Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [51]
Between chapters and clues, we’d talk while others swam or sunbathed. Frank quizzed me closely about my years with Zeppo, and I admitted how sterile things had become between us. In return, he opened up in a way that surprised and pleased me. He spoke of the emptiness he felt a year after retiring and how difficult he was finding it to adjust to a life of leisure. He’d had more than thirty thousand letters from fans the world over urging him to return to the stage. He even received one from the man whose voice had first inspired him to sing and with whom he’d starred in High Society with Grace Kelly. Bing Crosby wrote, “I can’t believe you’re going to remain supine for long. You’re at the peak of your form and you still have so much to give.” When Frank quoted me letters like that, I wondered if he was reconsidering his decision or privately dreading a future without performing.
As for my future, I didn’t know what was going to happen. Often in the days leading up to the end of our time together in that hopelessly idyllic setting, I wanted to ask, “Is this it, Frank? What happens after Monaco?” but I didn’t dare. I was too afraid of the answer. This was Frank Sinatra, after all. Women the world over fell at his feet. He had the pick of them all, young and old, so why would he choose the wife of an old friend living in the same small town? I had to be realistic. This was a summer romance, and when the vacation ended, it would almost certainly end too. It wasn’t as if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him anyway. There was way too much baggage with FS—his fame, his previous women, his hell-raising reputation, not to mention his mercurial nature. There were too many strange characters around him all the time, and I didn’t like that either. Zeppo may have been night to Frank’s day in terms of excitement, but at least he understood the importance of time spent alone.
When Monaco ended, Frank would undoubtedly move on to the next town, the next party, the next country, the next girl. That was all he knew. He already had plans to fly to Portugal to visit Spiro Agnew and his wife. There was an American presidential campaign going on, and Frank would offer every support to his friend, even though they didn’t share the same political stance. There would almost certainly be a woman or two in Agnew’s party who, I was sure, would receive the same sort of flattery and attention I’d been getting. I accepted that and, strangely, didn’t feel jealous. Everything would go back to just as it had always been, for Frank and for me.
By the time he squeezed my arm and kissed my cheek as he made his long round of farewells at the beach club, I’d resigned myself to the fact that our Mediterranean love affair was just that—a fleeting, wonderful thing. “Take care of yourself, Barbara,” he told me with a smile, and I assured him I would, happy that I’d at least have my memories to feed on.
SEVEN
Frank with an armful of roses he gathered from
the stage for me.
COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
Where the Air Is Rarefied
Picking up the threads of my Palm Springs life after Europe was far harder than I’d imagined. Whereas previously I’d been complacent about my marriage and resolved never to divorce Zeppo however difficult things became, I now found myself beset by secret yearning. In my determination to remain Mrs. Barbara Marx, I hadn’t counted on one Francis Albert.
Then Frank flew back into town and, within days, made