Paul was delayed in Paris by business and didn’t return to New York until late November. Then he went on to Tulsa.
After hurriedly finishing his work at the factory, accompanied by his eldest son, George, and Pop Morey, one of his most able assistants, the three drove to Kansas City. On arrival Paul telephoned to say, “Darling, we’re having dinner at the Muehlebach Hotel, then on to the Ice Follies, then I’m going to catch the Super Chief, which goes through here about midnight, heading for California—and you, my love. I can’t wait to see you, Teddy.”
“I can’t wait to see you, and Timmy keeps saying, ‘If Daddy doesn’t hurry up, he’s going to miss Christmas.’ Wait till you see him. He’s grown so much.” It had been eight months since Paul had seen Timmy.
“I’ll bet he has. Give him a kiss for me. I’ve missed him, too, but Teddy, dear, I’ve missed you more.”
Two days later, very early in the morning, I drove over to Pasadena in my Continental to meet Paul. He looked wonderful. And when he kissed me, I knew how much I’d missed him.
We drove hurriedly to the beach house. Paul was anxious to see our little redhead, who, as planned, was waiting with a warm “Welcome home, Daddy.” Then Timmy dragged his daddy to the living room, where he played his “first piece” on the piano for him.
Paul was visibly affected by Timmy’s concentrated effort, and applauded him. Then, it was his turn to surprise Timmy, and he sat down at the piano and played a Rachmaninoff prelude for us. Timmy watched his father, intently fascinated. When Paul finished, Timmy walked over to the piano, took one of Paul’s hands in his tiny little hands, and said, “Oh—thank you, Daddy, for such an excellent concert.”
After we three lunched on the terrace, Timmy went upstairs to take his nap, Paul left to look at his new office in Santa Monica, and I dashed off to shop for “something special” for dinner. With the car loaded with groceries, I picked Paul up at his office and we started for the house.
Having come home at this time was of particular importance to Timmy. He was not quite three when his daddy went to Europe, and for the next eight months his waking hours had been spent in the company of his mom, his beloved “Lulu,” his aunts and cousins. While he always expressed deep affection for each one of us, it was apparent that this little man relished his relationship with Paul. Although he didn’t try to emulate his daddy, his attitude was one of a self-appointed assistant as he listened to Paul giving orders to the ranch foreman, Pat Fleming, regarding the care of all the animals and the pruning of the lemons and avocado groves. And although Timmy remained silent, he watched the developments at the ranch with tremendous interest and seemed to assume a certain responsibility as more statuary, furniture, art objects, and tapestries arrived and were brought into Paul’s museum.
One of our most enjoyable activities at the ranch was the exciting excursion up the steel spiral stairway from the second floor to the top of the watchtower, and if we were lucky, it was the day of the races.
We usually went to the tower in the afternoon because that’s when the water—“white-capped” by the prevailing northwest winds—made the “beat to windward” a wet one for the fleet of tiny sailboats racing offshore. This excitment took place right in front of us—as if we could reach out and touch them as they made the turn. At that point, Paul would say, “Watch, Timmy, they’re going around the last buoy. See? They’re setting their spinnakers for an exciting homeward run ‘before the wind.’ ” Fascinated, we’d watch them from our tower post and, as each sailboat “came about” and headed south, throwing sheets of water across their bows, we were always glad they were on their last lap, bound for the finish line off Santa Monica Pier. We never left the tower until the boats—“wee tiny specks on a whole lot of blue” (as Timmy called them)—were safe in the harbor.
We never left the tower without a last farewell look at two tall, slender, white-barked lemon eucalyptus trees, which stood like sentinels on the far side of the lawn. When the wind blew and the boughs would bend and sway, a third tree could be seen growing beside the smaller one. Timmy would ask, “Daddy, tell me the story again about the three trees.”
Whereupon Paul, with studied seriousness, would say, “Well, son, you see, when I bought the ranch, you, well, you weren’t quite born yet, and—”
Timmy would interrupt, “Well, where was I, Daddy?”
“Well, you were . . . well, you were . . . on the way. And when you arrived, I had these three trees brought in, and I personally helped to plant them. To me, they represent the three of us. Your mommy, you, and me.”
Timmy never seemed to tire hearing “the story.” In fact, he always seemed as impressed as if he were hearing it for the very first time. And, he believed “the story” was true. I always loved to hear it, and I wanted to believe it, too.
