The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty (69 page)

Demonstrating not only the grace for which she had long been known, but great courage as well, never for a moment, say those who knew and loved her, did Marilyn Hilton ever feel sorry for herself—even during the many years she was confined to a wheelchair. “You don’t look back at what might have been,” says Steven Hilton in explaining his mother’s philosophy, “you accept what life has presented and make the best of what you have.”

“She was a wonderful lady,” said her sister-in-law Trish Hilton. “I don’t think I ever met a single person who didn’t have a lovely memory associated with Marilyn. She touched so many of us. In my life, she was like a sister. I miss her terribly.”

On the Town with Paris

W
hen Barron Hilton telephoned his granddaughter Paris on the morning of April 14, 2010, to tell her that he wanted to spend some time with her, she was delighted. She and her paternal grandfather had always been close, despite overblown headlines suggesting that he was ashamed of her high-profile tabloid-making exploits. In truth, Barron never paid much attention to the private life of his most famous grandchild. Rather, it was her entrepreneurial spirit that he always found most fascinating. He would say that she reminded him of his father, Conrad—her great-grandfather—in that, to use his words, “she’s the ultimate salesman. She has a product and she knows how to sell it. Like Conrad.” Barron likes to keep abreast of Paris’s current business ventures, thus his invitation to meet her for dinner.

Paris, who was twenty-nine at the time, suggested that they dine at one of her favorite restaurant’s, Dan Tana’s, a popular Italian eatery on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood. At the last minute, though, after discussing the matter with her father, Rick, she thought that perhaps Barron would be more comfortable in a private setting, perhaps a more obscure location. “No,” Barron told her. “Let’s go out into the world and have a nice night on the town.” Rick Hilton, though, wasn’t sure how he felt about his eighty-two-year-old father being caught in the kind of chaos he knew that his daughter’s presence usually causes in public places. Therefore he suggested that he and his wife and Paris’s mother, Kathy, and sister Nicky, twenty-seven, tag along. Now it had become a Hilton family affair, all the better as far as Barron was concerned. Though he had originally sought out some private time with Paris, family still meant the world to him, just as it always had to the Hiltons. He always enjoyed spending time with his son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter Nicky. He asked if his grandsons—his namesake, Barron, and Conrad—would be joining them, but both already had plans for the evening.

Virtually no photographers were present when the Hilton family arrived at the restaurant. However, as they ate their meal at a large table, it seemed as if the eyes of most of the diners in their midst were on them. The next day, one of the national wire services even reported details of their meal, all the way down to the foods they enjoyed. “Why does it seem so odd to note that Paris Hilton’s family seems like any other?” asked the writer of the published report. “If she is as spoiled as we think she is, one would never know it from the way she acted around her grandfather. She was solicitous toward him, sitting right next to him and never taking her eyes off him.” At one point, Paris was heard urging Barron to tell his “famous old joke, the one you used to tell my dad.” In response, Barron told a long story in an animated fashion, much to everyone’s delight as they all laughed at a punch line they’d likely heard many times before.

By the time the Hiltons finished their meal, word of their presence had apparently spread through the Hollywood grapevine, because an eager pack of paparazzi awaited them as they exited the restaurant. As the family stood at the front door waiting for the valet to fetch their car, the photographers began snapping away and shouting questions. “How annoying is this?” a disgruntled Rick Hilton said, turning to his wife. But none of them could have been surprised by the gathered crowd. It was par for the course, especially when they were out on the town with Paris. “Oh my,” Paris was heard saying. “Well, here we go, Granddad. Are you ready?” she asked, smiling at him. Barron took in the bustling scene with a bemused expression. “Wow,” was the only phrase he could seem to muster.

As usual, Paris was, to use show business parlance, “camera ready,” in her sleeveless, low-cut black silk cocktail dress with matching spiked heels. Her blonde hair was parted in the middle, cascading past her slim shoulders. In contrast, her grandfather was more casually dressed in a black-and-white plaid jacket, an open-collared white shirt, and gray slacks. Paris wrapped one arm around Barron’s, and the two then took a few steps out toward the curb… and right into the middle of the mob scene, every moment of which would be filmed by crews from Hollywood photo agencies for television entertainment programs. Meanwhile, Rick, Kathy, and Nicky remained in the entryway of the restaurant, as if to give Paris and Barron the full spotlight.

