Lady Blue Eyes Read online

  We stayed at the Compound that night, and the following morning I awoke to the vision of Frank’s smiling face. He was leaning up on a pillow and staring down at me. “Good morning, Mrs. Sinatra,” he said before giving me a tender kiss. “You’ve made me the happiest guy in the world.”

  Later that day we drove up to his house at Pinyon Crest with half a dozen friends: the singer Morton Downey and his wife, Ann; the novelist Judy Green and her husband, Bill; and Paul and Sheila Mano. We swam and sunbathed, played games and ate and drank what we liked when we liked. It was heaven. Out on the tennis court one day, I played a winning lob, and someone shouted, “Nice shot, Sinatra!”

  Spinning round, I almost tripped over my own feet. “Oh, my God!” I cried. “That’s me!”

  After Pinyon Crest, Frank and I flew to Belle-Rive, Claudette Colbert’s stunning plantation-style house on the oceanfront in Barbados. The weather was beautiful, and we had a blissful ten days, madly in love. Frank told me he was so happy that he thought flowers might grow out of his nose. I had rarely seen him so relaxed. However long it had taken us to get to that point, it had been worth it in the end—for us both.

  Several people asked me how I managed to calm Frank down after he’d been such a hell-raiser. My answer was “Timing.” He was sixty years old when we married; he’d been everywhere, done everything, and met everyone. He said that being married to me gave him “a kind of wonderful tranquillity.” As he later explained in an interview, “There were moments when it was too quiet … when there’s something lacking somewhere. When Barbara and I were married, I found it to be a better life. She’s a wonderful woman.” Then, of course, he spoiled it with “It’s too bad she’s so ugly!” In truth, he was ready to settle down, and lucky me, I was the one he was ready to settle down with.

  TEN

  Frank and me with his mother, Dolly.

  COURTESY OF ALAN BERLINER/BEIMAGES

  You Make Me Feel So Young

  Being Mrs. Frank Sinatra took some getting used to, but my romantic husband went out of his way to make me feel loved and cherished every day, taking the time to express his feelings. He turned every day into Christmas.

  Frank was often buying me something, and he would always let me know how he felt about me. For a man who was so macho in every other way, the purity of his feelings for me and his unashamed openness about them knocked me out. I’d never known anything like it in my life—not from my father, Bob, Joe, or Zeppo. Apart from making sure to tell me he loved me every night before we went to sleep, if Frank was sitting by the pool or in the den and I was in another part of the house, I’d hear him call, “Where are you, gorgeous girl?” Or he’d suddenly yell: “I love that woman!” or “I’m in love with Barbara Sinatra!” He’d shout something similar from the head of the table in the middle of a dinner party, embarrassing our guests. I was never embarrassed, though, and I never tired of hearing what he had to say or appreciating that he took the time to say it.

  As if telling me wasn’t enough, he never stopped writing me those little notes. “Thank you for looking after me. I love you, F.” Another, stuck to the bedroom door, said, “I love you so much it hurts,” and one waiting on my desk read, “I love you. Guess oo?” Then for Valentine’s Day, birthdays, anniversaries, or no reason at all, there’d be another note or flowers, a jewelry box, chocolates, anything. In one card he wrote:

  Sweetheart: Millions of men in the world love their wives I’m sure, but I’m surer that my love for you is so much more overwhelming. It overwhelms me each day, constantly. Just to see you every morning makes my every day. I pray we live for at least a hundred years. Charlie Neat.

  Now that I was living with him night and day, I truly understood that Frank was not only neat, but obsessively clean, taking two or three showers daily, shaving repeatedly, and brushing his teeth or using mouthwash to make sure his breath was always fresh. He smelled of soap and toothpaste, which was incredibly sexy. After a late night, he’d lounge around the house in his tailored white pajamas with navy trim—the only time he allowed himself to be “a slob.” Every day he’d wander out into the garden to pick me a flower. One winter he couldn’t find anything in bloom, so he brought me a twig instead. He’d sing around the house sometimes (but never if anyone else was around), and when he did, I’d know the song was for me. “Night and day, you are the one,” he’d croon as he sat by the pool or wandered into a room just to sing me a line or kiss the back of my neck.

