Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1960)

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just how very much I love her. And when, at times like the beginning of our marriage, when I came home once to find the dinner burned, Vici looked so helpless, so forlorn, that all of a sudden my anger melted into a feeling of tremendous affection for her. She was so much like a little girl who was expecting her mother to scold her about having a muddy dress — and with not a word to say in her own defense. Who else would store my cufflinks in a hat box? Get all upset because I didn’t like that strip of feather she called a hat? Or, in the space of a single day, be a rational, collected mother and yet not able to stand up to the temptation of a “Marked Down” tag on a dress . . . splurge on gifts for me and the babies and yet, should a crisis arise, be amazingly shrewd and calculating? How often have we sat talking together and suddenly, the deep pensive look on Vici’s face has seemed so profoundly solemn, so deeply serious, that for the moment I cannot think about our conversation any more, but only smile in amusement at her expression, and think how lovely she looks with eyes wide and her lips pouting slightly, and then suddenly I want to say, “Vici, I love you.” I guess part of love is knowing she cares for me, too. Because I’ll always remember the radiance about her face and the sudden warmth about her smile the first time I told her that I loved her. And I thank her a million times for answering softly, “Roger, I love you, too.” At that moment I don’t think there was a happier man in the world. It’s funny how the words, “I love you,” can be the easiest or the hardest a man can ever say. Words of love flow effortlessly when they are meant without a serious intent — just casual, social words — and yet . . . why do those words, those very same words stick uncomfortably in your throat when they are meant for the girl you want to marry, to take care of and be with for always. Love is understanding how a man feels. So many times, when I’m feeling a little depressed or unhappy about something which might have gone wrong during the day, she has a way of knowing — of putting her arms around me and kissing me softly and gently and telling me that she loves me. It is also making a man feel rather special. Can I really explain the feeling of great warmth I get when she approaches me with an almost childlike faith in my ability to solve her problem of the moment? Or how I feel when she cocks her head a little to one side and says, “I knew you’d know just what to do. You’re wonderful.” And goes away with a new light to her face? Yet, are there reasons to explain the way I feel when I see the delicate, misty tearful look that comes all over her face when I compliment her unexpectedly — as though it meant so much to her? Or the way I feel when I tell her that I love her and she blushes slightly and lowers her pretty little head and scolds, playfully, “Oh — Roger.” I believe love grows from those special moments you have shared together. I remember, particularly, one Valentine’s Day when I’d arranged to have a cake made in the shape of a heart for Vici. It had the words, “I Love You,” scrawled in icing on the top. And when I brought it home and showed it to her . . . she cried. She just stood there and cried. For a moment I didn’t know what to do and I just looked at her sheepishly, watching the tears run down her face. And then I suddenly felt a great surge of love and I went over to her and kissed her gently. It may sound a little odd, but it was the best “thank you” she could have ever given me. A woman’s tears can melt a man — when they’re honest. Make him feel he’s needed and strong. She was still crying, her head on my shoulder, when I slipped a tiny box into her hand. She looked down and began untying the wrapping. Then, when she saw what was inside — a bracelet with a charm inscribed, “Nunca me olvides” (Spanish for “Never Forget Me”) — she blinked and whispered, “Oh — Roger . . . you’re . . . you’re too good to me.” These, then, are ways of love . . . things which say why does a man love a woman? Do they make sense? Maybe not. But then, does love? I thank Vici for all that she is, all that she’s done, all that we’ve shared together and the memories, which have somehow become blurred together in a crazy, wonderful pattern and which, now, as I think of them, make we want to get up from my chair and go over to her and kiss her. —ROGER SMITH SEE ROGER IN “77 SUNSET STRIP” EVERY FRI., 9-10 P.M. EST., ON ABC-TV. 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