Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [20]
“That’s a precious image,” Cary said appreciatively.
“One day—I was about seven or eight—I was in the backyard by myself with my skates on. And my parents had just had another one of their big religious Jew-versus-Christian blowouts. And I got really mad at Mr. God. I was standing on the ice and I yelled up to the sky, ‘I don’t know who you are, God, but you’re causing nothing but trouble around this house! If you’re so big and powerful, why don’t you just knock me off my feet right now? And my feet went right out from under me. And I looked up at the sky and thought, Something or somebody up there means business.”
“You were on the ice,” Cary suggested.
“But I wasn’t moving. I was standing perfectly still.”
“Another person would’ve said ‘ouch.’ You became a seeker. We’ve got that in common. Cheers!”
We clinked glasses.
“You know, Dyan, I wouldn’t recommend it to just anybody, but I think you’re someone who’d make some real discoveries with LSD.”
“Drugs scare me,” I said. “That’ll never happen.”
“That’s what I said,” he replied.
Of course, I had a career to think about, and Addie and Hal worked hard at getting me into the right rooms. Things were picking up. I landed roles on several more TV shows—Ripcord, The Untouchables, The Red Skelton Hour—and I honed my craft in a musical comedy workshop. At night, though, I was free, and I was making more and more time for Mr. Grant.
A week after our dinner at Hoi Ping, though, Cary upped the ante and invited me for dinner at his place. I got the not-unpleasant butterfly sensation you get when you’re up on the high dive. But I made the leap.
That evening, with my car in the shop yet again, I drove up to Benedict Canyon in one of Nate’s convertibles. The night was balmy, and I drove with the top down, with my hair blowing in the wind. I thought about how much my life had changed since I’d come back to Los Angeles. I’d come back from Rome heartbroken and broke. Now my career was humming along, I had wonderful friends, and, oh, I was dating Cary Grant. Oh yeah, I’m dating Cary Grant, I was telling an imaginary person in an imaginary conversation . . . Well, you know how it is when you’re on the rebound. You’ll settle for anybody. Ha! I made myself laugh thinking about that idea.
I’d arrived at Cary’s property: it was a verdant corner lot with a narrow driveway nestled between two hedges.
Cary came out and trotted to the car, getting the door for me. Be still, my heart. He wore khakis and a plain blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and was barefoot. Beyond gorgeous.
With his arm on my shoulder, he showed me around his house. It was not a mansion but a large, ranch-style house. First we walked through the grounds. A large patio overlooked a panorama of twinkling city lights that seemed to go on forever. From there, a very long, grassy slope, manicured like a putting green, swept down to a lighted swimming pool, and all was surrounded by trees. We watched the rose-tinged sun slide peacefully into the haze of the Pacific.
A big German shepherd sauntered over, wagging its tail. He sniffed at my ankles. “This is Gumper,” Cary said, scratching the dog’s neck. Gumper was supposed to guard against intruders, but Cary didn’t put much faith in him as a watchdog. “He’s just like an actor,” he said. “He wants to be loved by everyone. A fella could come climbing over the gate with a nylon stocking over his face and a gun in his hand, and Gumper would likely lick him to death.”
In the living room, logs burned softly in a cavernous fireplace, casting a red glow against a black grand piano buffed to a sheen you could see yourself in. Cary was an art collector, too, and the walls were graced with museum-worthy paintings, mostly French impressionists. All the furniture was homey and comfortable: overstuffed couch and chairs covered with white sailcloth; warm hardwood floors on which lay exquisite throw rugs. Nothing was for show. Cary called it “French Country crossed with Old English Codger.”
“It’s no big deal,” he