Belinda improved daily, and when I was sure she was going to be all right, I temporarily shifted my operations to New York, where I went through the harrowing procedure of seeing my play put on—but not for long; it closed on the third night. Among the first-nighters I stumbled across was my ex-spouse. Jenny was in town visiting friends and had come to lend moral support. We didn’t get to say much more than hello-goodbye, but I took her to Jim McMullen’s for lunch next day and we talked things out. It was funny how, no longer suffering the bonds of matrimony, we could relax with each other and be friends. She was “seeing” someone she’d known since childhood, a middle-aged widower up in the bucks, now looking for a second wife. Jen wanted to sell the Sunset Plaza house, and I agreed that it had served its purpose nobly; I had no wish to return there. Put it on the market and we’d split the profits. She even invited me to the wedding the following June.
When my play had fallen on its ass, I went away to lick my wounds, eventually to sneak back into L.A., tail between my legs. No matter how philosophical you try to act, a flop hurts, and I wasn’t experienced enough to know how to handle it. But Maude was there to tend my wounds. The Cottage was filled with flowers, the windows sparkled, and I gratefully took up my abode again at Sunnyside. Before I knew it I was feeling at home, as if I’d lived there all my life.
Nothing much seemed to have changed around the old place. Maude’s garden was showing the last of its flowers, the chrysanthemums gave the flower borders an autumnal air, and with a nip in the weather the pool heater had been turned up. We resumed our swimming sessions, and as we talked across the water it dawned on me that I’d been living at Sunnyside a whole year. By now Belinda had fully recovered from her accident—the face was fine; looked better than ever—and she’d gone back to her golf and tennis, and Frank drove by often to take her to the Wilshire Club.
And where was Faun? Faun was long gone, which, I decided, was why everyone was so relaxed these days. She’d been gone a month, not a word, nor did we have any idea when she might return—if she returned at all. Yet of course it happened; the bad penny always turns up.
It was a Friday afternoon around four; Angie had driven her station wagon up to take away some furniture Maude was getting rid of; Maude’s lawyer, Felix Pass, and his wife, Mildred, had stopped by to visit, and Frank was due as well. We were all sitting out on the terrace, enjoying the view to the west, those empty hills that run in a ridge from beyond Mulholland Drive out past the Will Rogers Ranch, straight to the junction of Malibu and Santa Monica, out past Topanga Canyon. Then we looked suddenly to the doorway, where a group of unexpected guests appeared behind Ling.
“Hi, everybody!”
A figure darted forward and it took me a second to recognize who it was. Her hair was blonder and cut short like a boy’s and she’d lost weight. Like some fairy sprite she skipped across the brickwork, arms open in greeting, and leaned down to kiss Maude. “Hi, Nana! What a perfectly gorgeous color!” she exclaimed over Maude’s dress, then whirled away to kiss Belinda, all the time acting as if her sudden appearance were the most natural thing in the world.
“Oh, Mummy, isn’t it unbelievable? Here I am, home again,” she cried gaily. “You’ll never guess the incredible things I’ve been doing. The fabulous places I’ve seen! And Mummy”—she waved to her companions, who approached diffidently—“Mummy—everybody, these are my friends. Asho, darling, come here.” She imperiously directed one of the young men, who came to her side, a dark, slender youth of medium height and impeccable manners. “Ashoka, come kiss Mummy,” she instructed him, and he did so, taking Belinda’s hand and touching his lips to it as he bent. He was all European luxe, gloss and gold jewelry, looking (Angie later said) like one of those broomstick-shaped pseudo-counts in skinny blazers with crests on the pockets who only half-wait on you at Gucci’s. This royal young gentleman—no mere count, he—was introduced as “Prince,” His Highness Prince Ashoka Jasamin Ashokar, hereditary heir to some Moslem principality whose name still escapes me.
“Asho was named for a horse—an Arabian stallion,” Faun explained as her young friend flashed both teeth and eyes and made his way around the guests, bending over the other ladies’ hands.
“Jasamin by name,” Angie muttered in my ear, “and Jasamin by nature, I should think.” The prince, more weeping willow than good Arabian horseflesh, exchanged nods with me as he jerked a neat bow, and it occurred to me he might have a key in his back.
