Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [14]
That night I didn’t want to go to sleep. My mind was like a broken record. I am going to Palm Springs with Cary Grant . . . Cary Grant has invited me to Palm Springs . . . Cary Grant . . . Cary . . . Cary . . . Cary Gr-rant-rant-rant . . .
“He’s even more good-looking in person, Addie.”
“Lucky girl.” She had made mint tea for me and was sitting at the foot of the bed.
“Why did I tell him I like horseback riding?” I asked, nervous about it.
“Because you were just going along.”
“Oh, Addie,” I said. “What would I do without you?”
Addie agreed to look after Bangs while I was gone. I left on Saturday just after nine in my gorgeous little rented MG and drove over to Darlene’s house. She was waiting with her nose pressed against the window—like a child on the lookout for Santa Claus. Darlene ran to the car with her overnight bag, as giddy as if she’d been inhaling laughing gas.
“What are you grinning about?” I asked, knowing darn well what she was grinning about.
“I’m spending the weekend with Cary Grant!” she singsonged, and let out an unabashedly girly squeal.
“Yes you are, my friend, who didn’t want to go to Palm Springs in the first place!” I giggled and then we hugged each other like a couple of teenagers.
She went on. “Isn’t it wonderful? For the rest of my life I’ll be able to say”—and here she became very theatrical—“ ‘I’ll never forget the weekend Cary Grant invited me to his desert hideaway in Palm Springs! I really didn’t mind taking Dyan Cannon along, poor thing. Cary was such a sport about it! Obviously, he felt rather sorry for her.’ ”
“Oh yes, Darlene. You are so kind!” I was so glad I’d brought her along.
We pulled into the Directors Guild parking lot at precisely one minute before ten, and there was no sign of Cary. “It was all a dream,” Darlene said in the voice of a fairy godmother. “All a dream . . . You never even met Cary Grant.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” I said.
“And that silver Rolls-Royce sliding down the street on air, right toward us—all a dream!”
“Hello, Dyan!” Cary called from the car. He cut the engine, climbed out, went to the passenger side of the MG, and offered his hand to Darlene, who was quickly melting into a sloppy puddle of adoration.
“You must be Darlene,” he said.
“You m-m-must be . . . Cary Grant!” Darlene stuttered.
“Darlene, I’ve brought directions to my place just in case we get separated on the highway,” Cary said, handing her a piece of paper. Darlene clutched it to her chest like it was a love letter. Then he turned to me and smiled that irresistible smile. “Ready?”
“But I can’t drive a stick shift!” Darlene cried as I gave her the evil eye. She was feigning helplessness à la Scarlett O’Hara and I would’ve happily fed her to the Yankees. The truth was, Darlene loved sports cars and had even driven in road rallies. She was hell on wheels.
“That settles it, then,” Cary said, never one to waste energy on a pointless kerfuffle. That was part of his grace. “Darlene will ride with me.”
Darlene popped out of the MG like it had an ejector seat and made a beeline for the Rolls. Cary turned to look at me with that now-familiar twinkle in his eye. “Stay close,” he said. “How are you on gas?”
“Low.”
“Me too. Follow me. There’s a station just down the block.”
Darlene had pulled quite a number. Maybe I wasn’t so glad I brought her. On the other hand, what woman wouldn’t go to extravagant measures to ride in a Rolls with Cary Grant as her chauffeur? It was all a little surreal. I was actually glad to have a little time to collect my thoughts. Throughout our volley of mutual self-disclosure, I’d swung at so many of Cary’s serves that I felt like I’d told him everything there was to tell about myself. He, on the other hand, was resolutely oblique when I tried to draw him out about himself.
After we’d filled our tanks, Cary pulled onto Sunset Boulevard with me following just behind. Then tires squealed behind me and someone shouted my name. It was Nate, from the car rental agency, with Jimmy Darren in the passenger seat.