Summer Darlings Page 15

  “Is this really your…” Heddy didn’t know where to look first. And this is what money can buy you, she thought. A better life.

  The walls of Gigi’s bedroom were a muted ballerina pink, and the carpet was pink, too. But nearly everything else in the room was white except her nightstands and dresser, which were glass and mirrored, reflecting the bright morning light around the room. A sitting area featured two tufted white leather couches, a white oval coffee table between them. And the white curtains parted at either end of the long row of floor-to-ceiling windows looked as though a theatrical performance was about to begin, this one starring the ocean, since the room overlooked a large expanse of open sea.

  The children began bouncing up and down on Gigi’s enormous bed. “Jump with us!” they beckoned. Gigi hopped onto the bed, holding their hands and springing them up and down. Heddy slunk down to sit on the carpet and clapped to be a good sport. Teddy was holding Miss Pinkie, throwing her up and catching her.

  “Heddy let me bring her, even though Mommy says I’m not allowed to leave the house with her. Right, Heddy?”

  Heddy nodded, lifting her finger to her lips to shush him: “Our little secret.” Their relationship was improving now that she was allowing him to smuggle Miss Pinkie in a backpack wherever they went.

  Gigi sprung up, getting air. “What’s the problem with the doll?”

  “It worries Jean-Rose.”

  “Meaning?” Her motions made the kids fall backward, laughing.

  Heddy shifted. “I guess she worries it means something. I mean, it could.”

  Gigi landed on her feet, jumped again. “And so what if it did? Some of my best friends in the business are light in the loafers. He is who he is.” Gigi turned to Teddy. “You can always bring Miss Pinkie here.” Teddy’s happiness sprung him higher.

  “Is that Mama?” Anna, who had tired of jumping, was holding a small framed photograph she’d found on Gigi’s dresser. The picture was small, yellowed with time, but it showed two little girls with braided pigtails posing in bathing suits next to an in-ground pool, a refined woman in a sophisticated knee-length dress held a martini behind them, her arms around both children.

  “We were so sweet, weren’t we? Like sisters,” Gigi said, and Heddy realized then that it was Jean-Rose in the picture.

  She saw two other framed photographs: one of Gigi accepting her Academy Award and a formal black-and-white wedding portrait. “Those are my parents,” Gigi said.

  “You look just like your father.” It was their shared expression, a clarity in their eyes.

  “But I have my mother’s bleeding heart.” Gigi emitted a throaty laugh, scanning the listings of that week’s TV Guide. “Oh, right. Dick Clark’s Bandstand is on.” She called to her housekeeper to make the kids popcorn, then carried the portable television to her bed, propping it up against the pillows; it looked like a small grass cloth suitcase.

  Teddy spun the metal dial, clicking on Bonanza, the blue skies and green hills of the Wild West on the screen. “You have a portable—color—TV?”

  “Yes, but you’ll have to watch Dick Clark in black and white.” She fiddled with the antennae until American Bandstand zapped to clarity. “The network is too cheap to switch Bandstand to color.” The theme song exploded from the television’s small speaker, and the kids tried to imitate the dance moves of the show’s regulars.

  Gigi mixed herself and Heddy each a Tom Collins at a bar cart in her bedroom, smirking at the children’s tiny gyrations, and led Heddy down the hall to her changing room, where a large bedroom had been transformed into a dressing room with a raised step and surround mirrors, so she could pivot 360 degrees and see every inch of herself.

  “Let’s get to it.” Gigi ducked into her closet, connected to her changing room by a door. “This is where I keep summer cocktail dresses.” She pressed a button, which made the dresses in her closet motor around in circles. She pulled a navy-blue strapless dress and walked over to Heddy.

  “Gigi, can I talk to you about something?” The hanger bumped Heddy’s chin when Gigi held the dress up to her small frame.

  “You are a scrawny little thing, aren’t you, sugar pie?” Gigi returned the dress to the closet, pressing the button to send a new set toward her.

  “Gigi, I know you don’t really know me, but you’re being so nice to me, and I… Well, I have a big favor to ask of you.”

  Gigi didn’t take her eyes off the dresses circling around. “You like to keep things interesting, don’t you? What is it now?”

