“I’m sorry.” They sat quietly for a moment. Hazel knew something was missing from Maxine’s story, but whatever it was, Maxine had shut down and wasn’t about to volunteer more. “What would you like to do while you’re in New York?”
“Not sure. See some plays. Lay low.”
The door to the roof slammed and Lavinia came into view, carrying a straw hat with an enormous brim, a script tucked under one arm. Hazel waved her over and both girls stood as she neared.
Lavinia’s face brightened as she recognized Maxine and enveloped her in a warm hug. “What a surprise, my dear! It’s a true delight to have you back.”
Hazel could have sworn that Maxine had tears in her eyes when she pulled back from Lavinia after a few long moments in her arms. She hadn’t realized how close they were.
To give her friend time to gather herself, Hazel thanked Lavinia again. “Lavinia was the one who got my play on Broadway,” she explained to Maxine.
Maxine nodded. “I read all about your show in Variety. I’m sorry I didn’t congratulate you sooner. I got so wrapped up in all of my silly problems, I forgot to tell you how happy I am for you, Hazel.”
Lavinia settled in one of the chairs. “A terrific play, even if there wasn’t a part for me in it.” She pointed a finger at Hazel. “Next one, promise?”
Hazel nodded.
“How is your grandmother, Maxine, still going strong?” Lavinia asked.
“She is, thank you. Sends you her love. And how’s the Chelsea holding up these days? The twins still roughing it? Or has their father allowed them back into the fold?”
Lavinia laughed. “They’re not going anywhere, those two.”
“Roughing it?” echoed Hazel.
“The hotel’s guests can be divided up into several categories,” explained Lavinia. “The twins belong to the herd of black sheep, dilettantes who’ve been tossed out of wealthy families for not following the rules. Winnifred and Wanda were brought up in a mansion on Long Island’s gold coast, but they had some kind of a spat with their dad and moved in here. They’re up on eight. Down on the first floor are all the left-wing organizers, like the Peace Information Center.”
“I’m sorry, what’s that?” asked Hazel.
“It’s headed by W. E. B. Du Bois; they’re fighting against nukes. They share the same floor as the Eastern European refugee families who were temporarily housed here by the Catholic Charities but never left. The rest are creative types: artists, writers, musicians, designers, actors, several photographers. All overseen by David Bard and his Hungarian syndicate, who are constantly wheeling and dealing. I’m told that even the building’s plumber, Krauss, has some kind of ownership stake in the Chelsea. Quite a stew, when it comes down to it.”
Maxine threw back her head and laughed. “I’m so happy to be here, I can’t tell you.”
“How long do you think you’ll stay?” Hazel asked.
Maxine swatted her arm. “You worried about all those suitcases taking up space in your tidy room? Who knows? But don’t worry, I’ll talk to Mr. Bard about getting my own room. He said one down the hall is free. I’ll be close, but not too close.”
Hazel was thrilled. She could use a friend right now, and Maxine might bring a little lightness into her life. Without the distance between them, she could see her jealousy of Maxine’s Hollywood dream life was unfounded and that their friendship mattered more than that, anyway. She had no doubt they’d pick up right where they left off.
Together, they’d dive headfirst into the delicious stew of the Chelsea Hotel.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Maxine
May 23, 1950
The shock of being back at the Chelsea, of seeing Lavinia and Hazel, has driven me to pick up a pen again, to keep a record, like I used to during the war. But just in case the hotel maids are snooping, I’m keeping some secrets to myself. After all, a girl needs her privacy.
I felt bad, dumping my sob story on Hazel like that, watered down as it was. I’d hoped that in coming to New York I could flee the sickly perfection of Los Angeles and get some gritty New York dirt under my nails. Just like when I flew off to Europe with the USO and found an anchor in the plays and the women around me.
That article in Variety about Hazel’s production was like a lighthouse beacon at my lowest moment, where I could escape the humiliation of botching that audition and get a breather from being in Arthur’s grasp. Hazel getting a show on Broadway. No mean feat. She’d obviously changed from that sweet, scared girl who’d shown up in Naples. There was a sturdy capability about her, a no-nonsense demeanor. When her eyes focused on you and only you, it felt as if she was the only person who understood you. Arthur was like that, too. In the beginning. I get now that he used that particular ploy to reel me in, but Hazel has different intentions. Her desire to connect comes from a kindhearted, unselfish place.
Seeing her again brought up all kinds of emotions: pride at her accomplishments, jealousy at her uncomplicated life—at least compared to mine—and, above all, a love for her. I loved the way she looked at me, like she didn’t quite believe whatever was coming out of my mouth, and called me on it, when necessary. My grandmother is the same way, someone who truly understands me.
I suggested we go out and celebrate her good news. We put on our posh frocks—I wore my fiery-pink Balenciaga. Whenever I put on that dress, I feel divine, but then Hazel stepped out of her bedroom in a strapless white number, stunning in its simplicity, that made it seem like there was a halo around her. How does she do that?
“I hope there aren’t any photographers still waiting outside,” said Hazel as we stepped off the elevator.
No such luck. I counted four, that I could see, and had steadied myself, like I was about to dive into a pool filled with alligators, when Mr. Bard popped into the lobby from a side hallway.
“You don’t have to go out that way, if you don’t want.”
“Is there a back door to this place?” Hazel asked.
“Not exactly,” he said. “Follow me.”
We took a staircase tucked beside the lobby phone booths down one flight to the basement, past the laundry. The maids stubbed out cigarettes and began loading sheets into enormous dryers as soon as we came into view.
Their lackadaisical work ethic didn’t seem to bother Mr. Bard, who kept up a running commentary as we zigzagged through the narrow hallways. “Back when the hotel was built, in the 1880s, we had a billiard parlor, wine cellar, and butcher shop down here.” Hazel rolled her eyes, she’d clearly heard all this before. But Mr. Bard had a giddy hop in his step, leading us deeper into the basement, to a narrow door, which he opened with a flourish. “The servants used to be housed in a brownstone on Twenty-Second Street, but now it’s empty. This tunnel connects the two buildings.”
We entered a dank, dark hallway, lit by bare bulbs spaced widely apart. Strange to think we were directly underneath the ragged courtyard that separated the Chelsea from the row houses to the south. I wouldn’t want to come down there on my own. I was sure rats and other critters used it as a highway when the humans weren’t about.
We eventually emerged inside a small cellar. Up five steps and we were out on the street, not a camera in sight.
“Well done, Mr. Bard,” said Hazel. He grinned with delight. I blew him a kiss as we jumped in a cab, and in no time we arrived at the Russian Tea Room. Nothing classier than that, I’ve always thought. The place was jumping, the red leather banquettes full up and golden samovars gleaming in the low light. I blended in just right. Showy but with a purpose. That’s me.