Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [22]
“Can I have one for the road?” I looked at him longingly.
“One what?” he said curiously.
“A Picnic bar.”
Several weeks later, we were back in Palm Springs, this time without a chaperone, but that wasn’t going to change the fact that I was still completely in charge of my own maidenhood. Or what was left of it—which, save for my misstep with Eduardo, was actually quite a lot. When we walked through the front door, I came to a halt in the middle of the living room. I pointed right, to the master bedroom, his bedroom, and said, “That’s your side.” And pointing left, to one of the guest bedrooms, I said, “And that’s my side.”
At this, Cary chuckled and said, “Touché!”
“Tell me about the men in your life,” Cary said after we’d put away our bags and settled by the pool with lemonade.
“What would you like to know, Mr. Grant?”
“Whatever you care to divulge.”
There wasn’t a lot that I cared to divulge. From the time I put on my first bra, it seemed, men had been aggressive toward me in a way that made me keep up my guard. Like Eduardo, Cary was one of the few men who didn’t press past my comfort zone. Unlike Eduardo, I hoped, Cary was honest—about himself and his intentions.
I thought about how to reply and finally said, “I’ll tell you the most important thing. I haven’t met my soul mate yet.”
“I like the idea of a soul mate. I wonder what one is.”
“Everybody knows what a soul mate is, Cary. It’s the person you’re going to stay with forever.”
“I felt the same way once.”
“What changed that?”
“Three divorces,” Cary said, rattling his ice cubes. “I wasn’t joking when I said I’m not very good at relationships. I think I’ve chased every one of my wives away.”
“On purpose?”
He sighed, reflecting. “Consciously, no. Unconsciously, yes, I’m sure I did. But it’s different now.”
“How?”
“I’ve swept out a lot of my dark corners. I’ve changed. It’s like I’m starting all over.”
“Does that mean you can have a good relationship now?” I asked.
“Yes, I think it does.”
Next morning at the stables, Cary hired a man to ride with me so he could gallop off on his own and get a bit of a workout. He’d come trotting back once in a while to check up on me, looking very gallant on his horse. “You’ve got your riding legs!” he said, quite pleased. “Want to kick the spurs in a little and bring her up to a canter?”
“No, thanks,” I told him. “I’m happy just ambling along.” I was, too, and that applied to our relationship as well.
After the ride, we brushed down the horses. The day had turned mean-hot, and my mouth felt like it had fur growing on the inside. I was parched.
“Ice cream?” I suggested.
“That’s sounds like a terrific idea,” Cary agreed.
“Licorice ice cream!”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Wait ’til you taste it. It’s great.”
We drove into town and found a Baskin-Robbins with a line spilling onto the street. We took our place at the end, just like regular citizens—which, of course, I was, though Cary couldn’t have blended in if he wanted to. In a flash, everyone was buzzing with excitement and he was surrounded by a cluster of autograph seekers and folks who asked to have their pictures taken with him. I knew this happened to Cary constantly, but he graciously posed and smiled for one shot after another. I found myself liking him more than ever.
At the counter, I ordered a licorice cone while Cary opted for butter pecan. I took such a generous first bite that my whole mouth was covered with black ice cream. Cary watched me, grinning. We laughed. “Attractive, right?” I said, pointing to the napkin dispenser.
“Very,” he said, and then he kissed me full on my icy black lips.
It was the best kiss of my life.
“You were right,” he said. “That licorice isn’t half-bad.”
“Well then, how about another, uh, scoop?”
He kissed me again.
It took me totally by surprise. It was not what you expected from Cary Grant, who was English and therefore private, and very private even for an Englishman. Displaying physical affection was not in his repertoire. As for me, the