He could kick me out at any time for any reason at all. I had to please him. I knew that if I didn’t agree, he could simply remove me from the whole show—this would be a reason to get rid of me.
“Well, as long as I have a place in the Frolic when I get back.…”
“Of course,” he said, smiling broadly, and I had no idea if I could believe him.
“Then this sounds like a great adventure.” I slapped on a smile. “Where will we go? Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami?”
“No need to cross the country. In fact, you’ll be staying in New York—this show is going to the Adirondacks.”
“The Daddy-what?”
“The Adirondacks. My dear, haven’t you heard of the Great Camps?”
I shook my head.
“Ah, what a treat you’re in for. It’s about three hundred miles directly north of here. The wealthiest industrialists of our time escape to the North Woods by their private railcars, where they have built sprawling, timbered getaways along secluded lakeshores. It’s quite elegant.”
“But camping?” I was bewildered by this proposition and that Ziegfeld would even toy with the idea of sending us there.
“That’s what they like to call it. When I first accompanied Mr. J. P. Morgan to his beloved Camp Uncas, he described it as a rustic compound and made it sound as if we were going to be roughing it in the wild. But I assure you that’s not the case, they’re elaborate estates, rustic luxury. Anyway you’ll see for yourself. You’ll stay three or four nights at each of the camps, starting with the Belmonts at the Pines Camp, then the Morgan family’s Camp Uncas, Camp Sagamore, and Camp Santanoni. It will take a few days to get there and a few to get back.”
I must have still had a look of shock and bewilderment on my face because he continued to reassure me that whatever I was thinking was wrong.
“Miss Shine, you will be well taken care of. There will be valets, chambermaids, chefs, butlers, a governess, a laundress and guides to take you on chaperoned walks. There’ll even be staff taxidermists on hand should you care to hunt and take home your prized hunting trophies.”
I wrinkled my face at the idea, then remembered not to in his presence.
“They escape to the wilderness for nature and relaxation and they invite guests to indulge in the same luxury, but what they need, what they desperately need once everyone has made the trek into the woods and they’ve been out on the lake and they’ve explored the great outdoors, what they need at the end of a long day, my dear, is to be entertained. There’s nothing else out there to do. You will be everything to them. They need you.”
Later, when sitting for my portrait, I was distracted and uneasy, but I tried not to let it show. The slogan was going to be “Up All Night? Do What the Ziegfeld Girls Do and Use Albolene Cold Cream for Beautiful Skin in the Morning.”
I felt like a fraud: by the time this advertisement came out I wouldn’t even be performing on a proper stage. I’d be relegated to some campground in the middle of nowhere. My hope of having my father see my face in Times Square was quickly replaced by a feeling of defeat. First Archie, engaged! And now this. Every setback made me feel that my parents could be right about failing, that soon I’d be used up, and then what?
The photographer had me change into a decadent beaded silver dress, silver gloves and a jeweled headband. They curled and pinned up my hair similar to how I liked to style it, mimicking the bob that I wanted so badly but had resisted since Ziegfeld preferred his girls to keep their hair long and feminine. I looked quite fabulous when they were done with me, and in front of the camera I was able to put away some of that disappointment. I had to. I’d make the most of this adventure just as I said I would. I was tired of being told what to do and how to do it—I could have stayed home for that. Each time the camera popped and smoked, with each momentary blinding flash, I became more determined to turn this into something better, just as I’d always tried to do in the past. With each shot I told myself I was taking a step up that giant Ziegfeld staircase, a step in the right direction, wherever that might be. One thing I’d always been good at was having fun and making sure those around me were having a good time, too. If that meant shipping off to the woods for the summer, then so be it.
* * *
After the sitting, I popped into a hair salon on West Thirty-fourth Street. I took out the pins and let my long dark hair hang around my shoulders one last time. I rarely ever wore it down like this, and seeing it made me feel weighed down, old-fashioned and owned. I suddenly couldn’t wait to be rid of it.
