Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [16]
“How on earth did you end up in a different car?” Cary asked when we were back on the road.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Maybe this time we should talk about you.”
Cary groaned. “I’m tired of talking about me. I told Darlene everything about me, and I’m sure she’s going straight to the police.” We laughed. “So before they put me away, I want to hear more about you. What kind of education did you have? Did you go to college?”
“University of Washington. For two years.”
“Theater major?”
“Yeah, but it was boring. Too much theory and history. So I went down to Phoenix with my girlfriend Barbara. Her boyfriend was there already, so we went down to work for the summer.”
“How’d that work out?”
“Well, Barbara broke up with her boyfriend, but in a short time we worked our way up to being caretakers for an elderly gentleman who was confined to a wheelchair.”
“You were a professional angel of mercy!”
“He was kind of a challenge.”
“How so?”
“He was in a wheelchair because he was paralyzed from the waist down, and he tried to make up for it from the waist up. Put it this way: we called him Mr. Happy Hands. But I loved Barbara’s name for him: Sir Gropie Grope.”
“How long did you last?”
“We warned him again and again that if he didn’t keep his hands off us, he was going to regret it. So one day, as usual, I was driving him on his errands, and he was just pinching his claws all over me like a giant king crab. With both hands on the wheel, I was defenseless. When we got back to the inn, he was at it again. I’d had enough. So I pushed his wheelchair into the deep end of the pool.”
Cary flashed me a strangely familiar quizzical reaction shot. Spontaneous, not affected. Cary Grant was Cary Grant, on-screen or off.
“I’m afraid to ask if—”
“Yep, he was in it. But then I felt sorry for him and I fished him out.”
“Very mannerly of you!” Cary said, playing along with me. “And how did you wind up in California? Did Mr. Happy Hands chase you all the way here in his wheelchair?”
“No, I . . . I just . . . decided to give L.A. a try.” True enough, but the reason I really came to L.A., in the telling of it, would have sounded completely loony—because it was completely loony.
CHAPTER FIVE
Riding High
An hour later, we pulled up to Cary’s house in the desert. At the end of a long driveway, surrounded by beautifully manicured grounds, rested a magnificent Spanish hacienda. The living room was spacious but cozy, with a floor of burnished red clay tile and a cavernous fireplace with big white couches artfully arranged in front of it. Solid wooden beams ran the entire length of the high ceiling and wooden stairs led to a book-lined reading loft. In the rear shimmered a swimming pool surrounded by a flagstone patio. The water sparkled and the garden was ablaze with red and pink bougainvillea, while in the distance the San Jacinto mountains bolted to the sky in camel-colored majesty.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said.
Cary placed his hand ever so lightly on my shoulder. “You know I’d be delighted for you to stay here.” He gestured to the guest rooms. They were on the other side of the living room from his own master bedroom. “There’s plenty of privacy. You wouldn’t even have to see me, though that would be a pity.” A hand on the shoulder, a brush against the cheek: he had an almost preternatural ability to connect with you physically in a way that communicated the message perfectly. This seemingly reflexive gesture said volumes: I want you under my roof, under my protection, and I will make you safe and happy.
“Cary, I think it’s better if we stay in town.”
“I am dismayed by your decision but heartened by your firmness of character!” he said, laughing. “Okay, why don’t you check into your hotel and unpack and hurry back for drinks?”
As we pulled away from the property, Darlene said, “Dyan! We just passed up the opportunity to tell the world that we stayed at Cary Grant’s place! You’ve ruined