Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [68]
Naturally, I was suddenly mobbed by giggling munchkins pecking me with kisses. “No! No! No! Kisses are terrible! Oh . . .” Then I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper and pointed to Cary. “Do you know who hates kisses more than anybody in the world? That man there!” The children squealed, identified their target, and the kiss brigade went in for the attack.
After our near brush with death by kisses, we thanked Bob and Goldie and headed for Palm Springs.
“Where’s my horse?” Cary asked, a little perplexed that my ride had been led out a few minutes before his. We were at the stables, where I was anticipating the unveiling of the first real gift I’d ever given Cary: a custom-made saddle emblazoned with his initials. It was no easy task coming up with a meaningful gift for a man who really did have everything, but during our last visit to the ranch, I realized that as much as he loved riding, Cary still used the stable’s saddles. It surprised me that nobody had ever thought to give him one. I saw my opportunity, so I enlisted the owner, who helped me get the perfect saddle for Cary.
“Here he comes,” said Gus, the owner.
“That’s not my usual saddle,” Cary said, catching a glimpse of the chocolate-brown leather that was burnished to a glow.
“Oh, yes it is,” I said. “Merry Christmas and happy birthday!”
Cary approached the horse and touched the saddle, then saw his initials emblazoned onto it. He laid a hand on the leather and froze in place for a moment with his head down. Then he turned to me, his eyes soft with emotion. All he said was, “Dear girl,” and he held me in a long embrace.
I whispered into his ear, “Cary, all I want in this world is to make you happy.”
New Year’s Eve. The holidays were nearly behind us, and we were at Cary’s house in Beverly Hills, sitting by the fire and sipping cognac.
“Almost midnight,” Cary said. “I wonder what 1965 will bring.”
“Maybe a resolution to our relationship?” I said, immediately wishing I could withdraw the remark. It had just slipped out, thoughts and words, breaking together in a single wave. Damn. I really intended to keep things light.
Cary bristled. “Dear girl,” he said. “We’ve already had that conversation.”
“You’re right, we have,” I said. Nothing had changed. Nothing was changing. Nothing was going to change. Being in limbo with Cary Grant was no different than being in limbo with anybody else. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Being with Cary was exquisite—as long as I didn’t think about where it was going. Why couldn’t I just not think about where it was going? Because I just couldn’t. I knew what I wanted. Commitment. A husband. A family. Years could go by like this. If Cary wasn’t going to budge, all I was doing was licking honey off a razor blade. There was nothing more that I could do. If he couldn’t commit to living his life with me, I’d have to move on.
On the other hand, part of me really wondered if anything was wrong in continuing the relationship on Cary’s terms. We loved being together. He’d certainly given marriage a chance. Three times. Maybe he was right. Maybe marriage was overrated. Maybe this was the future. That possibility held less sway with me, but . . .
The clock struck midnight. Cary popped a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses.
“Cheers!” he said, and kissed me.
“Cheers.”
Cary started singing, and I joined him:
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and days of auld lang syne
“What does ‘auld lang syne’ mean?”
“It’s Scottish,” Cary said. “It means ‘old long ago.’ Basically, it’s asking whether we should—or maybe even can—forget the past and move on.”
“It’s a good question,” I said. “What do you think?”
“I think we should just leave well enough alone.”
“Does that mean being alone is enough?”
“You’re twisting my words around, Dyan.”
“You’re twisting my heart around, Cary.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do more than I can do.”
“I’m sorry, neither can I. Happy New Year.” I kissed him on the cheek and left.
It was