Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [69]
One thing was becoming clear to me: whenever I declared my independence from Cary, things happened for me professionally. And before I knew it, I was on The Danny Kaye Show. I did two skits with Vincent Price and one with Danny, and then I had a solo. I sang, “Have I Stayed Too Long at the Fair?” There was an unmistakable pulse in the applause that let me know I’d nailed it. I bowed and curtsied and hurried off the stage, walking on air. Addie and Hal were waiting for me in the wings and they looked very, very pleased.
“Did I do all right?” I asked.
“Dyan, there’s no other way of saying it: you’ve arrived.”
And suddenly there was Cary, holding a bottle of champagne.
“I had no idea you could sing like that,” Cary said.
“Neither did I,” I said.
“We could have been singing duets all this time!”
“Fancy that!” I said.
It was the first time I’d seen him since New Year’s Eve. We’d spoken once or twice on the phone in the past month, and I held my ground. I needed some time. I needed some space . . . away from him. It wasn’t a tiff. It wasn’t me being angry. It was just me being very clear about what I needed.
I was delighted to see his smiling face, though. Just a little unsure of how far to let him in.
“I have a little surprise set up for you,” Cary said. “Everything else aside, this is your night, and I am your biggest fan.”
Cary no doubt sensed my hesitation, but he also sensed that it could be easily overcome. Oh, why not, I thought. This was a big night for me, and there was no one else with whom I’d rather celebrate it.
I followed him through the empty parking lot, past a white van, to a candlelit table set with white linen and silver cutlery. There were even a pair of flaming tiki torches. It was the beach in Jamaica, re-created in the studio parking lot. Cary didn’t play fair.
He popped the champagne cork and raised a toast. “To talent! And you’ve got it by the busload!”
My mind was bubbling over with feelings, but I kept them to myself. I was elated that the show had gone well, overjoyed to see Cary, and wistful that nothing had changed. He could line the road to eternity with tiki torches and pave it with champagne bottles, and it would still be the same open-ended, noncommitted thing. It would be easy enough to go merrily along for the ride. But I had too clear a sense of what I wanted my life to look like, and it was a family portrait, not a portrait of a happily unmarried couple. If I put ten years of my life into this relationship and Cary suddenly decided to move on with someone else, where would I be then?
The dinner was exquisite, naturally. Steak Diane. That was a sweet touch. It was prepared tableside, with creamed spinach and broiled mushrooms, followed by strawberry shortcake. We chatted and laughed but kept it light. When it was over, Cary took my hand.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said. So are you, I thought, but all I ever wind up with is a sore heart.
“Thank you for celebrating with me,” I said. “It was the perfect ending to a perfect day.”
“Dear girl . . . I liked it the way it was with us.”
“We’ll always have the memories, Cary.”
“Won’t you come by the house for just a while now?”
I was torn, but not quite in two. I ached to go home with him, but I wasn’t going to go on spinning my wheels. I kissed him on the cheek, walked back to my car, and drove back to my apartment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Emergencies
The next day, just after noon, Cary called and said he—we—needed to talk, that it was urgent. He did not sound happy. I asked if something was wrong. “No,” he snapped. “There’s just something I need to discuss with you.”
I didn’t like the sound of this. Whenever anybody announces that they need to discuss something and makes an appointment to discuss it, you can generally assume that you’re in for a good tushie-whipping. Then, when you’re waiting for the “discussion,” time stands still.
“Okay, how about dinner tonight?” I asked.
“No, I’m coming over now.”
Oh dear.
The next twenty-eight minutes felt like being stuck on the airport