Frank_ The Voice - James Kaplan [119]
If you don’t know already, this album of records—if nothing else—will convince you that Mr. Frank Sinatra is a very versatile young man. I am sure that he has no pretentions [sic] as a conductor, but on the other hand his conducting these pieces of Wilder is not merely an exercise of a whim. Frank is an idealist and an energetic reformer …
[He] had never conducted before, and because of his position in a different world of music, the orchestra players first looked upon him with an ill-disguised cynicism. But it did not last long. Frank knew this music by heart, knew what he wanted, told them in a straightforward way what he expected of them, made intelligent suggestions and, in short, really conducted the orchestra.
The result was not only smooth, but artistic and expressive.
If you are reading these notes, it will mean that Frank has accomplished one of his prime objectives as a conductor, which is to introduce you to this music in which he so thoroughly believes.
Frank finished up the second and final session for the Wilder album late on the night of December 10, and the following Monday, after the stand at the Wedgwood was over, flew back home. There was a New Year’s Eve party to prepare. And a girl he’d been missing a lot.
He had bought her a diamond bracelet at Tiffany while he was in Manhattan, a ridiculous outlay, almost half a week’s take from the Paramount, but he was a man in love. They’d talked on the phone almost every day while he was away—not easy, between his work schedule, her work schedule, and her husband. Not to mention the long-distance operators: it had forced them to speak in a kind of code, which was frustrating, but also kind of romantic.
They didn’t dare write.
Sinatra had had John the butler leave the Cadillac convertible at the airport, so he could drive himself home. He thought of the bracelet when he was a half mile from home. The robin’s egg blue box was under clothes in his suitcase, and Nancy always unpacked his bags. He couldn’t put it in his pocket; he was about to be hugged. He opened the car’s glove compartment and hid the box as best he could.
Nancy found it there a couple of days before Christmas. She’d driven over to her beauty parlor in Beverly Hills and, absurdly enough, wanted to comb her hair before she went in. She saw the robin’s egg blue box. Frank had been sweet, if a little distracted, since getting back home: He’d missed her, he said. And it was sweet; it reminded her of how it had been before the children.
She undid the ribbon and opened the box.
Sitting in the car on Cañon Drive, Nancy put her hand to her chest. The bracelet sparkled in the brazen California light, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—it must have cost a fortune. He spent it as he made it, she thought. The gold engraved Cartier lighters and cigarette cases for all his pals, even useful acquaintances, tens of thousands of dollars’ worth. Whatever else he was, he was hers.
On Christmas morning, with Little Nancy and the baby happy under the big tree with their dolls and toys, he handed her a Tiffany box. A small Tiffany box. She blinked in confusion as she opened it and saw the pearl earrings. Her smile as she hugged him was deeply confused.
The party that year was especially splendid: The war was over! And the show this year would be like no other. Harry Crane had written comedy sketches; Sammy and Jule had created a whole evening’s worth of songs; Dickie Whorf, a young director at Metro, had personally painted a Parisian street scene on the backdrop curtain and supervised the rehearsals.
The men wore black tie; the women, gowns. Sinatra stood at the front door and greeted the guests himself. The songs and the comedy were hilarious. Frank sang “Mammy” in blackface, complete with Jolson voice and head-shaking shtick; Phil Silvers’s dazzling new wife, Jo-Carroll, a former Miss America from Texas, sang a number called “I’m the Wife of the Life of