  Out of the blue, he’d tell me to pack a bag and fly me to San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, or Paris for dinner. When I asked him what we were celebrating, he’d say something like “It was four years ago today that I first knew I loved you” or “Do I need a reason to spoil my bride?” Whenever we could we’d return to our honeymoon hideaway in Claudette’s lovely home. Gracious and generous, with a tremendous sense of style, Claudette had a terrific sense of humor and an exuberant laugh. That famed star of the first talking pictures gave the most wonderful cocktail parties overlooking the ocean, where delicious canapés were served by white-gloved waiters. It was like walking into an elegant but welcoming movie set and, oh, so romantic to be in that magical place again with my bridegroom.

  Even at home, the surprises never stopped. Frank might have stone crab claws, flown in by the bushel from Florida, which we’d eat out by the pool in our bathing suits. Or he’d have pizzas delivered from Rocky Lee’s in New York, or his favorite cheesecake jetted in from Chicago. What he enjoyed most though was to get me a great gift—usually an important piece of jewelry—then spring it on me in some subtle way, just as he had with the Holy Shit Necklace. I guess I must have reacted the way he wanted each time, because he always seemed to take such pleasure in my delight. One day we were having brunch with George Schlatter and his wife, Jolene, whom Frank called Injun because of her olive skin. Jolene had been a Vegas showgirl and she and I had modeled together, so we went back a long way. We were sitting at the table when I spotted a man in a uniform standing on the other side of the glass front door. The bell rang, but strangely, no one went to answer it. Frank was still in the white robe I’d had made for him with a big S embroidered on the back. Because I wasn’t dressed yet either, I said, “Darling, would you please get the door?”

  He barely looked up from where he was eating bacon and eggs. “You get it,” he replied.

  The bell rang again, and as all the staff seemed to have vanished, I went to the door in my robe. The man in uniform said, “Barbara Sinatra?” and when I nodded, he waved forward a security guard from a Brinks truck parked in the drive.

  “This is for you,” his colleague said, handing me a small package.

  As I wandered back inside, I found George and Jolene grinning up at me, so I knew that they were in on the surprise. I opened the package to find a velvet Van Cleef & Arpels box with an enormous emerald nestling inside. Frank loved emeralds; they were his favorite stones, and he used to sit with Mr. Arpels in the back room of his store poring over the finest gems. My husband had once again chosen exceptionally well, and I was over the moon. I had the emerald set at the end of a diamond necklace, a piece I still proudly possess.

  I was able to surprise him too every now and then, although that was never easy. I presented him once with a Bulgari gold signet ring with an Italian coin set into it. He slipped it on immediately, replacing the one with the family crest that he’d worn for years and that was later stolen from him. Typical of Frank, though, he then had a smaller copy of his crest ring made for me so that we had a matching pair. I could never match his thoughtfulness.

  As if there wasn’t enough love in the house already, we decided to have babies—Cavalier King Charles spaniels. They were adorable, and Frank was the sweetest of all with them. Our friend Judy Green gave us our first, Miss Wiggles, but we soon acquired more, including another favorite, a ruby-colored spaniel named Caroline. At one time we had two litters of eight or nine pups. Frank liked the breed so much he sent a puppy to the financier and produc
er Armand Deutsch and his wife, Harriet, when they lost Beau, the yellow Labrador Frank had surprised them with fifteen years earlier. He often bought dogs for friends, but only if he was certain that they loved animals and could take good care of one.