“And this,” proceeded Faun, leading forward a doll-like figure of a girl who locomoted herself toward us with tiny gliding steps, showing us gigantic eyes all scribbled around with pencils of many colors and a beauty mark just there—“this” was the prince’s “sister,” whom Faun called Vashti like Jane Withers in Giant, and when Vashti articulated some words in our direction she spoke with a British accent, having been taught by the onetime governess of Grace Kelly’s children. In her nose she wore a notable diamond and from her ears hung diamond pendants.
With these impressive personages were three or four others of commoner clay, names supplied by Faun that I failed to catch, though it seemed safe to assume they were subjects of H.R.H. There was much getting up and sitting down and the exchange of hollow pleasantries, and presently this party sprang up and trooped off behind Faun to take a gander at the tennis courts, the fountains, and the pools, while the rest of us fastened our seatbelts, for, to coin a phrase, it was going to be a bumpy night.
No; I was wrong. Other nights were to prove bumpy, but not this one, for having showed off the ancestral manse to her satisfaction, having got the princeling and princessling (well accustomed to palaces, our royals) to ooh and ah a bit, she had them all troop past us again and then they were gone. Kiss-kiss, bye-bye; the toy princess waved her bedizened fingers and rolled her kohled eyes, the prince bent over all the ladies’ hands again, murmuring little Continental tendresses, “so happy, so much, thank you, au ’voir, arrivederci,” favored me with what must have been his most sincere handshake, and then he, too, was gone.
Luckily (as we considered matters) Faun had not come home to roost (well, she had, but we didn’t know it then), only to show off her grandmother to the prince, the prince to Nana, but, of course, she couldn’t stay. Friend Ashoka had engaged a large suite at the Beverly Wilshire, the very quarters occupied at times by Babs Hutton and Warren Beatty (not simultaneously). Hotelward proceeded this coterie of glittering nomads; the prince apparently lived in an unending succession of hotel suites, but was here to look at houses, having decided to take up his abode somewhere in the Hollywoods.
But though Faun was not in residence, that didn’t stop her from tracking emotional mud into the house. Every day there was some difficulty, something to upset everybody, tears and high-tide emotions. The capper came when she was apprehended by a store detective at Gucci’s, having shoplifted some Italian scarves from a counter. Nor had Gucci’s been her only victim, for an examination of the contents of her bag revealed items purloined from other shops along Rodeo Drive.
It was the same story all over again, the Big Jolt on the six o’clock news, the press hammering at the gates, Belinda Carroll’s daughter held in custody, her bail set, her release, the pictures smeared all over the place, her jaded comment, “I was only doing my Christmas shopping a little early.” It required Frank’s smooth manipulations to get the charges quashed, he having gone from store to store making ample restitution and pausing for a friendly word here and there with owners or managers.
Yet, with things at their worst, hope lay just over the horizon. With the holidays looming, we all were afraid that Faun would start throwing her monkey wrenches around and find further ways to upset her mother or grandmother. Our pleasure may be imagined when she made the announcement that she would not be here for either Christmas or New Year’s, but instead was jetting off with the prince’s party to Las Brisas in Acapulco. It sounded just like a Jane Powell movie; His Highness had engaged a number of suites for his guests and was taking
his own music group with him (not Ragtime Cowboy Joe, however). She inveigled Nana into furnishing her with new outfits (“Nana, do you think he’ll propose to me in these rags? I’ll pay you back, I promise, soon as we’re married. I can’t even think how rich I’ll be”), but the thought of Nana’s being repaid for the outlay seemed unlikely.
True enough, it would be hard to estimate the prince’s wealth, but Faun would prove equal to the task, I felt sure. And off she went, bags and baggage, off to see the wizard again, this time south of the border. All I could think of to say was o-lay!
Maude, too, was happy that Faun wouldn’t be around for the holidays. I could tell she’d been badly slowed down by the stress that Faun always managed to create when she was around. Ling had told me privately that Maude was suffering from bad blood pressure and hypertension, too. I was glad when among us, Belinda, Felix Pass, and I were able to persuade her in two decidedly important matters. First, I got her to let me make an appointment with her doctor, old Harvey Travers, who’d had her health in hand for years. He gave her some pills for her blood pressure. But pills or no, she was still nervous, and I knew she was suffering from insomnia and sat up watching Cattle Queen of Montana or Artists and Models Abroad on the Late, Late Show.
