Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [29]
“Oh, a simple tourniquet will do. Poodles. Most treacherous dogs on God’s green earth. What did we expect from the French?”
I found a Band-Aid and patched him up, then set the bottle of frozen champagne on the table. Cary looked at it balefully and popped the cork. He held the bottle upside down and watched a meager trickle of fluid dribble into each glass. “Here’s to new beginnings,” he said.
That sounded promising, so I drank. “Yes,” I said. “To new beginnings.”
I rushed back into the kitchen, made some more noise, and returned with dinner. “I hope you like it,” I said. But how could he not? It was one of his favorite meals. I watched as he dug in and ate with great relish, pausing only long enough to rave: “This is divine! Your chicken is so good I may never have to eat at La Scala again!”
I smiled into my plate. If I looked at him, I was done for. It wasn’t until after I’d taken the dishes away that I could look him in the eye. I made us some tea and we just relaxed. We laughed a lot together. By now, I was completely comfortable with him, never feeling as though he were waiting to make his move on me.
“I feel I’ve gained a few pounds devouring your delicious dinner,” he said when it was getting close to eleven. “Really, Dyan, it was wonderful. You’re one of the rare actresses in Hollywood who can cook!” I shrugged like it was nothing and looked away.
He kissed me good night, gave me a warm hug, and was off.
We were back on track. I had taken my mother’s advice and proved that I could be forgiving. I’d also proved I was a great cook. And a good nurse. And a pretty good fibber.
Life was good.
CHAPTER NINE
Enamored
A few weeks later, I was in San Bernardino, a desert town about an hour and a half east of L.A., for a two-week run of the musical The Most Happy Fella. It was a tight, polished little regional theater production, highly professional but pleasantly relaxed, and I was thrilled to finally be cast in a musical. Cary came down for the third night of the show; he’d wanted to come to the opening, but I preferred to find my footing before I had to perform with him in the audience. He got to the hotel late morning and we decided to go out for lunch.
“Should I take Bangs?” I asked. Of course, I’d brought Bangs to San Bernardino, and though I don’t think the desert heat agreed with her northern English terrier blood, she, as always, was good-natured about it.
“They might not let her in the restaurant, and it’s too hot to leave her in the car,” Cary said. I hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door to keep Bangs from barking in case the maid came in.
When we pulled up after lunch, the hotel manager came running out of the office. “Miss Cannon, we’re doing everything to find her, but your dog got loose when the maid went in to clean.”
“But I left a Do not disturb sign on the door.”
“It must have blown off. We’d never enter a room if that sign were on the door. We’ve called the police and we’ve got a man driving around looking for her.”
Cary had his hand on my arm. “It’s okay, Dyan. We’ll find her. I’m certain we will.”
I felt like a stake had been driven through my heart. I started to cry.
“Don’t worry, miss,” the manager said. “She’s only been gone a few minutes. She couldn’t have gone far.”
“We’ll search for her in the car,” Cary said. “Come on, Dyan. It’ll be all right.”
Cary drove slowly along the street, turned a corner from the main road, and we wandered into a residential neighborhood of small, stucco houses with cacti growing in the yard. “Cary, I can’t even think of losing Bangs. She’s like my baby. I’ve had her since she was eight weeks old.”
“Here, Dyan.” Cary gave me his handkerchief. There is something about a lost pet that tears your heart apart like nothing else. I thought of Bangs running to greet me when I got home from work, Bangs sitting in my lap when I was driving the Thunderbird, Bangs nuzzling my ear early in the morning when she wanted to go out for a walk. We’d only been out five minutes and Cary’s handkerchief was already soaked. Cary stopped by the