“No.” I shook my head. “We’ll build it in West Palm. So the poor have access.” I snapped my fingers, another idea sparking. “Flo and Billie know how necessary this is. We’ll get them involved.”
“Absolutely,” Ned said, catching the wave of my enthusiasm. “We can have Flo work something up like one of his Ziegfeld Follies. Dancing, songs, costumes. Stage props and sets, too. It’ll feel like Broadway, but with a distinctly Palm Beach flavor. The brighter the better.”
“I love it,” I said, rising and planting an excited kiss on Ned’s lips. “And I love you.”
“Love me or not, Marjie, I can already tell that you’re going to put me to work.”
“That’s the truth. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go ring Flo. We have work to do.”
* * *
—
Over the next few weeks and months, I threw myself enthusiastically into the planning of this hospital benefit. With Billie Burke and Flo Ziegfeld on board as early supporters of my cause, word spread quickly about the Huttons’ ambitious goals, about the fact that Flo Ziegfeld would be giving a grand Follies right here in Palm Beach, specifically aimed at raising funds to open a local hospital. Soon enough, our friends began asking how they could help and how they could get on the guest list.
Flo, a dear, agreed to loan us not only wardrobe pieces and sets but also several actors from his Broadway productions. I paid to get his actors down to Florida, and Billie and I agreed to make cameos onstage as well. As the night of the performance and gala approached, I tried on my costume, a risqué bodice of bright purple rhinestones that showed plenty of leg and décolletage. On the night of the show, my French lady’s maid, a pretty young girl named Renée, plumed my hair with crystals and ostrich feathers. “You look like one of our cancan dancers in Paris, Madame,” she said, smiling as she applied a final dusting of rouge to my cheeks.
The sun set that evening over a mild, clear night—the perfect sort of weather for hours of dancing and revelry. The dinner was a lavish banquet of fish and fillet, champagne and oysters, fresh fruit and a dozen varieties of fine cheeses. Those guests who were not dressed for parts in the stage performance nevertheless came decked out in their brightest and merriest attire: floor-length gowns of shimmering jewel tones, blinding necklaces and earrings, headdresses of feathers and bright tropical flowers. One of Flo’s most famous singers, Harry Fender, had made the trip down for the show, and when he was done with his set, he pulled me up onstage for my cameo. The crowd roared with approval as I danced alongside Harry. Ned looked on, beaming.
As the guests kept dancing, the servants kept refilling champagne flutes and dessert plates. Our friends packed the large space with laughter and song, so many people telling me on their way out that it was the best party they’d been to all winter. They begged me to make it a repeat event; they vowed to write even bigger checks the following year. Multiple Palm Beach hostesses asked me how they could ensure that next year, they’d get a part on the stage.
By the time the musicians had packed up their instruments in the faint gray of the coming dawn, Ned, Billie, Flo, and I stood at the front table and marveled at the fact that we had brought in over $100,000 in a single night. I wished my friends a triumphant farewell, thanking Flo with a big kiss on the cheek for all that he and Billie had done to help us. As Ned counted the checks and money one more time, ensuring that we were correct, he looked at me with a bright smile.
“Will it be enough?” I asked, my feet aching from dancing but my heart soaring after the night’s success.
“I’d say so,” Ned answered.
Our driver waited just outside the door. Ned yawned as he wrapped his arm around my waist. “Now, shall we go home, Mrs. Hutton?”
“I’d say so,” I said with a nod, taking his arm and walking beside him toward the car. “Goodness,” I said as we sat together in the back seat, our bodies leaning toward each other. “I’ve got a new appreciation for what those Broadway stars go through each night. This thing is uncomfortable.” I gestured toward the tight bodice I’d been wearing for more than twelve hours. “I need to get out of this rhinestone contraption the minute we get home.”
“I think I can help you with that,” my husband said, giving me a sly, sideways smile as he placed a kiss on my neck, stealing an appreciative peek at the overspill of my décolletage. Yes, I decided, the night was a success in every way imaginable.