Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [79]
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