“Say, Paris, who gave you those diamonds?” one photographer shouted out.

“Oh, these?” Paris answered, motioning to the exquisite diamond brooch at her neck and its matching counterparts dangling from her ears. She also sported a diamond bracelet on her left wrist. “Why, I don’t even remember!” she exclaimed, batting her blue eyes. “Let me think,” she added as she glanced at her white BlackBerry. She is connected to social media at all times—such is the way of the present-day socialite. Clutching her BlackBerry in the same hand as her black leather purse, she sent a quick text before returning to the question at hand. “You guys know what I always say,” she observed, “every woman should have four pets in her life: a mink in her closet, a jaguar in her garage, a tiger in her bed, and a jackass who pays for everything.” The crowd laughed. It was a line she used quite often, but—like Zsa Zsa—Paris can call up any of her best quips at a moment’s notice. Though Barron seemed a little taken aback by her remarks, upon seeing everyone else’s reaction he couldn’t help but approve. “Very clever, my dear,” he said with a chuckle.

Flashbulbs continued to pop all around them while Paris held her grandfather close, protectively. “Look this way, Paris,” one photographer shouted out. “No, Paris! Over here, Mr. Hilton!
Over here!
”

As a public figure, Barron was accustomed to dealing with the press. However, this was a very different experience. In the past, when he was surrounded by reporters in public it was usually because he was trying to obtain a new gaming license, or was hosting the opening of a new hotel or involved in the promotion of some other important business venture, such as when he owned the San Diego Chargers. The attention he generated wasn’t because he was a celebrity, but rather because he was a respected businessman. Though it could be argued that the sensation Paris causes is at least in some way related to her product lines, it’s really more directly linked to her celebrity. In this moment, Barron was really just basking in—and, in a sense, helping to celebrate—his granddaughter’s success.

After about fifteen minutes, the Hilton family’s vehicle still had not arrived and Rick Hilton could be seen in the doorway of the restaurant gesturing wildly to the head valet and pointing at his watch. Meanwhile, the paparazzi continued to shout out questions and take photographs. “How do you like being out with Grandpa?” someone asked.

“Oh, he’s such a doll,” Paris said, looking at Barron lovingly. “If I can be just
a tenth
as successful as he has been, I’d be a very happy girl.”

“So, how’d you do it, Mr. Hilton?” someone asked. “What’s your secret?”

Barron shook his head, smiled, and hesitated for a moment as if wondering how to distill the experience of fifty years in the hotel business down to a simple answer. “Nice guys finish
first
, not last,” he finally offered. “At least that’s what my father always said.”

“And your father was?” the paparazzo asked, showing complete ignorance about not only Barron’s life but Paris’s lineage.

“Conrad Hilton,” Barron answered with a humble smile. “That’s C-o-n-r-a-d Hilton,” he repeated gamely.

“Why not give Grandpa a little peck?” the same paparazzo then suggested.

“Sure!” Paris said. “Take off your glasses, Granddad,” she recommended. “You look hotter without them.” He obliged. She then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He blushed a little. But by this time, Barron was beginning to visibly wilt; he’d clearly had enough.

“Okay, that’s it,” Rick Hilton suddenly announced as he pushed his way through the crowd, his wife following close behind. “Here’s our car, Paris,” he said, motioning to the approaching vehicle. “Come on, Dad! Let’s get you out of here.”

A uniformed valet jumped out of the Hiltons’ black SUV and then dutifully held the driver’s door open for Rick. At the same time, another valet held the door on the front passenger side for his wife, Kathy. Meanwhile, Paris helped her grandfather into one of the backseats, after which her sister, Nicky, joined him there. Paris then got into the car just as someone rushed around to slam the door behind her. As the vehicle began to slowly pull away from the curb, Paris lowered the window and popped her head out. “Thanks so much for showing my grandfather so much respect,” she shouted out at the paparazzi. “You guys are
hot
!”