  Heddy took out the letter she’d written. Typed and properly formatted, addressed to the scholarship committee. It spoke of Hibernia Winsome as a promising young woman who had surprised everyone who knew her with her tenacity and smarts, and whose script was currently being reviewed by Hollywood directors. Heddy gulped for air as Gigi read it, the actress laughing at parts, and still Heddy didn’t lose her nerve. She needed this recommendation to accompany her appeal.

  Heddy pointed to the blank spot at the letter’s end, just under “Sincerely Yours.”

  “All you have to do is sign it. Please, I know it’s a lot to ask, and I’ll explain everything, if you want to know, but really, it would help me tremendously.”

  Gigi dropped the letter on her dresser. “Wow, you make me sound so articulate, like a producer.”

  Heddy scrunched her toes, gripping the rug pile. “I know it’s odd and…”

  “Parts of the letter are untrue.” Gigi folded her arms.

  “Yes, I know.” It was nervy—worse than nervy, possibly atrocious, that she was stooping this low—making up the contents of an entire letter. But what other option did she have? “But I didn’t have anyone else to ask, and I thought I’d make it easy and write the letter. Then you only needed a pen. To sign.” Heddy handed her a black fountain pen, but Gigi turned back to the closet, pulling another dress.

  “Strip. I’m going to start handing you stuff to try on.”

  Heddy placed the pen on the dresser, reassuring herself that Gigi hadn’t said no—yet. She reluctantly pulled off her shirt, revealing her bra, which was frayed and gray, and not at all white, even though she washed it in the sink every other night. Gigi handed her a dress that was like a nightgown, spaghetti straps and a panel of black satin to the ankle. Then she gave her a yellow strapless mini, big white polka dots covering the bust. Heddy liked a powder-blue A-line dress with a matching bolero jacket. She tried each one, parading around for Gigi.

  Gigi wrinkled her nose at the bolero jacket. “It’s so matronly. If you always blend in and never stand out, who is going to notice you?”

  Heddy nodded. “That’s why I cut my hair.”

  Gigi remembered something then, her face turning brilliant. “I have just the dress for you.” She hit the button again. “I wore this in The It Girl, but the scene was cut, so no one ever saw it. It was always too tight on me, but it may be perfect for your figure. It’s an Oleg Cassini—one hundred percent silk.”

  As soon as Heddy zipped up the back, she fell in love. It was a simple strapless dress made of shiny red fabric that wrapped snug around her bust and waist until it popped out in an A-line, falling right above her knee; a matching silk-satin belt wrapped her midriff in a row of rhinestones. Heddy wasn’t sure if it was the color or the way it curved her hips, but she seemed taller.

  Heddy giggled. “I feel like Grace Kelly.”

  “Why does every woman want to look like Grace?” She sighed. “I guess before I was me, I wanted to look like Grace, too.”

  “Is Mr. Grant coming to the party?”

  Gigi’s tone grew peevish. “Oh, I don’t know. Cary’s out promoting That Touch of Mink.” The movie was a box office smash, with tickets selling out in Vineyard Haven every Saturday night since it opened.

  Gigi slipped off back into her closet, digging through a cupboard marked GLOVES, bringing Heddy back a pair of long, red satin ones. She tossed them at Heddy, who obediently slipped them on.

  “Your
hair changes everything—we can see you now,” Gigi agreed. The actress gazed at her. “You can pull off the pixie with that darling face.” Gigi turned to look at herself in the mirror and started doing something funny with her eyes. Heddy watched as the actress’s light eyes turned into pools of sorrow. Then they changed again, as a deep feeling of happiness pushed to the surface, making the blue of her eyes twinkle.

  Gigi sensed Heddy staring. “Your expression is so real. I’m copying it. I want to use it someday.”

  Heddy looked at her in the mirror. “I’m confused.”

  “You help me, I help you, right?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “But what? That’s what actresses do. We step into someone else’s shoes for a bit. I want to step into yours.”

  Heddy picked at her cuticles. “Do I seem pathetic?”

  Gigi shook her head. “No. You look like a girl who wants the world to know she’s there but isn’t sure how to do it. I can’t remember what that feels like anymore, and this role in…”

  Heddy remembered the script, her curiosity about the pages. “An Afternoon in Central Park.”

