I’ve forgotten why my 21-year-old sister was invited to 79-year-old Conrad Hilton’s estate. I’m guessing it had something to do with her charm, and her shock of beautiful red hair.  Whatever the case, she solicited my mother and I to chaperone. Safety first.

I had never met the hotel scion, despite my close friendship with one of his granddaughters, so my interest was piqued. That evening, we got dolled up as if we were going to a black tie gala – long dresses, high heels, lipstick, the works. We piled into my old blue, VW stick shift, puffing away on cigarettes and off we went up Sunset Boulevard, rounding the curves until we approached the iron mansion gates in Bel Air. I pushed the private bell, and the bars opened to reveal a long, elegant drive. My rickety muffler shook the carefully landscaped flowers and cupid statues. It was nothing if not a bold entrance to Casa Encantada –  The Enchanted House.

Hugo, Mr. Hilton’s trusted butler, came out to greet us. He opened my door, and then the passenger side.  My mother and I smiled, stood aside, and submerged giggles while he, with polite difficulty, pushed the broken back seat to take my sister’s hand.  We were a sight. What had we gotten ourselves into?

Casa Encantada

The cupids

I sat right next to him, but it appeared most of his attention would be on my sister. I thought it really should have been on the elegance of my mother. Nevertheless, I decided to break the awkward silence and ask him about his rise in the hotel business.  He was much more than willing to oblige my curiosity. For the next hour, over many drinks and pre-dinner munchies, I moved in and listened with fascination. I followed Conrad from his birth and early life in New Mexico, to his first small hotel in Texas, and even to the Conrad Hilton Hotel in Chicago.  His voice rose with pride when he noted he bought it the day before the crash. In between, he mentioned his devout Catholicism as well as his belief that, no matter how much money he made, prayer was always the best investment. Damned if I didn’t kick myself for not having pen and paper to take notes.

Hugo returned, this time holding a tiny, white, fluffy poodle. He announced dinner would be served, but first, we need to give Sparky a kiss. We politely obliged this peculiar request. Our attempts to hold back laughter may have faltered.

The dining room was as I expected.  A table built for a 50 with only four places set. I sat beside my mother, my sister sat across, and our wine glasses were perpetually filled, although Conrad did not drink. Instead, he made his move on my sister, pulling closer to flirt. This was going to be one heck of a meal.

When dinner was over, Conrad pressed a button on the floor under his chair, and in came Sparky for a repeat performance. Hugo brought him to our faces for a smoocheroo, and I looked straight ahead. Otherwise, I would have caught my mother’s eye, and we both would have wet our pants with laughter. By this time, my sister was in her cups and calling him ‘Connie.’ Instead of joining in our humor, she gave us disapproving glares.  Unfortunately for her, that just upped the comedy ante.

At the end of the night, we entered a room smothered in dusty rose light, much like the cheeks on my mother’s face. Her beautiful mouth, just the right touch of red, and her Hepburn cheekbones, glowed.  For the first time, I looked upon her not as my mother, but as a desirable yet untouchable woman. Innocent and sensual. It caught me off guard when, at that moment, Conrad turned to her, not my sister, and asked her to dance.  Soft music played. She took his lead while I, starry eyed, watched her whirl around the room with a man who was not my father. How comfortable they were. How happy and content she was. She deserved more of these moments, for she had already relinquished too many.

To this day, this remains one of the most indelible memories of my mother. She would have been 98 years old this week, and while I don’t often write about her, her beauty, quiet grace, and easy sense of humor left a deep imprint on me.

These are the moments I wish I could grab and replay. Once, just once, more.  

Eleanor Murphy Dudley, you always said I was the only daughter who didn’t love you.

I lied.  

My mother at 19

Me at 19