“Chop it all off, please. I’d like a bob.”
“Are you sure, madam?” the hairdresser asked with a look of concern, as if I were his own daughter about to sever ties with her girlish ways.
“Never been more sure,” I said.
He shrugged. “As you wish.” He placed a book in front of me and opened it to a page that showed three different styles of the modern bob. “Which one?”
“None of these.” I closed the book and handed it back to him. “I want my own style, something that suits just me. I’m thinking short and sleek and with a fringe straight across my forehead. How does that sound?”
“Whatever you like, madam.” And he started to snip, long thick clumps of hair falling to my feet like ropes being untied and releasing me. I’d give up my place on Broadway if I had to, I’d go to those Great Camps that Ziegfeld spoke of, I’d do it all, but he should know I’d be doing it my way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As soon as Ruthie heard about the traveling troupe to the Adirondacks, she marched right up to Mr. Ziegfeld’s office and asked to be cast.
“You’re mad,” I told her. “Off your rocker. Why would you want to leave Manhattan to be stuck out in the sticks all summer long? Think of everything you’re going to miss, all those performances, all those parties, and dancing, and long summer nights.”
“Ha!” she laughed. She was lying in the middle of our living room on a thick white sheepskin rug that one of her admirers had sent her. It was her favorite place for helping her back pain. She used to prefer the cold hard floor, but now she could relieve her pain in luxury. I was draped on the white sofa we’d bought on credit when we first moved in, just like the rest of the furniture. We’d planned on paying it all back as soon as we got our next few paychecks, but now with my performances cut, we decided it could wait.
“Why do you laugh?” I said.
“Because you obviously weren’t paying attention last summer. It’s hot as hell, and it stinks, especially in August. Everyone’s off at their summer escape, and all you can think about is getting invited to Maine or Long Island, Westport, or, if you’re really lucky, the Adirondacks.”
“I don’t think that sounds lucky at all. In fact, I’d choose any one of those places over the Daddy Long Backs any day of the week. At least those other places have beaches. Isn’t that what summer is for? Sun and sand and swimming costumes?”
“Oh, Olive,” she said, stretching he
r arms above her head and pointing her toes, “just wait until you get there, you’ll feel very different about it all, I promise you.”
I sighed, trying to get comfortable with the idea. “What would I even pack? What do people wear?”
“Well, your costumes for performances.”
“Of course.”
“Evening gowns for dinners,” she said. “These camps may be in the middle of the forest, but from what I hear the evenings are still a formal affair. And then swimsuits and leisure wear for lakeshore activities—oh, and some sort of boots for hiking.”
“Hiking?” I scoffed. “Do you really envision us hiking?”
“When in Rome…” She smiled. “And I imagine it gets cold there at night.”
“I’ll bring my mink, then.”
She laughed. “Not that cold. A raincoat would suffice.”
I nodded, thinking it through. I was definitely bringing my mink.
* * *
The luggage porters took our brand-new Crouch & Fitzgerald luggage from the taxi and loaded it onto a cart at Grand Central Terminal. Thank God, because as beautiful as those cases looked with their wooden framing, cloth exterior and shiny brass buckles, they were as heavy as a horse. Ruthie had taken one look at my dented metal case and insisted that we upgrade immediately. She was coming along; her wish to join the troupe had been granted.
“You never know who you might meet, and these tatty old things are sending all the wrong messages about who you are and how you live your life. Come on,” she’d insisted, “we’ll put it on credit.”
It did feel awfully nice to know that those beautiful cases were ours, and I looked at them lovingly as the porter pulled the cart toward the station.
“This way,” Ruthie said, grabbing my hand and weaving us through the early morning hustle of men striding away from the tracks and out into the city. I watched them all heading in the same direction and felt a pull to go with them.
“It’s all going to be here when you get back,” Ruthie said, giving me a little tug. “Manhattan is not going anywhere.”
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