Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [62]
Damn singing bears.
“Feeling better?” Cary asked. He was lying next to me, on top of the covers, reading.
“What happened?” I said.
“You weren’t reacting well, so Dr. Hartman gave you a dose of Seconal to knock you out.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost two. You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours.”
Eighteen hours! “I still feel knocked out,” I said. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. I will never, ever, do that again.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve got to fall off the bike a few times before you learn to ride. Remember, we’re in this together. If we keep going, there’s no stopping us.”
“Cary, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, my dear.”
“How in the hell can giant bears singing in German bring you closer to God?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Big Sting
The turquoise waters lapped gently against the white sands of the beach, and the palm branches shivered when the breeze kicked up. From a distance of about ten yards, I watched Cary as he prepared himself for the next scene. He was doing location work in Jamaica on Father Goose and had invited me down for a couple of weeks of the filming. In this picture, Cary had uncharacteristically donned the aspect of a ragged, whiskey-soaked sailor. He was as unkempt as his costar, Leslie Caron, was groomed (even though the story had them stranded on a Pacific island during World War II). Cary was having a ball playing a disheveled rogue.
Jamaica was wonderful. I slept late in Cary’s rented beachfront villa, took long walks on the shore, and every day went to the set to join him for lunch. Then I’d stay for the rest of the day to watch filming. I really loved seeing Cary frolic with the child actors. They followed him around like ducklings, laughing and giggling at his monkey faces and pratfalls. He was like a big, happy kid. This man was meant to have children, I thought, and I said as much to him: “You are great with those children! A real natural!”
He gave me a knowing smile. He was onto me.
Now I sat in Cary’s chair and watched. Leslie was a natural if unconventional beauty, with a high-domed forehead, bedroom eyes, and bee-stung lips. She was about my age, and it hadn’t occurred to me until now that Cary hadn’t made a peep this time about starring opposite a much younger woman. Hmmmph. It made me wonder . . .
In the scene, Cary and Leslie were knee-deep in the water. Cary was supposed to be teaching her how to catch fish—with her bare hands. That required him to stand behind her with his arms encircling her, a position intended to generate some romantic heat between the two characters. Up until now, they’d been at loggerheads through the whole story.
Ralph Nelson, the director, called, “Action!”
The scene culminated with Leslie turning to Cary, looking deep into his eyes, lips a-quivering. And then . . .
I freaked.
I knew about movie kisses, but weren’t they both putting a little too much feeling into this one? I could feel that kiss down to my toenails, and I was standing thirty feet away.
“Cut! Print! Okay, let’s go again!”
Go again? Another kiss like that and neither one of them would have any lips left.
“One more . . . action!”
I turned away. It was too much. Stop this, Dyan! I told myself. But it really rattled me. I thought of Cary and his affair with Sophia Loren. Was this going to be another Houseboat? I was leaving in a couple of days. What on earth would happen after I left?
“Let’s try a couple without the kiss,” Bob Arthur, the producer, told them. “This time, Cary, you chicken out. I think maybe there’s even more heat if you save it for later . . . action!” That was more like it.
Hmmmph.
“Is something bothering you?” Cary asked that evening.
“No . . . Yes . . . No . . . a little.”
A lot.
I don’t quite know what came over me, but it was the first