Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Riding High

A
n hour later, we pulled up to Cary's house in the desert. At the end of a long driveway, surrounded by beautifully manicured grounds, rested a magnificent Spanish hacienda. The living room was spacious but cozy, with a floor of burnished red clay tile and a cavernous fireplace with big white couches artfully arranged in front of it. Solid wooden beams ran the entire length of the high ceiling and wooden stairs led to a book-lined reading loft. In the rear shimmered a swimming pool surrounded by a flagstone patio. The water sparkled and the garden was ablaze with red and pink bougainvillea, while in the distance the San Jacinto mountains bolted to the sky in camel-colored majesty.

“It's gorgeous,” I said.

Cary placed his hand ever so lightly on my shoulder. “You
know
I'd be delighted for you to stay here.” He gestured to the guest rooms. They were on the other side of the living room from his own master bedroom. “There's plenty of privacy. You wouldn't even have to see me, though that would be a pity.” A hand on the shoulder, a brush against the cheek: he had an almost preternatural ability to connect with you physically in a way that communicated the message perfectly. This seemingly reflexive gesture said volumes:
I want you under my roof, under my protection, and I will make you safe and happy.

“Cary, I think it's better if we stay in town.”

“I am dismayed by your decision but heartened by your firmness of character!” he said, laughing. “Okay, why don't you check into your hotel and unpack and hurry back for drinks?”

As we pulled away from the property, Darlene said, “Dyan! We just passed up the opportunity to tell the world that we
stayed at Cary Grant's place
! You've
ruined
this story for our grandchildren!”

“You could've fainted and declared that you couldn't be moved under any circumstances—while
I
went to the hotel!” I said. We laughed. “ ‘Oh, Mr. Grant,' ” I said, mimicking Darlene, “ ‘I am just a delicate flower, as fine as a bee's wing, and I will never be able to manage anything so rugged as a stick shift!' ”

Darlene looked at me and said, completely without irony, “Dyan, I just gave us a memory!”

I laughed. “Yes you did . . . So did he ask about me?”

“One question after another.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Like what?”

“Like what kind of girl you were.”

“And?”

“I told him the truth. That you preferred to sleep with Hells Angels, but that you were holding out for a rich older man with a silver Rolls-Royce.”

“You didn't tell him I get my kicks robbing liquor stores?”

“No, I thought that should be a surprise.”

We waved at the Hotel Bella Vista as we drove past, knowing it was out of our budget, and went to the modest motel we'd stayed in last time we were in Palm Springs. It had open hallways that looked out over a kidney-shaped pool, and the room was musty with two single beds and fake-wood paneling halfway up the wall, but we didn't mind. We were only there long enough to freshen up and change, and an hour later we were back at Cary's.

“What can I offer you?” Cary asked jovially, smacking his hands down on the bar in the corner of the living room. Behind it, on shelves against the wall, were what seemed like every kind of spirit imaginable.

“What are you having?” I asked.

“I'm having a Manhattan.”

“I
love
Manhattans!” Darlene squealed. “That's the one with pineapple juice, right?”

“Close,” Cary said. “Actually, it's two shots of straight whiskey and a shot of red vermouth.”

Darlene recoiled like her clothes were on fire. “Oh,” she peeped.

“I've got just about anything you can think of,” Cary said. “And I'm a pretty good bartender.”

“Dyan, what was that blue drink we had at the Tiki Ti?”

“I don't know, but it was the same color as that aftershave my dad uses.”

“Sorry, but I drank up all the Aqua Velva last Christmas,” Cary said. “You know, I'll bet you girls would enjoy a whiskey sour.”

I noticed Cary eyeing the jigger as he measured the whiskey. First he filled it up to the top, then split it between the two cocktail glasses. It tasted like medicine, but I pretended to like it since he'd gone to so much trouble. I was happy when he suggested that we go out for dinner so I could put the drink down.

At the restaurant, we finally got Cary to talk about himself. I asked him the question actors always ask of actors: when it was he first caught the performing bug.

“I think my first taste of it was when I got drafted as the goalie for the school's football team,” he said. “I was standing out in the freezing cold, resenting the fact that there was so much urgency surrounding the fate of that stupid ball. Then, in spite of myself, I blocked a goal and the crowd roared with approval. For
me
! I'd never heard anything so beautiful in my life.