Paul was now more than ever consumed with business. He was at his office every day, constantly on the phone. Most evenings when I’d come home from a late reading, I’d find him in the living room, sitting in his favorite big green chair, a rum and Coca-Cola on the table by his side, surrounded by piles of papers, maps, and reports he had brought home from his office to study. After a quick “Hi, darling,” I’d run upstairs to kiss Timmy good night and then join Paul for dinner, after which he’d go back for a while to his papers and I’d go out to the lanai to read.
We’d end most evenings walking across the lawn as far as the gate, to look out at the sea. If it was stormy, we’d watch the thunderous waves sweep up the beach almost to where we were standing, then, in an instant, watch them be sucked back down into the sea by the fierce undertow. How wild to think that, two steps beyond that gate at high tide, we might well be fighting for our lives. How exciting to know we were safe in that little beach house Paul had built so many years ago. No matter how high the tide, or dangerous the winds, that house, built on pilings, could withstand any storm, even earthquakes. And with Paul’s arms around me, I knew there was no safer place on earth for me.
Months flew by. The weather beautiful, Indian summer in late November. Before we knew it, it was Paul’s birthday, then Christmas Day, when Mother, my sisters, their husbands and children, and Paul’s dear cousin, Hal, joined us for the all-day celebration. We spent hours exchanging and opening presents. Timmy was thrilled at the surprises Santa had left for him. Then, after a delicious turkey dinner, we all went for a long walk down the beach, and in the late afternoon had a Christmas swim in the ocean. Later, a very tired but grateful family said their good-nights. After everyone drove away and Timmy went up to the nursery, Paul and I fell into bed.
Timmy was up early the next day. He just couldn’t wait to play with his new toys. Paul rose rather early, too, and was busy for hours talking business on the phone. At noon I was relaxing out on the terrace, enjoying the summer sun, when Mother stopped by with some strawberries. Paul joined us and greeted Mother warmly. Later, after waving bye to her as she pulled out of the garage, he turned to me and said, “Teddy, you’re so lucky to have your mom.” Then, in a sad voice he continued, “You know, I’m an orphan.” Without another word he got in his car and was off to spend the day at his office.
What did he mean that he was an orphan? It wasn’t until much later in the day that I suddenly remembered that his mother and father had passed away many years before. No matter how important or accomplished this man was, for a moment, he was just a little boy again, who felt alone and lost without his parents.
It was New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1949. Paul and I were giving our first dinner party at the ranch house. We had invited fifty guests to dine, and fifty more would arrive just before midnight to help usher in the New Year.
The ranch house was ablaze with lights and filled with flowers. We had a strolling combo for dinner, and an orchestra to play from ten P.M. on, for dancing in the theater ballroom.
The caterers had been busy since five. The kitchen was humming with last-minute preparations of trays, and trays of hors d’oeuvres were placed in the butler’s pantry, and bottles of champagne chilled for serving.
By 7:45, everything was in readiness . . . except Paul hadn’t come home yet.
Promptly at 8:00 I met Timmy (who was wearing his Merry-Mite white suit) at the top of the grand staircase, and together we came down to wait at the entrance to receive the first guests, who would arrive at 8:15.
The intercom buzzed. We knew the guard had opened the lower gate and someone was arriving. Five minutes later Mother’s car drove up and she, looking especially beautiful in a powder blue velvet gown, rushed in and said, “Teddy, the fountain isn’t turned on in the courtyard. And the lights are off in front of the guesthouse. You look so pretty in your new red gown, Teddy. Where’s Paul?”
“He’s not home yet, Mom.”
“Not home yet?”
“Mother, why don’t you and Timmy go in the theater room and look at the bright decorations.”
The Edward G. Robinsons were just arriving when I was called to the telephone. It was Paul. He said, “Hi, darling. I just picked Mitch Samuels up at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We’re at the beach house on our way to the ranch as soon as I change. Mitch is anxious to see you again. By the way, is Timmy with you?”
“Of course he’s here. But, Paul—what happened? Why are you so late? Your friends—the Parkfords—are walking in right now. And David and Virginia Mdivani.”
“Well, take care of them, darling,” he cut in, “and I’ll be there shortly.”
“But, Paul, what kept you?”
“Dear, if you must know, I stopped off to see an old friend at the Beachcombers.”
“Oh, are they coming here tonight?”
“Teddy, if you keep me talking, I’m never going to get there.”
“Okay. Okay.” I left the telephone to find that Mother, who was in the drawing room, had taken charge and was entertaining Sir Charles and Lady Mendl, the Jesse Laskys, Eddie and Gladys Robinson, the E. A. Parkfords, and my acting coach Eda Edson, whose husband, Ross DiMaggio, was talking to Atwater Kent about the great advance that had taken place in electronics, since the early days of radio.
