Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [7]
“Fifty-eight.”
“He’s three years older than my father.”
“I wouldn’t tell him that if I were you,” Hal said, arching an eyebrow at me. But he was counting on his fingers. “I just did the math,” he said. “Cary was thirty-three when you were born.”
“That makes him sound really old.”
“I think you’ll find him to be quite vigorous,” Hal said with a smile. “He keeps talking about retiring, but it’s not going to happen anytime soon. He’s still the most bankable guy in the business.”
“Is there a Mrs. Grant?”
“Not anymore.”
By this time, we’d reached the winding walkway to Cary’s bungalow—an “office” on the Universal lot in those days was like a country cottage, and a spacious one at that—and made our way through the lush garden to the front door. Hal knocked and Cary’s assistant, Dorothy, greeted us. She was middle-aged and elegant in an understated way. After the introductions, she turned and knocked on the open door that led to Cary’s office and announced me.
“Good luck, kid,” Hal whispered.
“You’re not coming with me?”
“I don’t think he’s interested in me.”
That threw me off. I’d just assumed I’d have Hal’s steadying presence to prop me up. I regained my balance, but when I stepped into the room, I felt for a second like I’d been hit by a stun gun. Standing in front of me was the most arrestingly handsome man I have ever laid eyes on. He was tall, trim, and tan, in white slacks, a white linen shirt, and brown leather sandals. I hadn’t, and still haven’t, seen anyone who radiated such godlike masculine beauty.
He stepped forward and extended his hand. I could barely breathe. Literally. His hand was so large, so warm. He held me with his gaze and broke into an absolutely enchanting smile.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Cannon. I’m Cary Grant.” That voice.
“I-I’m Dyan Cannon,” I stammered.
“Yes you are!” he said, laughing. “That’s why you’re here,” he added jovially.
He steered me to a chair and with perfect grace lowered himself onto a massive leather couch. He seemed to fill the room completely. Years later, I realized there was a word for this; it was called presence.
“Well, Miss Cannon,” he said. “You are even more attractive in person.”
I wanted to say, “So are you! Way more attractive!” And he was. There was a distinguished dab of silver at his temples, but he glowed with youthful vitality. Containing myself, I simply thanked him for the compliment.
“I saw you on an episode of Malibu Run,” he said.
“Yes, my agent told me.”
“But I see you have a long list of other credits.”
He was being generous. Have Gun—Will Travel. Playhouse 90. Highway Patrol. Lock Up. Zane Grey Theater. Wanted: Dead or Alive. Bat Masterson. Ben Casey. And of course I’d also done that feature, The Rise and Fall of Legs Diamond. Yes, before I played hooky in Rome, I’d succeeded in becoming a working actress and not a lot more. But this . . . man . . . the greatest leading man of all time—he was talking to me like a peer, like I was already in and worthy of his full respect.
“I do what I can,” I said, whatever that meant.
He leaned forward and fixed me with his huge, café au lait eyes and said, “Tell me about yourself.” In any other similar situation, this would have been my cue to be entertaining, to go into audition mode. In other words, a trained-seal moment. This was different. There was—I don’t know how else to say it—a note of urgency in his voice, like he needed to know. Like I might have something to tell him that would make a difference.
“What would you like to know?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“How about anything . . . anything you’re comfortable with?”
So I unscrolled a bit of biography: I was born Samille Diane Friesen in Tacoma, Washington (my parents expected a boy whom they were going to name after my maternal grandfather, so the name Sam was gelded into Samille). My courageous mother, Clara Portnoy, had escaped the pogroms in Russia