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These colorful characters were gay, but it never bothered me, even coming from such a small-town background. My father always believed in the maxim live and let live, so that’s what I did.

• • •

In spite of the hours, my working life was exciting, well paid, and the realization of all my teenage dreams. I knew I was a good model once I’d mastered the theatricality of it. I was able to afford the rent on a 1920s bungalow in Beverly Hills. Something was still missing, though. It wasn’t that I was unhappy; how could I be when my son was such a joy to me? I had plenty of friends too but was secretly lonely inside.

Not that I was allowed to be for long, because one day Sidney, now my former stylist, turned up on my doorstep unemployed and never left. He took over my life, rearranged my furniture, and redecorated my home. He scrawled swearwords five feet high on the living room walls, insisting they were “beat,” and when two coats of paint wouldn’t cover them, he draped sheets of linen over his graffiti instead. He also pretended to be my butler in the most outrageous outfits whenever anyone came to call.

One day, it was Zeppo, who’d driven into town in his Rolls-Royce to take me out to dinner. Zep stood in the doorway as elegant as anything with flowers and candy in his hand when Sidney opened the door, wearing a Hawaiian muumuu. At that moment, I flushed the toilet in the lean-to part of the duplex just above Zeppo, and the leaky plumbing piddled water straight onto his head. Being a Marx brother, he loved the wackiness of the whole scene. When he returned for our next date, though, he was well prepared. I opened the front door to find him sheltering under a large umbrella.

Once Zeppo saw the sheet-draped living room, he cried, “My God, I’m in a coffin!” Zeppo could always make me laugh, and I couldn’t help but love him for that. There had been so little laughter when I was a child that I craved it my whole life. Whenever Zep was in town, he’d come around and take me out. He was witty and handsome, claimed to adore me, and nothing I could do or say seemed to distract him from his goal of making me his wife. Being with Zeppo reminded me that there was another life, far away from leaky cisterns and my punishing schedule, meeting the payments on my car and the house, as well as taking care of Bobby.

“I’ve been torching you for over a year,” Zeppo finally reminded me one night in Chasen’s restaurant. “Why not move back to Palm Springs and use my penthouse in Beverly Hills if you still feel the need to work?”

“But I don’t play golf or tennis,” I protested lamely.

“You could learn,” he suggested gently.

“But there’s Bobby—” I began to protest.

“Enroll him in any school you like,” Zeppo interrupted. “I’ll pay. During term time, you and I can fly off to Europe together or sail somewhere in my yacht. Whatever you want.”

He was very convincing, and when he saw my hesitation, he added softly, “I’ll take good care of you, Barbara.”

I looked into his smiling eyes. Zeppo was offering me security, the likes of which I’d never known. Life would be good. Bobby’s future would be secure, and he’d be educated in the finest schools. “But you haven’t really proposed,” I pointed out.

Just as had happened to me once before, my dinner date got down on one knee in the middle of a crowded restaurant and took my hand in his. “Will you marry me?” he asked.

I took a deep breath. “Sure,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll marry you, Zep.”

Feeling suddenly very happy and realizing how much I’d come to care for him, I added, “I’ll make you a good wife, darling. I promise.” As I leaned forward and kissed him, I meant every word.

On September 18, 1959, Zeppo and I were married in the place where we met—the Riviera Hotel in Vegas. It was a quiet affair with Bobby, my parents, my sister and her husband, and a few close friends. Zeppo had already bought me a six-carat emerald-cut diamond engagement ring, and on our wedding day he presented me with a simple