“I understand why it’s a delicacy now.”
“Always say yes to new things,” Ada said. “It’s the only way you’ll be able to write about life—if you actually go out and live it.” She laid her fork delicately across her plate. “You asked why I didn’t warn you off Freddy—that was part of why. You can’t expect to write about things you’ve never felt in a real way.”
I copied Ada’s fork placement, and Michael returned, offering us a dessert menu, but Ada waved him away. “No, we have a show to get to tonight.”
“Of course,” Michael said smoothly. “You two always arrive in town on the same nights.”
“By no great coincidence, I can assure you,” Ada said, smiling almost flirtatiously. She handed him a stack of bills. “Buy your wife a present.”
“Thank you, Miss Heller.” Ada patted his arm as busboys cleared our plates.
“Let’s go,” Ada said, rising. “We have a rather long walk, but it’s a pleasant night.”
“What show are we going to?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I assumed it would be some old-time band to remind Ada of her youth. But we walked back past the Steel Pier. Many of the families had retired, but some were still going, children starting to look sleepy if they hadn’t just eaten their body weight in sugar—the children who had were running circles around their tired parents.
At Missouri Avenue, we exited the boardwalk, and I glanced around, looking for signs of the decay that Ada had said was occurring in the city. But we walked only two blocks before we hit a large crowd of people, a neon sign advertising “The 500 Club” in front of us. A nightclub? I thought. I had never been allowed to go to one, though the braver of my college friends and I had snuck into a few in New York. I wondered if this would be some sort of vaudeville act.
Ada sidestepped the line, however, bringing us right to the front. “Miss Heller,” the man at the door said, unhooking the velvet rope for us. “Your table is ready, right in front.”
“Thank you so much,” she said. “Does he know I’m here tonight?”
“He does,” the doorman said with a wink.
“Wonderful.” Ada walked in through the door he held for us, people in line craning to see what celebrities we were to be allowed in ahead of them.
We walked through the main bar, fitted in the Art Deco style of the 1920s, zebra-patterned wallpaper lining the walls. There was a waterfall in this first room, lined in imitation foliage. But Ada kept walking, moving us through to the Vermillion Room. The walls were dark red velvet, and the floor was filled with tables covered in white cloths. It was mostly full, with a small table in front holding a “Reserved” sign for us. Ada led us purposefully through the room to the table by the stage, and a waiter appeared, pouring champagne without asking what we wanted. “On the house,” he said. “Mr. D’Amato sends his regards.”
“Tell Skinny I said thank you,” Ada said. “But he’s still too young for me.”
The waiter chuckled. This was apparently a running gag.
I looked around the room, spotting Jayne Mansfield on the opposite side of the stage from us. My eyes widened. Scanning the rest of the tables, I saw Paul Newman with Joanne Woodward as well. A man and woman approached the movie stars, and I smiled, recognizing the couple I had seen in Avalon the other day, sans children this time. They snapped a picture with the famous couple, and Paul Newman signed a napkin for the woman—Evelyn, I believe her name was—before they returned to their seats farther back in the house.
“Ada,” I said, leaning across the table. “Who are we here to see?”
She smiled as the lights went down and a spotlight rose on the stage, just inches from us. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed. “The 500 Club is proud to present to you tonight the Chairman of the Board, Old Blue Eyes himself, Mr. Frank Sinatra.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
By the time the show ended, my voice was hoarse from screaming along with every other woman—save Ada—in the house. He had come over and held my hand during “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and I was certain I would never wash that hand again.
But I never expected Ada to usher us backstage, where Frank Sinatra—FRANK SINATRA!—greeted her with a hug and a kiss, then, after she introduced me, he gave me the same.
“Is this a present for me?” he asked Ada.
“Watch it, Frankie,” Ada said, elbowing him playfully in the ribs. “This is my niece, Marilyn.”
“You sure you don’t want to make me a match? I’d be great entertainment at the holidays.”
Ada laughed, and I felt myself melting into an absolute puddle at the idea that Frank Sinatra was even joking about marrying me. Ada said she would let him get back to his fans, but before we left, he grabbed a photograph of himself from a stack of them and signed one to me. I clutched it with a shaking hand as we left the club and headed back toward the boardwalk.
“Same Atlantic City Freddy Goldman showed you?” Ada asked. I shook my head, my eyes as wide as the Ferris wheel on the pier. “You’re all right? I’m not catching you if you faint.”
“How—how do you know Frank Sinatra?”
“Darling, I’ve been coming here since Prohibition. I know everyone in this town. Not the tourists, of course. But the actual heart of it.” She looked pensive for a moment. “When your mother was here, she got to meet Bing Crosby.”
I turned to Ada in surprise. “Is there anyone you don’t know?”
“I don’t know most people. But if they’re regulars here, I’ve probably been introduced. I had much more of a social life when I was younger.”
I remembered the picture of Ada and my mother on the boardwalk, my mother’s exuberant kiss on Ada’s cheek, something held tight in her hand. “Did Mama get his autograph?”
“She did. I assume she still has it somewhere.”
We stopped for fudge and saltwater taffy on the way back to the car, but I felt like I was walking on air instead of the boards. No one was going to believe that Frank Sinatra kissed me on the cheek and asked if I was a present for him. I didn’t believe it.
At the car, Ada took off her stole, draping it carelessly in the backseat. I held on to mine. It was the first fur I’d owned, and I didn’t want it getting messed up in the wind from the convertible, no matter how hot it was. And it was still hot, in late July, even at night.
We tied our hair up, and Ada put the car into gear, reversed out of the parking spot, and pulled out into the street, taking the Black Horse Pike back to the Garden State.
“Thank you,” I said as we cruised along in the darkness, the pine barrens looming to our right, the barrier islands and sea to the left.
She said nothing, though whether she was lost in thought or just concentrating on the unlit road, I did not know.
“Ada?” I asked as we passed Ocean City.
“Hmm?”
“Why did my mother spend the summer with you?”
“I told you. That’s not my story to tell.”