Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [72]
Now I knew.
When Cary and I first met, we talked about God . . . like he—or she or it—was something out there in the cosmos, waiting to be discovered, like Columbus discovered America or Pizarro discovered the Pacific. Like God was something remote.
But God is in love—the love of another person, I thought.
I’d found my god, and he’d just asked me to marry him.
I flew to Seattle to share the news with my parents, who so far were the only ones I was allowed to let in on the secret. Mom and Dad picked me up at the airport. I tried to keep the news to myself until we got back to the house, but Dad had only just pulled away from the curb when I blurted it out: “Cary proposed to me!”
Dad was quiet. Mom was delighted, wanting all the details. How had he proposed? On his knees? Was it going to be a big wedding? Where was my ring?
Hmmm. Where was my ring? I said I was sure he had special-ordered it. As for the rest, I told them it was very spontaneous.
Then Cary called the house and asked to speak to Dad, who seemed a bit perplexed when he took the phone. “Your fiancé apologized for not having come to see me personally to ask for your hand in marriage,” he said. “He just asked for it, though.”
“And?”
“And I gave it.”
“Honey, you let me know anything I can do to help,” Mom said. “I’m sure there’s going to be a million details you won’t have time for.”
“Where’s the wedding going to be?” Dad asked.
“We haven’t started planning yet, Daddy.”
“It’s never too early to start shopping,” Mom said with a smile. “Listen, I’ve got a hair appointment in town tomorrow afternoon. Why don’t I make one for you too . . . we can combine that with some shopping and some lunch.” She smiled at my dad. “Just us girls.”
It was great. A little lingerie hunting, a little lunch, a little coffee . . . then to the hairdresser, Rachel, who suggested using a rinse to bring out the highlights in my hair. I loved it. Mom thought it looked great. So did Dad, who pronounced it “nice and subtle”—when it came to his daughter’s appearance, “subtle” was the highest compliment. “You’ve never looked more beautiful,” he said.
“Cary’s going to think so too,” Mom added.
However, Cary did not think so. Picking me up at the curb, he took one look at me and demanded, “What have you done to your hair?” There was a vitriol in his voice I’d never heard before. He didn’t even kiss me when I got into the car. You’d think I’d just shaved my head with a dull razor. I took a minute to collect myself and then tried to explain.
“Cary, they only put a brightening rinse on my hair.”
“What’s wrong with your natural hair color? It makes you look like everyone else.”
We drove for a while in silence. At a stoplight, he narrowed his eyes at me with withering disdain and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I started to cry. He softened a little.
“Silly child, there’s a reason blondes have a reputation for being bubbleheads. This isn’t scientifically proven, but I’ve got my theory and I think I’m right. The peroxide is absorbed into the brain tissue and causes mental deterioration.”
That sounded so ridiculous, I didn’t say anything.
“Cary, I wasn’t trying to displease you. If you’d like, I’ll get something to tone it down with tomorrow,” I said with a sigh.
“Do that . . .” But he said it like it was an order. I’d never heard this tone before. Welcome home.
At the end of the week, a letter arrived for Cary from my father.
“Your father is such a good man,” Cary said admiringly.
“You and my dad have at least one thing in common, Cary. You both insist on spelling my name the old way.”
“What can I say, dear girl? I love you the way you were born, every inch of you and every letter. D-Y-A-N is for the stage. But ‘Diane’ spelled the old-fashioned way—she belongs to me.”
“Oh, Archie.”
“Please don’t call me that,” Cary answered. He smiled, acknowledging a joke that was not a joke.
My heart was brimming over with love for my wonderfully generous father. It couldn’t have been easy for him to write those words. I was sure he meant them,