like his mother rather than his wife, and I could see how the bull-in-a-china-shop boy in him could get tempted by the sirens of the movie business. There was nothing “bad” about Big Nancy, and, alas, that wasn’t good. Something about her even made me feel guilty about being with her husband, as if I were at work destroying their happy home. And I had not even begun to party with the guy. It was what the Catholics call a Madonna/whore thing. Big Nancy was like the Virgin Mary, and the whores, well, I had no idea at the time. I sensed absolutely no resentment on Big Nancy’s part over having lost her husband to the sleazy lure of showbiz, only resignation to the reality of the situation.
The whole scene was sad, because it was such an adorable family. There was a fat old black woman who had been with the family for years as a nanny to the kids, though Nancy rarely left them alone. She was an old-fashioned, lovingly hands-on mom. Little Nancy, Frank Jr., who was ten and the spitting image of his dad but so, so shy, and Tina, a doll at five, all seemed thrilled to see their father, who usually came by once a week. Yet there was something “special event” about these occasions, like papal visits. Mr. S was very touchy and huggy with the kids. He truly loved them, and always arrived with either toys, gifts, or, as they got older, money. But at the same time the situation was awkward, especially the goodbye part. The kids neverbegged him to stay, but their longing expressions conveyed the powerful message, and it hurt. Driving back to the apartment, Mr. S looked down. I told him how much I liked his family, and all he could say was, “I know, I know.” He would call them every single day, wherever he might be, at six o’clock just before their dinner, and be the best telephone father there ever was.
I often went over to the Carolwood house on my own, to do errands, deliver presents, drive the kids somewhere. They seemed so excited to see me, as if I were a surrogate dad, bombarding me with questions about what their real dad was up to. The kids rarely came over to the apartment, which was Mr. S’s “bachelor pad” and which he didn’t want them to see. When they came down to Palm Springs, he made me get rid of all evidence of whatever women visitors had been around. Dates were off-limits whenever the kids were there. Mr. S was very prudish and old-fashioned in thinking he could shield his children from his reputation and reality as the world’s biggest playboy.
I also got to know and like Big Nancy, who was in reality more prudish than her ex-husband pretended to be. There was no way she would ever get remarried, or even go on a date. The closest was Cesar Romero, who looked like the handsomest Latin lover in the movies, but in reality was totally gay. In what Confidential magazine might have tried to sensationalize as a ménage à trois , Cesar would take Big Nancy and her best friend Barbara Stanwyck out to Chasen’s once a week, though the reality was about as naughty as a bridge club. The friendship with Stanwyck was pretty ironic. The main thing the women had in common was that each had lost her husband to Ava Gardner. Stanwyck had been married to Robert Taylor when he succumbed to Ava’s charms in 1948. The Taylor-Gardner affair, which was consummated at the house of Taylor’s mother, never approached the mad passion of the union with Sinatra, but for the ex-wives, the result was the same. Still, I never heard Nancy utter one unkind wordabout Ava. She was a very classy lady, some might say a saint, and her sacrificial goodness instilled in Mr. S a nagging guilt he was deeply uncomfortable talking about. One thing, however, he would never say was that he regretted having married Nancy.
I realized that Frank and I had a lot in common, a divorce and three kids, though my Dorothy wasn’t anything like the sweetheart that Big Nancy was. With any other boss, I might have felt it was presumptuous to compare
The whole scene was sad, because it was such an adorable family. There was a fat old black woman who had been with the family for years as a nanny to the kids, though Nancy rarely left them alone. She was an old-fashioned, lovingly hands-on mom. Little Nancy, Frank Jr., who was ten and the spitting image of his dad but so, so shy, and Tina, a doll at five, all seemed thrilled to see their father, who usually came by once a week. Yet there was something “special event” about these occasions, like papal visits. Mr. S was very touchy and huggy with the kids. He truly loved them, and always arrived with either toys, gifts, or, as they got older, money. But at the same time the situation was awkward, especially the goodbye part. The kids neverbegged him to stay, but their longing expressions conveyed the powerful message, and it hurt. Driving back to the apartment, Mr. S looked down. I told him how much I liked his family, and all he could say was, “I know, I know.” He would call them every single day, wherever he might be, at six o’clock just before their dinner, and be the best telephone father there ever was.
I often went over to the Carolwood house on my own, to do errands, deliver presents, drive the kids somewhere. They seemed so excited to see me, as if I were a surrogate dad, bombarding me with questions about what their real dad was up to. The kids rarely came over to the apartment, which was Mr. S’s “bachelor pad” and which he didn’t want them to see. When they came down to Palm Springs, he made me get rid of all evidence of whatever women visitors had been around. Dates were off-limits whenever the kids were there. Mr. S was very prudish and old-fashioned in thinking he could shield his children from his reputation and reality as the world’s biggest playboy.
I also got to know and like Big Nancy, who was in reality more prudish than her ex-husband pretended to be. There was no way she would ever get remarried, or even go on a date. The closest was Cesar Romero, who looked like the handsomest Latin lover in the movies, but in reality was totally gay. In what Confidential magazine might have tried to sensationalize as a ménage à trois , Cesar would take Big Nancy and her best friend Barbara Stanwyck out to Chasen’s once a week, though the reality was about as naughty as a bridge club. The friendship with Stanwyck was pretty ironic. The main thing the women had in common was that each had lost her husband to Ava Gardner. Stanwyck had been married to Robert Taylor when he succumbed to Ava’s charms in 1948. The Taylor-Gardner affair, which was consummated at the house of Taylor’s mother, never approached the mad passion of the union with Sinatra, but for the ex-wives, the result was the same. Still, I never heard Nancy utter one unkind wordabout Ava. She was a very classy lady, some might say a saint, and her sacrificial goodness instilled in Mr. S a nagging guilt he was deeply uncomfortable talking about. One thing, however, he would never say was that he regretted having married Nancy.
I realized that Frank and I had a lot in common, a divorce and three kids, though my Dorothy wasn’t anything like the sweetheart that Big Nancy was. With any other boss, I might have felt it was presumptuous to compare
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