Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [81]
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Having moved in with Frank once we were married, I gave my old house to the couple he called my “producers”—Willis and Irene Blakeley. It was the perfect home for my parents, and they lived there until they died.
My new marital addresses comprised the Compound in Palm Springs, Villa Maggio at Pinyon Crest, the apartment in the Waldorf Towers in New York, and a modern open-plan property at the top of Coldwater Canyon in Los Angeles. Frank also had a villa overlooking the ocean in Las Brisas, Acapulco, where I used to escape sometimes with my girlfriends. Mostly, though, we lived at the Compound. I never had any qualms about moving into a house that had such a long and checkered history for Frank. It was the perfect place for us, not least because it slept eighteen and had a restaurant-size kitchen. Best of all, it wasn’t fancy. It was the most comfortable of his homes, the sort of place you could put your feet up, eat popcorn, and watch Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, Frank’s favorite television programs. He needed to completely relax whenever he came back from a tour, and so, increasingly, did I.
I can’t say we ever had a “normal” day, but on an average one in Palm Springs, he might get up around noon and have his brunch. Then we’d play with the dogs or walk them around the property or the tennis court together. We might play a round of golf, using the cart that had OL’ BLUE EYES painted on one side and LADY BLUE EYES on the other. Frank might swim or skip some rope, and then we’d spend the rest of the day sitting by the pool, reading the newspapers, doing crosswords, or planning what we were going to do that night. Frank liked to see how he felt each day before he made up his mind about our evening plans. He’d drive our friends crazy because they’d have to wait for a call from Vine, the housekeeper, to tell them where they had to be and when if they wanted to join us for dinner. One of them, Danny Kaplan, even wrote a poem about it called “Vine’s on the Line.” Part of it went
Our dear Barbara and Frank, they come and they go
When they are on the road for us it seems slow.
They are home in the Springs to rest in the sun
But to us it’s the shot of the starter’s gun.
They return to Palm Springs with one heralding sign—
The signal they’re here is “It’s Vine on the line!”…
An evening at the Sinatras’ is known for rapture
So stimulating and unique, it’s hard to capture.
The cocktails, the wine, the food, and the pasta
Are all so fantastic one never says “basta.”
Frank and Barbara are the ultimate hosts
A fact well known by friends on both coasts.
There’s something so special in their invite to dine
We all eagerly wait—“It’s Vine on the line!”
If we were invited out somewhere Frank didn’t want to go, he wouldn’t, and there was no changing his mind. I’d learned early on that when he said go, we’d go. That was the routine, and I had to be ready and on time. The only occasion I might decide not to go was if I found Frank at the bar drinking gin instead of his usual Jack Daniel’s. There was something about gin that turned him mean. The minute I spotted the gin bottle, I’d turn around, go to my room, and lock myself in. No amount of cajoling could persuade me to go with him, so he’d have to go out and be mean on his own.
Some of the best times were when we’d stay in, just the two of us, and Frank would prepare me a romantic meal. He’d spend an entire afternoon in the kitchen he’d designed himself, cooking up a series of delicious Italian dishes. He’d light the candles, arrange the flowers, and woo me all over again. When he was like that, he was the best. His voice was soft and sexy, and so was his demeanor. He was in the