  “You’re a quick study, aren’t you? The character—how do I say this gently—has similar roadblocks.”

  Heddy turned back to herself in the mirror, ashamed that Gigi could see through her. She liked to think she could protect any painful parts that lurked inside her. But she’d let her guard down enough for Gigi to see beyond those walls.

  Heddy pointed her left toes and twirled around, stopping to take a good look at her reflection. She needed shoes. She had only her mended sandals or these flats, and neither matched. “I’m a six. Do you have any shoes I could borrow?”

  Gigi ran her hands down her curves. “You think all of this could balance on a size six? Definitely not. But I’ll find you a pair somewhere.”

  Back in her bedroom, Gigi picked up a copy of Style Me magazine off her nightstand, flouncing on the bed, and Heddy sat beside her. Gigi opened to an article called “Be a Lady on Your Big Night,” depicting several women dressed in formal wear, each with a different tip. “ ‘If your date doesn’t like to dance, don’t go to the dance floor without him. Stay beside him, so he knows he’s important to you,’ ” Heddy read aloud.

  “Forget the article! It’s drivel. Look at the eyes.” Gigi ran her fingers along a model’s smoky eye makeup, thick with black liner. “It’s all the rage in Los Angeles. You’ll look so thoroughly modern.”

  Heddy didn’t own eyeliner, let alone liquid eyeliner, which is what Gigi said the model had used. “I couldn’t possibly, Ms. McCabe.”

  “Do you want to catch a husband, Heddy the babysitter?”

  Heddy nodded.

  Gigi ran her fingers through her long locks. “Then trust me on this.”

  The idea was thrilling, of course—going to a Hollywood starlet’s party dressed as a Hollywood starlet. But she didn’t know if she had the guts to do it.

  “Since you don’t have much down there,” Gigi motioned to Heddy’s small bust, “let’s bring the eye up here.”

  Smiling though she felt a little defensive of her modest bust, Heddy stepped out of the dress, hanging it up. “Thank you for letting me come to the party, and for today. It means a lot to a girl like me.”

  “Oh brother, Heddy. ‘A girl like me’? You need to stop apologizing for doing nothing more than existing. You don’t feel entitled to a goddamn sunny day.” Gigi scribbled something down in a notepad on her dressing table. “Cary may surprise you, you know. He’s skinnier than he looks on screen. And do you know his real name is Archibald?” Gigi laughed. “Really. We all do a little self-reinvention, don’t we?”

  “But that smile! Those eyes.” Heddy blushed, getting dressed. “Sorry, I know he’s your boyfriend.”

  “A damn lousy one.” Gigi parted her hair, twisting it and laying it on her shoulder. The click of a lighter, the sizzle of tobacco.

  Brushing her hand along the velvety pedestal where she sat, Heddy wondered if Gigi would sign her bogus letter. She rested her chin in her hands, and when Gigi sat beside her, she asked for a drag of her cigarette.

  “I was the same way as you once. You need to believe in yourself more.” Gigi stood, reaching for the paper on the dresser. She scribbled on it, and for a moment Heddy thought she was crossing portions of it out, but then she handed it to her—Gigi McCabe signed at the bottom. “I told you, I got my mother’s bleeding heart.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” Heddy lunged at Gigi, nearly knocking her over with an embrace.

  “Come here Monday morning,” Gigi said, “when the kids are at camp. Ten a.m. We’ll start.”

  “Start what?” Heddy was so happy, she’d forgotten why she was there.

  “Lessons. We have less than two weeks before my party, and a dress is just a dress if you don’t know how to inhabit it. We’re going to get you noticed, sugar pie.”

  July 10, 1962

  Beryl wrote to say that she and Phillip are engaged. Rats. Of course, I’m happy for her, but I wish I were one of the lucky ones. I’m trying so hard to be appealing, but I wonder if it’s a waste, all this face washing and hair styling. I think I want the husband and two kids, the four-bedroom brick colonial with a housekeeper, afternoons spent playing bridge. But what if it’s not enough for me? Gigi makes her own rules, and even though the thought of living that way is terrifying, it also electrifies me.