“If becoming an athlete were the only way to hear that applause, I'd probably have gone professional. The fact is, I was too lazy for it. Didn't like being cold and wet and scraping my knees against the turf. But when I was in middle school, our science professor had a part-time assistant who was an electrician. I was fascinated by anything electrical, and he took me under his wing. They'd just built the Bristol Hippodrome, and he'd installed the switchboard and lighting system. So I met him backstage one Saturday and found myself amidst the actors, all applying their greasepaint and changing costumes. And every couple minutes, there were these eruptions of applause and laughter. I decided on the spot, that was for me.” Cary gave me a collegial smile and turned to Darlene. “Dyan knows what I'm talking about, don't you, Dyan?”

“I know exactly what you're talking about.”

“It's a funny thing, performing—Darlene, if you're not going to finish that steak, I'd hate to see it go to waste.”

“Oh, I'm fine—” With the swiftness of a pickpocket, Cary gracefully forked the remainder of Darlene's steak onto his plate and took a bite.

“Tasty!” he said approvingly. “You know, the English cook their meat until the last bit of juice is vaporized, but I've gotten to like my chops medium-rare, the way Americans do. Anyway, when you hear an actor talking about the theater being a noble profession, don't believe it. We're in it for the applause.”

“But you give so much,” Darlene said.

“Maybe,” Cary said. “But we get more than we give. I'm sure of it. Dyan, if you're really done with that chicken—”

I'd already nudged my plate in his direction. He was darling. Imagine: Cary Grant, eating off my plate.

“My friends call me ‘the scavenger,' ” Cary said. “I guess the reason is obvious.”

We went back to his place for a nightcap. Sitting across from him, in front of the fireplace, I kept thinking that this wasn't real—that I'd imagined the whole thing. He was endlessly charming. He was sweet. He was funny. He was kind. I felt like I was starring in a movie with him, and I wondered how it was going to end.

“Tell me, Darlene,” he said. “Do you enjoy the fashion business?” He gave no hint of what was obvious—that she was my chaperone—with that kind of exquisite graciousness that calls no attention to itself.

“It has its moments.”

“Have you got a good, sturdy bat?”

“What would I need a bat for?”

“Beating back all those advances from strange men. It must be difficult.”

“Not difficult at all,” she replied happily. “You either say yes or no!”

Cary laughed and slapped his knee. “That was good,” he said. “I'll have to remember that one.”

Standing outside as we were leaving, Cary pointed to the sky. “Have you ever seen so many stars in your life?” he asked.

I hadn't, but I was thinking about something else: the man standing next to me was the brightest star in the galaxy.

“Sleep late,” Cary said as we climbed into the car. “We don't have to be at the stables 'til eight.”

“That's not late!” I said.

“We have to ride before it gets hot,” Cary said.

A
s we pulled into the motel parking lot, I was feeling anxious about getting back on a horse. “I can't believe we have to go riding tomorrow,” I said.

“Oh, Dyan, riding a horse isn't that different from driving a car.”

“Oh,
girly
girl can't drive a stick but she's Calamity Jane on horseback!”

We laughed and went up to our room and crawled into our respective beds. I took a while to fall asleep, wondering how much of an idiot I was going to make of myself the next morning when I climbed on a horse facing the wrong way.

In the morning, too early,
way
too early, we drove to Cary's place and from there went to the stables. I had a nasty feeling of déjà vu
.
It turned out they were the same stables where, the previous year, that devil horse had shaken me off its back like a fly. I thought one of the hands might recognize me, so to avoid any questions, I announced my return.

“Hi, Manuel! We were here last year, remember?”

“Really?” Cary arched an eyebrow.

“
Hola,
Senorita Dyan!”

“I didn't know I was taking you to a family reunion,” Cary said, smiling.

“There he is!” Darlene cried, pointing.

“Who?” Cary asked.

“The horse that threw Dyan. She'd never ridden before, but she was a real champ. She got right back up on him.”

Thanks, Darlene.

Cary grinned. “Well, you're a
seasoned
rider, then.”