Second, I had a private talk with Felix and Mildred Pass, whose fortieth wedding anniversary fell between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, and they insisted Maude come down to the desert and help celebrate. When she talked it over with me, I said what a terrific idea, she’d have a wonderful time and certainly she should go. And I went along, too, to make sure she did.
Being the originator of the Great Palm Springs Christmas Conspiracy, I arranged my schedule so I’d be spending the same amount of time away as Maude. She would guest with the Passes, I with Frank, while Belinda would stay with Angie over in Cat Wells, a scant five miles away.
I drove down with Maude in the Rolls; we arrived in the Springs shortly before four and went directly to the Passes’ house, where Felix and Mildred were waiting. When we’d been welcomed and had a look around, I said goodbye and continued on with Ling.
Lina O’Leary, one of the clan of Mexican-Irishers who were part of Frank’s extended family, admitted me to his house. I hung up my dinner clothes, jumped into swim trunks, and went out to catch the last rays of sun. While I basked, I telephoned over to Cat Wells and talked with the greatest talker of them all. Angie was revved up like an Indy race car, full of questions, wanting to know all the latest dirt regarding Faun’s romance, how was it going, when was the wedding, like that.
Our conversation was interrupted by the door chimes. They rang and rang, and, deciding that Lina must be elsewhere, I excused myself to Angie and went out front to investigate. There was a car in the drive but no driver. Puzzled, I went back to Angie on the phone, and just then I spotted a figure coming around the corner of the house.
“Isn’t anyone even going to answer?” I heard that familiar voice call.
“Guess who just turned up at poolside?” I whispered to Angie. I uttered the magic name and said I’d call her later.
“Don’t they have anyone to answer the door?” Faun complained, coming toward me. Masking my astonishment at this unexpected appearance, I offered her a drink. “We thought you were in Mexico with—”
“Don’t even say it. It’s all over. I came home.” She hadn’t been gone more than six days. Had something happened? Yes, it had. The prince had dumped her on her little round tushy. It emerged that he’d never had any intention of marrying her. What he—and his sister, the toy princess—had hoped was that after Christmas, Maude would put them up at Sunnyside. Faun had said she didn’t think so. Ergo, el prince was now a thing of the past. The romance was pfft, fini, kaputt, over. Not only had Ashoka asked Faun to leave; more embarrassing, even before she could get her things packed, the gallant fellow had called a press conference to announce his betrothal to, of all women, his own sister Vashti, who as it turned out wasn’t his sister at all but a sufficiently distant relative to make marriage possible. Ashoka Ashokar, Faun quickly learned, was under royal edict to marry his “sister” and no other; not to have wed the little Vashti meant he would not get his money, the fabled millions that were his upon his majority, and so, of course, he must do as was ordained by fate and Allah. Too bad—our Faunie had never stood a chance of reaching the throne. I could almost have felt sorry for her. Almost.
When she began to cry, I made no attempt to stop her. By this time I’d seen floods of her tears and I thought the more she shed now, the fewer she might shed later, when her mother was around. When she confessed that she’d come here to tell me “first,” I took it as a compliment—though not too great a compliment. I figured I was the only one she wouldn’t have felt ashamed in front of.
Eventually, I persuaded her to go into one of the guest rooms and lie down; she seemed under heavy stress, and I thought a nap would help. Then I called Angie and laid the matter out to her and said to soft-pedal everything to Belinda. At five o’clock Frank arrived as scheduled. I heard his car pull into the drive, the tires crunching on the gravel and the whine of the garage door mechanism as he drove in. Moments later he strode into the living room, exuding health and vitality. When he asked whose car was in the drive I explained that we’d had an unexpected visitor, currently resting. I saw his expression change and I knew he was assessing the possibilities, wondering what damage she might cause. When I explained what had happened to explode Faun’s romance, Frank was sympathetic, though not surprised. Nobody would be, I suppose. We left her napping.
He made himself a drink, took a good swig, then slipped something from his pocket—a square velvet jeweler’s box. He snapped the lid to show me the contents: a diamond ring of exquisite design, 7 carats in a platinum setting. He planned on giving it to Belinda tonight, and he wanted to be married in seven weeks, St. Valentine’s Day.
