Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [44]
“Don’t do anything rash,” I wrote back. “I’ll fly over this summer and we’ll talk.” I only hoped I wouldn’t be too late.
I was still worrying about Bobby when Dinah Shore hosted her first charity golf tournament at Mission Hills in Palm Springs, an annual event that went on to become one of the highlights of the Ladies Professional Golf Association (LPGA) tour. Not surprisingly, perhaps, Zeppo refused to partner me on the course. Just as I was wondering who I could play with instead, Frank asked if I’d consider playing with “a former superstar.” I was flattered, of course, but quite taken aback. I wasn’t nearly good enough to partner the man who sometimes teamed up with Dean Martin, a scratch player. I also knew how impatient Frank could be—he’d infuriate Dean by suggesting they skip a couple of holes when people were already playing or head to the greens nearest the clubhouse. “Hey, Dag” (short for Dago), he’d call to Dean, “fourteen’s open. Let’s go!” He’d have a bar set up on a golf cart on the seventeenth fairway, at the back of his house, so they could stop and have a drink. How would he react when I was constantly hunting for my ball in the rough?
The night before the tournament Dinah threw a party at her house. I was sitting opposite Frank, and when the person next to him got up from the table, he leaned across and asked me quietly, “Would you please come over here and sit next to me, Barbara?” It was all very subtle, but we sat together for the rest of the evening.
The following day the two of us went around the course in his golf cart. We’d wave and smile at the spectators and players we passed, but mostly we were on our own. Not much was said and nothing happened, but sitting side by side in that little electric cart, our knees touching, seemed hopelessly romantic. Whenever I was about to swing my club, he’d stand close enough for me to catch his soapy, lavender scent. Our fingers might brush when he helped me choose a club or our eyes meet when we headed back to the buggy. As the tournament drew to a close, Frank smiled and asked, “Will you come and have dinner with me tonight, Sunshine Girl?” I loved that he used the nickname for me only Zeppo and a few others used around the club.
It was later that evening, as Zep played gin nearby, that Frank offered to fix me a martini in the den. When he pulled me into his arms, I was caught completely off guard, but I found myself returning his kiss with just as much ardor. There was no way to avoid that flirtation. Besides, I was as lost and lonely as he was. My marriage was all but dead. Bobby was grown and living abroad; I didn’t have to protect him anymore. Whatever happened next between Frank and me—and I knew then that something would—I wouldn’t try to stop it. I was happy again, for the first time in years, and it felt so good.
Eva Gabor always threw terrific poolside parties at her home in Palm Springs. The younger sister of the actresses Zsa Zsa and Magda, Eva was a four-times-divorced socialite in the Pamela Harriman mold. She was crazy about Frank; they dated for a while and she’d been hopeful of marriage. When they split up, someone recommended that she see a shrink in Pasadena, but when she got there the analyst told her he had three patients who thought Frank was going to marry them. That news alone helped her get over him.
Standing at Eva’s bar during one of her parties by the pool in late May 1972, I got chatting with a friendly barman who asked me about my vacation plans. “I’m flying to Switzerland to see my son, and then I’m going to Monaco to visit my friends the Ittlesons,” I told him.
A voice at my elbow startled me. “Monaco?” I knew who it was before I turned. “I’ll be in Monaco too in a couple of weeks. Maybe we could meet up?” Frank’s eyes, which seemed bluer than ever, dared mine to look away. Nobody else in the world could look right through you the way Frank could. “I know the Ittlesons,” he added, drawing on his cigarette. “We could get together.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure,” I replied as nonchalantly as I could, although my stomach