In May of 1935, I opened at the New Yorker, one of the smartest little dinner clubs in the city, located in a fine old house on East 51st Street. I can still remember walking out into the spotlight and singing some of that era’s most beloved songs—“Night and Day,” “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” “Body and Soul,” and “Alone Together.” Although I had been on Broadway twice, I’d never had the chance to sing as part of a floor show and I loved it.
One night, just as the lights dimmed and I was to go on for the second show, there was a commotion downstairs. Minutes later a group swept up the spiral staircase and was ushered to a ringside table. By their laughter I recognized Betzi and Jeannie, my two dearest friends. Fred, Betzi’s husband, had to be there as well, but who else was with them? It was too dark to see.
When I finished singing and the applause died down, I made my way over to their table. Three men stood up. In the half-light, I saw my brother Ware, Fred, and a man I had never seen before. “Teddy!” Betzi said excitedly, blowing me a kiss. “This is Paul, my friend from California.”
I found myself looking into the bluest eyes of an immensely charming man—tall, slender, with sandy hair. “Hello, Teddy,” he said. “What a beautiful voice you have! ‘Alone Together’ is one of my favorites.”
“Thanks, mine too!” I replied.
At that very moment, the orchestra started playing. Paul had been holding out a chair for me, but before I could sit down, he grabbed my hand. “Let’s dance,” he said. In seconds I was in his arms, and we were dancing. He held me too close, but it was the beguine, music that made it seem right. I closed my eyes and let my body follow his. We moved as one to the beat of the drums. He was a fabulous dancer, but it ended too soon and then we were back at the table.
Sitting there in the semi-dark, sipping champagne, Paul smiled and said, “You’re very beautiful, Teddy, and your voice is, too. I love the quality of it.” I looked up and saw he was studying me. “You know,” he went on, “you should study opera. You’d be a great Carmen, or Tosca.”
At these words, I trembled. Although he had no way of knowing, it was my ambition to one day sing in concerts and the opera. I sat there amazed at this stranger who, after hearing me sing only once, was saying exactly what my teacher, Gene Berton, had been telling me. Intrigued by the sincerity in his warm, deep voice, I looked more closely at his hands. They were very masculine, but they were also artistic and expressive. Could he be a conductor? A composer? A critic?
“And what do you do, Paul?” I asked.
“He’s in oil,” Betzi cut in.
“Oil? What show is that?” I asked. Everyone started to laugh. “Of course!” I said. I felt like a fool.