  Once we owned puppies, Frank began to draw little dogs on some of his notes to me. “Bow wow,” he wrote on one. “Happy Mother’s Day from Miss Wiggles and Caroline.” In another, he wrote: “Darling, I am so happy about our new baby. I love you, F.” He was as soft as butter when it came to animals. He always had been. He’d stop someone treading on a bug by telling them, “Hey, don’t kill the little fella. That’s a pal of mine.” He was upset when I had one of our houseboys kill a rattlesnake up at Pinyon Crest after I found it hissing at Miss Wiggles. When we visited a friend in Acapulco who had a pet shark, Frank persuaded him to release it into the ocean. He loved cats too, and would sit in his pajamas doing a crossword with a sleeping puss we had named Bozo purringly draped around his shoulders. When one of our King Charles spaniels named Melissa was run over by a hit-and-run driver outside our house, we were both terribly upset, but Frank placed an advertisement in the local newspaper appealing for witnesses. Luckily for that careless driver, no one ever came forward to identify him.

  We had another dog, a stray Afghan hound we’d taken in. She had long eyelashes and silky hair and walked like a star, so I called her Miss Hollywood. Sadly, she ate one of our kittens. Not wanting a killer in the house, I reluctantly gave her away to a man who ran an ostrich farm. A few months later, someone called to tell me that Miss Hollywood was being kept in the same pen as the ostriches and was in terrible condition. Most of her fur had become so matted that it had been pulled away from her skin. Thinking back to poor old Boots in Las Vegas, I called the owner and told him, “I want you to sell Miss Hollywood back to me.” To my surprise, he didn’t want to give her up, no matter how much I offered. In desperation, I called the one person I knew could help.

  “Jilly, I want you to kidnap Miss Hollywood from that awful place and bring her home,” I told Frank’s best friend. Which is exactly what Jilly did. The owner never came looking for her, so I guess he knew he’d be prosecuted for cruelty. We took Miss Hollywood to the vet, had what was left of her fur shaved off, and brought her home, making sure to keep her away from our cats. She lived with us for several more happy years.

  • • •

  Having moved in with Frank once we were married, I gave my old house to the couple he called my “producers”—Willis and Irene Blakeley. It was the perfect home for my parents, and they lived there until they died.

  My new marital addresses comprised the Compound in Palm Springs, Villa Maggio at Pinyon Crest, the apartment in the Waldorf Towers in New York, and a modern open-plan property at the top of Coldwater Canyon in Los Angeles. Frank also had a villa overlooking the ocean in Las Brisas, Acapulco, where I used to escape sometimes with my girlfriends. Mostly, though, we lived at the Compound. I never had any qualms about moving into a house that had such a long and checkered history for Frank. It was the perfect place for us, not least because it slept eighteen and had a restaurant-size kitchen. Best of all, it wasn’t fancy. It was the most comfortable of his homes, the sort of place you could put your feet up, eat popcorn, and watch Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, Frank’s favorite television programs. He needed to completely relax whenever he came back from a tour, and so, increasingly, did I.

  I can’t say we ever had a “normal” day, but on an average one in Palm Springs, he might get up around noon and have his brunch. Then we’d play with the dogs or walk them around the property or the tennis court together. We might play a round of golf, using the cart that had OL’ BLUE EYES painted on one side and LADY BLUE EYES on the other. Frank might swim or skip some rope, and then we’d spend the rest of the day sitting by the pool, reading the newspapers, doing crosswords, or planning what we were going to do that night. Frank liked to see how he felt each day before he made up his mind about our evening plans. He’d drive our friends crazy because they’d have to wait for a call from Vine, the housekeeper, to tell them where they had to be and when if they wanted to join us for dinner. One of them, Danny Kaplan, even wrote a poem about it called “Vine’s on the Line.” Part of it went

  Our dear Barbara and Frank, they come and they go

  When they are on the road for us it seems slow.

  They are home in the Springs to rest in the sun

  But to us it’s the shot of the starter’s gun.

  They return to Palm Springs with one heralding sign—

  The signal they’re here is “It’s Vine on the line!”…

  An evening at the Sinatras’ is known for rapture

  So stimulating and unique, it’s hard to capture.

  The cocktails, the wine, the food, and the pasta

  Are all so fantastic one never says “basta.”

  Frank and Barbara are the ultimate hosts

  A fact well known by friends on both coasts.

  There’s something so special in their invite to dine

  We all eagerly wait—“It’s Vine on the line!”

