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What a good many women would give a great deal
to know — a behind-the-scenes picture of married life with the Fabulous Frank
IT ISN’T ALL ROSES
BY NANCY SINATRA
Mrs. Sinatra with small Nancy and the newest Sinatra rave — son Frank Junior
WHEN our doorbell rang two hours after midnight one time last April I was a little alarmed.
We were all women in the house except for three-months-old Frank Jr. who could not be expected to rout any nocturnal prowlers.
I had urged Frank to stay in New York overnight to avoid seeing our home in the last stages of dismemberment.
The storage and shipping men had been there all day and now most of our furniture and possessions were on their way to our new home in California. The house was desolate. No rugs, no draperies. The beds were left for a later day’s packing, and so was the kitchen stove and
a few storage boxes — but the place was anything but the restful retreat a man deserves who has to snatch six hours sleep between a midnight benefit performance and an early morning rehearsal.
The bell rang again, insistently.
My sister Tina came into my room and grumbled sleepily:
“I suppose those school girls who had a picnic on the lawn today are back for breakfast. Don’t Frank’s fans ever go to bed?”
“I’d better answer it, I guess,” I said. “It might be a telegram.” And I struggled into my robe and slippers and ran downstairs to the door.
But it wasn’t a fan, and it wasn’t a telegram. It was my husband, grinning sheepishly and apologizing
for not having his key with him.
“I thought I warned you to stay in town,” I said. “The house is a mess.”
“I’m tired of town,” he said. “And I like messes. Is there anything in the ice box?”
No matter how late Frank comes in, he loves to raid the ice box.
There was some cold spaghetti, left over from the impromptu supper Tina and I had fixed for ourselves when we finished the packing. I put it on the stove to heat and made some toast. I poured two big glasses of milk. Frank was busy in the living room.
“I’ve built a fire,” he announced after a while. “Come sit by it.”
“On what?” I asked.
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