“I thought you do not make it,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“I thought you’d drowned,” I said.
“I did. In last night’s wine. My head is booming.”
“Does that mean we’re not warming up?”
“Absolutely not. But the air out here is helpingil mio mal di testa.” He rubbed his temples.
“I know how you feel. I didn’t go to sleep until three in the morning. Archie and I sat out by the campfire.”
“Are youinnamorata?”
“Well, it’s a bit soon for that,” I said, feeling myself blush but unable to keep from smiling at the thought of Archie’s touch.
“I always know immediately if I’m in love.”
“You make it sound like it’s a regular occurrence.” I laughed. “How many times have you been in love?”
“Molte, molte.Too many times. You?”
“Molte,”I said with my hands.
The truth was I’d never been in love before. I hadn’t allowed myself the time or inclination—I’d had one goal, of becoming a star, for as long as I could remember.
And yet the thought of leaving the camp and not seeing Archie again for a while weighed heavily on me. I’d be traveling to the other camps for the rest of the tour and it was only mildly likely that Archie would be in Manhattan upon my return. I’d taken every opportunity I had to be around him during my time there. I walked by boccie ball games in the afternoon, I stayed around the campfire long after the other performers went to bed. I even found myself wanting to rush through rehearsals to see him again, and now, after last night, the thought of our lives continuing on without each other outside the confines of the camp felt all wrong.
“How do you know if it’s really love?” I asked.
“You just know, Olive.” He smiled. “But be careful. Men like that, wealthy, important, they don’t like performers—singers, dancers, actresses.”
“Oh no, Archie loves that I sing. In fact, our second meeting was during one of my shows. I landed in his arms. It was wild.…” I was about to tell him the whole story of flying off the stage and meeting him on the dance floor. But Alberto wagged his finger at me.
“Honestly, Alberto, he’s not like that.”
He shrugged and lay back in his canoe. “You should audition at the Metropolitan Opera House.”
“I’m not good enough for that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Get good enough. I make the introduction next time I’m in New York. Always you keep aiming higher. Ziegfeld is good for now, but always you think, What’s next for Olive?”
“If I could just keep on with what I’m doing I’d be happy, but sometimes I feel as though it could all slip away.”
“It could,” he said matter-of-factly. “It always could. That is why you must be careful.”
I tried to brush it off. Be careful? What did that even mean?
“Be careful with your heart, be careful with your talent,” he continued. “That is all.”
We traveled throughout the Adirondacks for the next several weeks, each camp more impressive than the last. There were imported English clay tennis courts, croquet lawns, trails flush with wild raspberry bushes, late night swimming parties and retinues of servants that outnumbered the guests three to one. We met and mingled and performed, and Ruthie was right, it was quite a lovely way to spend a month in the middle of summer. But by the end of it, I was ready to return. I missed the city and I missed Archie. I couldn’t wait another minute to be back in his arms.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We were ready in less than fifteen minutes after the lights went down. Ruthie and the girls knew that if they hurried, they could catch a ride with Archie and me in his Buick, which waited for me outside the stage door most nights. He didn’t mind that the girls piled in and tagged along, as long as they got there quick—before the late night crowd began crawling out of the midtown theaters and restaurants and making their way to the clubs. Archie had a table reserved in the back of Grotto, 42, a fancy establishment where you had to be someone or know someone to get in, and he was ushered past the heavy black gates and through the brass-studded door in a snap. He liked to get settled before the crowds began filling in and the dancing began. Drinks were $1.25 a pop, but Archie took care of all of us, which the girls loved because it meant they didn’t have to agree to date some dud just to have a little fun.
I liked that he took care of my gang. Most of us were making decent money as Ziegfeld girls, between $40 and $75 a week if youwere really lucky, but by the time we paid for a place to live and bought the clothes, shoes, makeup and accessories necessary to live this kind of life, and go to these kinds of places, to be considered a “new woman,” as the papers were calling us—modern, independent ladies who liked to earn our own money and make up our own minds—we had little money left to eat, and drink, and share in the reckless moral debauchery that we all got blamed for. So it was nice of him to treat everyone.
“What are you having, ladies?” he asked as the waiter headed over to our table.