EPILOGUE: A FINAL TOAST

Flashback.

It’s 1965, the end of the year on a chilly California winter’s night, an evening during which the Hiltons had gathered at Conrad Hilton’s Casa Encantada manse for a pre-holiday meal. It was a formal dinner as usual, everything proper and ceremonial. The men wore tailored black suits and ties, while the women were in elegant evening gowns. As was always the custom, Conrad sat at one end of the imposing oblong dining room table while his eldest son, Nicky, sat at the other, and next to him, his wife, Trish. Barron sat to Nicky’s right, next to his wife, Marilyn. Across from Barron and Marilyn sat Conrad’s companion, Ann Miller. Eric was next to her, and seated at his side was his spouse, Pat, and across from him, his mother, Mary, Conrad’s first wife. Also present was Zsa Zsa Gabor, Conrad’s second wife. Especially for the occasion, Conrad had ordered a bottle of Unicum, the popular Hungarian liqueur, for Zsa Zsa’s enjoyment. He, Zsa Zsa, and Nicky each enjoyed a shot together just before sitting at the table. “
Holy Christ!
That’s about the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” Nicky had said, bringing both Conrad and Zsa Zsa to gales of laughter. Zsa Zsa then presented Conrad with an early birthday gift, an extremely expensive Georgian silver desk set. “For your seventy-eighth,” she told him, delighted that he seemed pleased by the present, “and may you have many more!”

In the kitchen, at another table—the “children’s table,” as it was called—were all of the Hilton offspring, at least a dozen of them: the broods of Nicky, Barron, Eric, and even Zsa Zsa, her daughter, Francesca, who was eighteen at the time, sitting happily with her cousins.

Meanwhile, in the grand dining room under an enormously imposing crystal chandelier, the adults chatted noisily among themselves as an army of uniformed servants passed through with one entree after another—all main courses, from game hens to steaks to pastas to fishes, even two large turkeys with all of the trimmings. So decadent a display was it, it was as if no consensus could be reached as to what to serve, so someone just said, “Oh, the hell with it! Let’s just serve everything!” Uniformed servants carefully placed the heaping serving platters of food on the table. The help was completely ignored as they did their busy work, all of the family members enjoying each other, chattering among themselves and laughing.

Why the memory of this particular evening at Casa Encantada? What was so distinctive about this time and place in the storied lives of the Hilton family? Not much, really. Judging from photographs taken that evening and the memories of some of those who were present, everyone seemed to get along just fine. There were no serious discussions, no arguments, no high-stakes drama. Father and sons talked about politics, sports, current events, and, of course, the hotel business. Sisters-in-law seemed happy to be with one other, gossiping about current fashion trends, joking about their husbands. Not one person stormed out of the house in a fit of fury—not even Zsa Zsa. It was just a lovely meal enjoyed by a large, complicated, and, yes, wealthy family. “Sometimes, it was just that simple,” recalled Trish Hilton, “and those were the good times, the truly memorable times, the times when it was about celebrating family and only family.” Pat Hilton added, “Those were the moments I think I hold closest to my heart, when it was just simple and easy and fun. When we were truly a family.”

Just before dessert was to be served, Conrad raised a glass. “I would like to make a toast,” he announced. As he rose, everyone quieted down and looked his way. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “No matter our differences, past or present,” he finally said, “or future, for that matter, and I suppose we shall have them, as well,” he added, glancing at Zsa Zsa, “we are still and always will be family. Maybe Oscar Wilde put it best,” he added with a chuckle, “when he said, ‘After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.’ ” The quote got a good laugh. “And so,” he finished proudly, “here’s to all of us, here’s to the Hilton family.”

“Hear, hear,” said Nicky.

“To the Hiltons,” added Eric.

“The Hilton family,” Barron repeated, as everyone clinked glasses all around the table.