Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [18]
“Tasty!” he said approvingly. “You know, the English cook their meat until the last bit of juice is vaporized, but I’ve gotten to like my chops medium-rare, the way Americans do. Anyway, when you hear an actor talking about the theater being a noble profession, don’t believe it. We’re in it for the applause.”
“But you give so much,” Darlene said.
“Maybe,” Cary said. “But we get more than we give. I’m sure of it. Dyan, if you’re really done with that chicken—”
I’d already nudged my plate in his direction. He was darling. Imagine: Cary Grant, eating off my plate.
“My friends call me ‘the scavenger,’ ” Cary said. “I guess the reason is obvious.”
We went back to his place for a nightcap. Sitting across from him, in front of the fireplace, I kept thinking that this wasn’t real—that I’d imagined the whole thing. He was endlessly charming. He was sweet. He was funny. He was kind. I felt like I was starring in a movie with him, and I wondered how it was going to end.
“Tell me, Darlene,” he said. “Do you enjoy the fashion business?” He gave no hint of what was obvious—that she was my chaperone—with that kind of exquisite graciousness that calls no attention to itself.
“It has its moments.”
“Have you got a good, sturdy bat?”
“What would I need a bat for?”
“Beating back all those advances from strange men. It must be difficult.”
“Not difficult at all,” she replied happily. “You either say yes or no!”
Cary laughed and slapped his knee. “That was good,” he said. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
Standing outside as we were leaving, Cary pointed to the sky. “Have you ever seen so many stars in your life?” he asked.
I hadn’t, but I was thinking about something else: the man standing next to me was the brightest star in the galaxy.
“Sleep late,” Cary said as we climbed into the car. “We don’t have to be at the stables ’til eight.”
“That’s not late!” I said.
“We have to ride before it gets hot,” Cary said.
As we pulled into the motel parking lot, I was feeling anxious about getting back on a horse. “I can’t believe we have to go riding tomorrow,” I said.
“Oh, Dyan, riding a horse isn’t that different from driving a car.”
“Oh, girly girl can’t drive a stick but she’s Calamity Jane on horseback!”
We laughed and went up to our room and crawled into our respective beds. I took a while to fall asleep, wondering how much of an idiot I was going to make of myself the next morning when I climbed on a horse facing the wrong way.
In the morning, too early, way too early, we drove to Cary’s place and from there went to the stables. I had a nasty feeling of déjà vu. It turned out they were the same stables where, the previous year, that devil horse had shaken me off its back like a fly. I thought one of the hands might recognize me, so to avoid any questions, I announced my return.
“Hi, Manuel! We were here last year, remember?”
“Really?” Cary arched an eyebrow.
“Hola, Senorita Dyan!”
“I didn’t know I was taking you to a family reunion,” Cary said, smiling.
“There he is!” Darlene cried, pointing.
“Who?” Cary asked.
“The horse that threw Dyan. She’d never ridden before, but she was a real champ. She got right back up on him.”
Thanks, Darlene.
Cary grinned. “Well, you’re a seasoned rider, then.”
It was probably my imagination, but Alfie, the horse that threw me, seemed to be smirking with pure malevolence. As I walked past him, he tossed his head back, turned around so that his behind faced me, and swished his tail at me. Fortunately, I was paired up with Caroline, a mellow, middle-aged nag, and it turned into a very enjoyable morning.
We rode until the heat got the better of us. Miraculously, I managed to stay in the saddle, but my tush felt like it had taken a hard paddling from a mean schoolmaster. Back at Cary’s, we refreshed ourselves in the pool and enjoyed a catered lunch, and in the early afternoon we got ready to drive back to Los Angeles.
“I had a terrific time,” Cary said. “I hope we can do it again soon.”
“Me too!” Darlene said, but