Just then the phone rang and he went behind the bar to answer it. Since it seemed to be a call of some importance, to give him privacy I signaled that I was going in to grab a quick nap myself.
I don’t know how long I slept, but when my eyes opened, the light coming in from outside was dim. I could hear voices, faint yet distinct, and as I lay there, I realized I was hearing Frank and Faun talking together on the patio outside the room where she’d gone to lie down.
“So you’ve picked tonight to announce your engagement,” I heard Faun say.
“We’re not going to announce it formally,” Frank replied.
“I know, don’t tell me—you’re going to wrap little messages around flaming arrows and shoot them at all the guests.”
“That’d be one way, I suppose. Don’t you at least want to wish me and your mother happiness?”
“If I wish you something, it won’t be happiness.”
“That’s too bad. What will it be?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“I’m glad you’re here anyway; Belinda will be, too.”
“Why do people always have the idea my mother is ever happy to see me?”
Frank’s voice was showing his impatience. “Look, I’m sorry you and your friend broke up, but I can’t really do anything about that, can I? And to tell you the truth, I don’t think the prince was your type.”
“I know he wasn’t. I wouldn’t have married him anyway. Especially when I’m in love with someone else.”
“Yes? Are you?”
“You know I am. Didn’t I say it? I’m in love with you.”
“Come on, Faun,” he begged, “please don’t start in again.”
“I’m not going to start in. But I want you to know it—before you make a terrible mistake. I want to live with you. Not with Mummy and you, just you and me. Didn’t anyone ever tell you three’s a crowd?”
“I’m sorry, I’d hoped we could be a family, the three of us. Your mother and I were both hoping someday the right guy might come along—”
“Are you cartooning? No right guy’s going to come along, nobod
y. If he did, I wouldn’t have him on a bet. It’s you or nothing.”
I could hear the disconsolate tone in Frank’s voice as he spoke again. “Faun, you’re a grown woman, you’ve got to stand on your own feet, you can’t go on being a child forever.”
“Didn’t I say it? I don’t want you to marry her.” Faun’s voice had begun to sound frantic. “Don’t you know she’ll only make trouble for you? She’ll make you miserable, she doesn’t understand you.”
“All right, maybe we’d better not say any more about it. Excuse me.” His feet sounded on the flagging and there wasn’t any more talk, only Faun’s sobs. I threw on a robe and went out. She was sprawled on a chaise, crying her heart out. Pretending I hadn’t heard any of the conversation with Frank, I suggested that, since it was getting late and her mother would be expecting her at Angie’s, she’d better go. She didn’t argue, but left as I suggested.
Everybody in the world knew that Millie and Felix Pass threw the greatest parties in the world, and their yearly anniversary celebration had become close to an institution in the Springs; people flew in from places as far away as Chicago, Palm Beach, and New York to attend. The press was banned; this was a strictly private affair. No expense was spared, no detail overlooked. The ladies received gold pins with crossed golf clubs for favors, the men got key rings with their astrological signs. There must have been fifty waiters in green jackets, more parking boys outside. The music seldom stopped; two dance bands alternated on the stand, Latin and standard; the ceiling of the big striped circus tent was a floating cloud of pink balloons; the buffet, bracketed by towering ice sculptures of the host and hostess, was a feast, and when I passed the bar table I saw a pile of champagne bottles three feet high in the corner.
Since she hardly ever attended large gatherings, it was a mark of Maude’s esteem and affection for her friends that she would have turned up for the big night. But there she was, in full fig and fine fettle, apparently having the time of her life. Soon after we’d greeted her, she urged Angie and me to get out there and dance, have a good time. I was in a mood for partying, and so we joined the other swingers on the floor. Angie reminded me she’d once won a rhumba contest, and showed she’d lost none of her old form. After Angie, I danced with Belinda, then with Millie, then with a series of other partners. But between dances both Angie and I made sure we spent a good part of our evening with Maude, no chore, believe me. It was after ten and there she sat, holding court at the table of honor. There were many who insisted on stopping by for a word, a smile from her. “Just wanted you to know we remember you,” things like that. She was patient and polite to all.