I was standing in the entrance hall, where I could hear the laughter from the lanai and the animated conversations coming from the drawing room. The music of the strolling players attracted my attention as they approached me. With great gusto they were playing one of Mexico’s most well-known songs, “La Cucaracha.” As each musician passed by, he smiled, bowed, and then marched on. I was enchanted.
But suddenly I was amazed, for there, bringing up the rear, was Timmy, singing and slapping a tambourine in tempo with the music. When he passed in front of me, he stopped, smiled, bowed, and said, “Hi, Mom,” and then continued on with the rest of the men, singing, “La cucaracha, la cucaracha, ya no puede caminar.” I don’t mind telling you, as I watched my little redhead march out of sight, my eyes filled with tears.
At that moment I felt an arm go around me. Paul whispered, “Darling, I’m here.” He turned me to him, and seeing the tears in my eyes, said, “Don’t cry. I’m here.”
I said, “I’m not crying.”
“Well, Teddy, then what are you doing?”
“Paul, you would never guess in a million years.”
“You look so beautiful in that gorgeous red gown. Are you really the same girl with the fierce voice I talked to only half an hour ago? You sounded so annoyed, you almost frightened me away.”
I just smiled. Then, becoming aware of Mitchell Samuels standing at the door, I called out, “Mitch. Welcome.” I walked over to him, extended my hand, and said, “Come on, I want you to meet some of our guests before Paul shows us the museum.” I took his arm, Paul took my hand, and the three of us went into the drawing room, where by now all the guests had assembled. Everyone was enchanted when Paul gave a preview of his new museum. The great collection, even in those days, was unique. The jewellike setting of each gallery displayed to perfection the magnificence of each piece of furniture, tapestry, painting, carpet, and sculpture.
Later at dinner, Mitch asked, “Paul, do you have any pictures in color of the ranch house, the museum, and the most important pieces of your collection?”
“Yes, Mitch, we have a few.”
“That’s not good enough,” Gladys Robinson said. “Paul, you should have your entire collection photographed in color. And what’s more, you should have it done in motion pictures. Then you could send copies of it all over the world to schools, colleges, universities, clubs, and then—”
“Paul,” Jesse Lasky broke in, “Gladys is absolutely right. Do it even if you don’t send it out. Have it done for yourself. You could always have a copy with you wherever you go, and then as you add new works of art to your collection, you can run the film and decide exactly where each new piece should be placed.”
“What a good idea,” Mitch added. “It would be a help to me, too. In fact, to any collector.”
Paul listened, thought for a moment, and then, looking directly at Eda Edson, said, “Well, Eda, how about it? When can you film it? I loved the film you did of Teddy, you know, that test?”
Eda smiled and said, “I’ll be happy to do it, but only on the condition that you appear in it, too.” They decided to film it sometime in April.
By eleven o’clock, dinner was over, the orchestra was playing in the theater room, and the friends invited for supper dancing had all arrived. After being allowed to stay up to hear the “big music,” and telling me he had decided to become an orchestra leader, Timmy went happily off to bed.
I watched as the lights lowered, leaving only tiny spotlights twirling overhead. Then the orchestra broke into an exciting bolero, sending everyone onto the dance floor. Almost immediately, the theater room took on the look of a nightclub. I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was back at the Club New Yorker. The girl and the song was mine, and Paul was saying, “Darling, shall we dance?” He took me out onto the floor and held me close. It felt so right, I wanted it never to stop. But it did. “Sorry, Paul,” David Mdivani said as he cut in, “I must dance with my lovely hostess.” And the moment was lost; I was in another man’s arms.
As the old year slowly neared its last moments, I made my way through the dancers, from room to room, checking to be sure there was champagne on every table. Then I slipped through the French doors and out onto the terrace, where I stood alone for a moment, looking out over the huge lawn surrounded by the wall of towering trees. Hidden illumination, assisted by the light of a very bright moon, made the whole area a fairyland setting.
Suddenly, the orchestra broke into the familiar strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” With the sounds of bursting balloons, screams of laughter, champagne corks popping, the old year was coming to an end. Then the music stopped, and shouts of “Happy New Year” floated out from every room.
I looked up into the night sky and said, “Happy New Year to you, World.”
“Happy New Year to you, darling!” Paul said as he came toward me, carrying two glasses of champagne. I took one and we stood there looking at each other for a long moment. Finally, he raised his glass and said, “Well, darling, here’s to the beginning of the second half of the twentieth century. I wonder just what it holds for us.”
“I wonder, too,” I said.