It was probably my imagination, but Alfie, the horse that threw me, seemed to be smirking with pure malevolence. As I walked past him, he tossed his head back, turned around so that his behind faced me, and swished his tail at me. Fortunately, I was paired up with Caroline, a mellow, middle-aged nag, and it turned into a very enjoyable morning.

We rode until the heat got the better of us. Miraculously, I managed to stay in the saddle, but my tush felt like it had taken a hard paddling from a mean schoolmaster. Back at Cary's, we refreshed ourselves in the pool and enjoyed a catered lunch, and in the early afternoon we got ready to drive back to Los Angeles.

“I had a terrific time,” Cary said. “I hope we can do it again soon.”

“Me too!” Darlene said, but she was only joking. Cary and I laughed, then Cary put his hand on my shoulder and took me aside for a brief, private moment. “I'm going to call you tomorrow,” he said. “I was thinking about calling you tonight, but I don't want to appear too interested.”

I smiled. I
melted,
and not from the desert heat. “I want you to know that I had a really wonderful time,” I said.

“That was the idea,” he said.

CHAPTER SIX

Table for Two

T
wo days later we were having dinner at a Chinese restaurant called Hoi Ping, one of Cary's favorites. It was off the beaten path and probably notable only because Cary ate there. Cary loved food, and as time went on, I came to envy the way he could eat anything he wanted and as much of it as he wanted without adding even a shadow of roundness to that famous square jawline. His unassailable trimness sure didn't owe anything to exercise. He did like to swim—for about fifteen minutes twice a month. He just had that kind of metabolism.

When we pulled up to the restaurant, Cary asked me to scope out the dining room. He was a little worried about the paparazzi, who'd found out that Hoi Ping was a regular stop along Cary's flight path. I was thrilled. I was spying for Cary Grant! “It's empty,” I said, reporting back. “Two waiters, a man who looks like the owner, and a busboy.”

“Perfect!” he said.

“Ah! Mr. Grant! So good to see you again.” Ong Ling, the owner, greeted Cary with discreet warmth. He bowed slightly toward me and smiled with his eyes cast downward, and didn't ask questions. I could see why Cary was comfortable here. Ong made sure Cary's privacy was respected.

Ong led us to a corner banquette—
Cary's
booth—and smoothed the pristine tablecloth with his hands. “The usual, Mr. Grant?”

“You bet!” Cary said cheerfully, and turned to me. “ ‘The usual' is basically everything on the menu minus the marinated chicken feet,” he said.

Within minutes, a convoy of covered dishes streamed onto the table. Piping-hot wonton soup; spring rolls; duck-and-scallion pancakes; moo shu pork; chicken with cashews; string beans in a dark, aromatic sauce. The waiter served us, and with my first bite of moo shu pork, I knew why Cary loved Hoi Ping.

There were a few subjects I wanted to break the ice about. Ex-wives seemed a little too touchy, so I decided to start with drugs. I'd been intrigued and a little bothered about Cary's experiments with LSD ever since Skip had shown me the magazine article about it.

“I want to ask you something, Cary.”

“Fine, but only if it's personal,” he said with a wink.

“What's this business about you and LSD? I thought that was for beatniks.”

“Ah! I was hoping you'd ask me that.”

“Really?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “But since you asked, I'll tell you. First of all, it's perfectly legal . . .” He went on to say he'd first tried it in 1958, in a controlled experiment with a group of psychiatrists, including his own physician, Dr. Mortimer Hartman, and that under its influence he felt as if he understood the universe. “Everything suddenly made sense,” he said. “It was as if the whole world were within my grasp. There was such clarity that for the first time in my life I felt I understood God.”

“Really? You understand
God
?”

“Well, yes. But not in the traditional, Christian sense; not an old man with a white beard sitting on a cloud. I see God as some kind of force, something inside us. Somewhere along the line, I'd already adopted that view as a principle, but LSD made it real for me, and I'd never had an experience like it. Do you believe in God, Dyan?”

That was a big question. As I'd told Cary, the issue of God in my parents' house was like a big jar of nitroglycerin and I never knew when someone was going to drop it and cause an explosion.