  TWELVE

  There was the sound of sewing machines rattling, hundreds of stitches being punched into fabric, and Heddy’s high heels pressing down on a metal pedal, the smell of starched cotton burning her nostrils. She was sewing business shirts, neat lines of seams attaching collars and sleeves. Ruth was frantically sewing, her mother, too—and all the workers on the factory floor were wearing evening gowns. When Heddy heard the shrill cry of an infant at her feet, her mother took it: “This is where unwed mothers work,” she said. But I don’t have a baby, Heddy said.

  Heddy bolted upright in bed, her temples throbbing—the sun a thin sliver on the horizon. Go back to sleep, she told herself. But it was no use. She tossed and turned, until finally giving up and easing out of bed. She slipped on her bathing suit, tiptoeing downstairs past Jean-Rose’s door.

  Outside, the air already warm, she followed the path to the beach, and once there, she dove into the sea, plunging into the sting of the cold. The shock of it sent a jolt from her fingertips to her navel, and as her body glided through the water, she let herself slow, loving how weightless she felt, how nothing could touch her here.

  A factory job. Never. A baby. Not without a husband. She sliced through the water with her forearms, her thighs burning with fatigue. I’m better than that. By the time she emerged, she’d swam away her anxiety, and she ambled to the house, determined to mail the letters to the scholarship committee straight away.

  “Heddy, have you seen Miss Pinkie?” In the backyard, Teddy’s hair was sticking up in different directions, and he licked the crumbs off his fingers while spinning, dropping his muffin in the grass. He brushed it off and took another bite, spinning some more. She suspected he’d throw up at any moment.

  “Where did you last see her?”

  Teddy stopped, grabbing for a ball. “In bed last night.” He gave her his best puppy-dog eyes. “Will you find her?”

  “He’s been looking for it since you creaked down the steps at that ungodly hour,” Jean-Rose said. She was in a knit dress, fitted with a belt, her blond hair in a flip.

  Heddy bit at her lip. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Well, you did.”

  Heddy apologized, feeling blindsided. She’d said it was okay for Heddy to go for early-morning swims, yet she seemed perturbed whenever she did. She wished Jean-Rose prepared her a handbook, like the one she received on her first day at Wellesley, something that spelled out the rules.

  There was a patch of dirt by the back fence, and Jean-Rose pointed to it. “We’re going to plant a garden today.”


  Anna began to scream, a red splotch on her forehead where she’d been hit with Teddy’s ball. She ran to her mother, Jean-Rose burying her nose in Anna’s hair. Heddy knew that scent: Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. “I’m sorry, honey,” she cooed to Anna’s wet cheeks. “Teddy, you’re just like your father, you love to torture the women in your life.”

  Heddy wished Jean-Rose wouldn’t say things like that to him. Besides, if that was true, then Anna was just like her mother, quick to the drama, throwing herself down to the floor and crying for her way.

  “It’s Wednesday,” Heddy said. “Doesn’t Teddy have his surf lesson?”

  “Ash had something come up, and better for it. Now we can get these tomatoes in the ground.”

  A cloud of disappointment blew over her. Jean-Rose settled in an Adirondack chair near the proposed garden and began to paint Anna’s nails, while Heddy pulled at the overgrown tangle of vines. “When are you going to see Sullivan again?” Jean-Rose asked.

  “Not sure,” Heddy said. She wanted to see him, but he hadn’t called. It was strange since he’d made the effort to run back, asking if they could have breakfast.

  “I thought you said the date was fantastic.”

  “Surprisingly good” were the words she’d used, but still.

  On her knees, Heddy dug her hands into the soil, pulling at a stubborn vine. “He said he’d call.”

  Jean-Rose blew on Anna’s nails. “They always say that. Maybe I can do something, to move things along.”

  Heddy dropped the vine, her hand muddied. “You would do that?”

  “You know that Susanne is his aunt, and she’s my best friend,” Jean-Rose said.

  “Isn’t Ted your best friend?” Heddy was genuinely curious. Their marriage confounded her. Last night, Ted got home from sailing, and Jean-Rose returned from Lobster Night at the club, and they sat together in the living room without much conversation between them while Heddy chased the kids about before wrestling them into bed. Is that what marriage added up to—a string of plans that rarely involved each other?