Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [94]
“There must be an explanation,” I said.
“Yes, there is! He’s having an affair.”
I called my father at work. “What’s going on? Mom thinks you’re having an affair.”
“Oh no!” he said. “I was afraid of that.”
“So you are having an affair?”
“Only with a building contractor. I’m building a weekend house in the woods outside Portland. It’s a surprise for Mom.” The house would be finished in three weeks, and Dad wanted me to plan to fly up for the unveiling. He’d have to make one more trip south to wrap it all up. In the meantime, I covered for Dad, or at least I tried. I told Mom that Dad had been staying with his cousin Jack to save money and there was nothing to worry about. I put her mind at ease enough to get her through his next trip away, but it was tough. She was right; my dad had been lying. She could see right through him. I wondered if that came with time, or if it came with love. I wondered if Cary and I could ever be that close.
The Las Vegas Strip flashed past the windows of the limo that was shuttling us from the airport to the Sands Hotel, and Jimmy Stewart’s eyes were glued to the view. Neither he nor his wife, Gloria, had been to Vegas before, and it was such fun to see the ever-laconic Jimmy take it all in. “Looks like a mountain range made of costume jewelry,” he said of the blazing lights and blinding glitter.
We’d come to town at the invitation of Frank Sinatra, who was throwing a party at the Sands. The bash was in honor of the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary of the actress Rosalind Russell and her husband, the producer Fred Brisson. Frank flew a big group of us out in a private jet. Cary had been best man at the Brisson wedding, and it was the first social activity that had piqued his interest in a long time. Frank himself was in top form. He’d recently married Mia Farrow, the blooming star, and released another hit album, Sinatra at the Sands, with Count Basie. The whole Rat Pack showed up to celebrate in style.
The party raged on for three nights, and it was a real bacchanal. I felt energized by it all. There was music and dancing, gambling and drinking, and a lavish buffet every night. On the first night, when Cary had drifted off to chat with Fred Brisson, I found myself dancing one after the other with Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, and Sammy Davis Jr. Not two seconds after my last dance, Frank Sinatra himself took me by the arm and said, “Dyan, I insist that you gamble away some of Cary’s money. He’s got a lot more than he needs.”
“How can I lose the most money fastest?” I laughed.
“Craps is a good start. Come on, I’ll give you a personal lesson.”
So Frank steered me to the craps table. I had beginner’s luck, because within a few throws, chips were piling up. I picked up the dice, blew on them, and tossed them. “Way to go, Cannon!” Frank exclaimed, clapping. But now a large crowd was gathering around us. “Blow on them for luck, Dyan!”
Snake eyes.
“Never say die!” Frank said as my chips were raked away. Even though I lost, I felt more lighthearted than I had in a long while.
The next thing I knew, Cary was murmuring in my ear. “Dyan, will you come with me please?”
“Cary Grant!” Frank said, draining his cocktail and clapping Cary on the shoulder. “You just jinxed a hell of a roll. Would you mind standing at least ten yards clear of the table? I’m trying to make your wife an independently wealthy woman.”
Everyone at the table laughed.
Cary forced a smile and led me firmly by the arm into the corridor.
“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Just having fun. Frank was teaching me to shoot craps.”
“Would you mind very much trying not to make such a spectacle of yourself?” he said quietly.
I was lost. I had just joined in with Cary’s good friends, at their invitation.
“Honestly, Cary, I don’t understand. Explain this to me. How am I making a spectacle