  If we were invited out somewhere Frank didn’t want to go, he wouldn’t, and there was no changing his mind. I’d learned early on that when he said go, we’d go. That was the routine, and I had to be ready and on time. The only occasion I might decide not to go was if I found Frank at the bar drinking gin instead of his usual Jack Daniel’s. There was something about gin that turned him mean. The minute I spotted the gin bottle, I’d turn around, go to my room, and lock myself in. No amount of cajoling could persuade me to go with him, so he’d have to go out and be mean on his own.

  Some of the best times were when we’d stay in, just the two of us, and Frank would prepare me a romantic meal. He’d spend an entire afternoon in the kitchen he’d designed himself, cooking up a series of delicious Italian dishes. He’d light the candles, arrange the flowers, and woo me all over again. When he was like that, he was the best. His voice was soft and sexy, and so was his demeanor. He was in the mood for love, and I was only too happy to love him in return.

  Other nights, we’d host a party at home so that we wouldn’t have to go out. Then Vine and I would run around and call our friends until I had an interesting group of thirty or forty people lined up, plus all the food and booze they’d need. Sometimes for fun, I’d divide our guests up into groups so that we’d have separate tables for actors, singers, industrialists, or moguls. The guest list would depend on who was in town but would include all the usual suspects, plus friends like Tim Conway, Roger and Luisa Moore, Dick and Dolly Martin, Chuck Connors, Louis and “Quique” Jourdan, or the singer Jerry Vale and his wife, Rita. Just like his father before him, Frank would cook at least one special dish to add to the menu. After dinner, we might show a first-run movie in the projection room complete with popcorn and candy, or Frank might go to his train room to oil the engines or change the cars with some of his buddies.

  The Compound was very masculine in style when I first knew it, what I called “early Italian.” There were plastic flowers in vases and a great deal of orange paint on everything from the walls to the oversize refrigerators. Soon after I moved in, I asked if I could do something about the décor. Frank couldn’t have cared less what I did with the place; he just didn’t want to get involved. He told me, “Do it exactly the way you want and then show me.” With the help of Bee Korshak, whose judgment as an interior designer I valued, I opened up some of the rooms and created new bathrooms and dressing rooms. I also turned one of the spare bedrooms into an art studio for Frank so that he could pursue his interest in painting. I freshened everything else up with lighter desert colors and added a few feminine touches. It remained very much Frank’s home, with his art collection on the walls along with all his memorabilia, including statues, photographs, and awards, as well as the red phone once installed in the den as a hotline to the White House. By the time I’d finished, though, the Compound looked what I called “late Itali
an.”

  In my childhood I’d loved going into the backyard to pick corn, melons, tomatoes, and basil for the kitchen, so I wanted to re-create a little corner of Bosworth in Palm Springs. In an underused area of the estate, I developed a garden in which I grew most of our own vegetables and herbs. My parents loved to help me plant seedlings or pick fresh produce; I often think that was where my father was happiest whenever they came to visit. With soil beneath his fingernails again, he taught me a few tricks—like how to keep bugs away by pushing a clove of garlic into the ground and setting beer traps for slugs. Out in our garden, amid the towering sunflowers and the soldiers of corn, Willis Blakeley was in his element.

  The Compound’s buildings and guesthouses had been named by Frank after the friends who’d stayed there over the years. There was the Kennedy house, the Agnew house, and the Cerf house (after the Random House founder Bennett Cerf, whom Frank dubbed the Bookmaker). I thought it would be fun to name them after Frank’s favorite songs, so the main building became “The House I Live In,” and the guesthouses were renamed “All the Way,” “The Tender Trap,” “High Hopes,” “Young at Heart,” and “The Good Life.” The projection theater was “Send in the Clowns” and Frank’s office—decorated with framed photographs from his more than fifty movies—was aptly dubbed “My Way.” The master bedroom was christened “True Love,” and the room he’d sleep in if he wanted to stay up later than I did was called “I Sing the Songs.” Situated next to the pool, it was a quiet, simple space, not at all ostentatious, as one might imagine. In one corner was a statue of St. Francis, a saint Frank identified with not only because of his name and nationality but because of his love of animals.