“I believe there's something out there that's moving the furniture around,” I said. And I did believe that. The problem was my anger at this unidentified being. “I had kind of a profound experience when I was a kid.”

“Tell me,” Cary said.

“In the wintertime, my dad used to water down the backyard several nights in a row so the ground would freeze up and all the kids on the block could ice-skate.”

“That's a precious image,” Cary said appreciatively.

“One day—I was about seven or eight—I was in the backyard by myself with my skates on. And my parents had just had another one of their big religious Jew-versus-Christian blowouts. And I got really mad at Mr. God. I was standing on the ice and I yelled up to the sky, ‘I don't know who you are, God, but you're causing nothing but trouble around this house! If you're so big and powerful, why don't you just knock me off my feet right now? And my feet went right out from under me. And I looked up at the sky and thought,
Something or somebody up there means business
.”

“You
were
on the ice,” Cary suggested.

“But I wasn't moving. I was standing perfectly still.”

“Another person would've said ‘ouch.' You became a seeker. We've got that in common. Cheers!”

We clinked glasses.

“You know, Dyan, I wouldn't recommend it to just anybody, but I think you're someone who'd make some real discoveries with LSD.”

“Drugs scare me,” I said. “That'll never happen.”

“That's what I said,” he replied.

O
f course, I had a career to think about, and Addie and Hal worked hard at getting me into the right rooms. Things were picking up. I landed roles on several more TV shows—
Ripcord, The Untouchables, The Red Skelton Hour
—and I honed my craft in a musical comedy workshop. At night, though, I was free, and I was making more and more time for Mr. Grant.

A week after our dinner at Hoi Ping, though, Cary upped the ante and invited me for dinner at
his place.
I got the not-unpleasant butterfly sensation you get when you're up on the high dive. But I made the leap.

That evening, with my car in the shop yet again, I drove up to Benedict Canyon in one of Nate's convertibles. The night was balmy, and I drove with the top down, with my hair blowing in the wind. I thought about how much my life had changed since I'd come back to Los Angeles. I'd come back from Rome heartbroken and broke. Now my career was humming along, I had wonderful friends, and, oh, I was dating Cary Grant.
Oh yeah, I'm dating Cary Grant,
I was telling an imaginary person in an imaginary conversation . . .
Well, you know how it is when you're on the rebound. You'll settle for anybody.
Ha! I made myself laugh thinking about that idea.

I'd arrived at Cary's property: it was a verdant corner lot with a narrow driveway nestled between two hedges.

Cary came out and trotted to the car, getting the door for me. Be still, my heart. He wore khakis and a plain blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and was barefoot.
Beyond
gorgeous.

With his arm on my shoulder, he showed me around his house. It was not a mansion but a large, ranch-style house. First we walked through the grounds. A large patio overlooked a panorama of twinkling city lights that seemed to go on forever. From there, a very long, grassy slope, manicured like a putting green, swept down to a lighted swimming pool, and all was surrounded by trees. We watched the rose-tinged sun slide peacefully into the haze of the Pacific.

A big German shepherd sauntered over, wagging its tail. He sniffed at my ankles. “This is Gumper,” Cary said, scratching the dog's neck. Gumper was supposed to guard against intruders, but Cary didn't put much faith in him as a watchdog. “He's just like an actor,” he said. “He wants to be loved by
everyone.
A fella could come climbing over the gate with a nylon stocking over his face and a gun in his hand, and Gumper would likely lick him to death.”

In the living room, logs burned softly in a cavernous fireplace, casting a red glow against a black grand piano buffed to a sheen you could see yourself in. Cary was an art collector, too, and the walls were graced with museum-worthy paintings, mostly French impressionists. All the furniture was homey and comfortable: overstuffed couch and chairs covered with white sailcloth; warm hardwood floors on which lay exquisite throw rugs. Nothing was for show. Cary called it “French Country crossed with Old English Codger.”

“It's no big deal,” he said. “Home is just a place to park your dirty socks.”

I'd assumed we were alone in the house, but a very proper lady of indeterminate age appeared and nodded hello. Cary introduced me to Helen, his live-in cook and housekeeper. Helen, who was also English, announced that dinner would be served in twenty minutes.

“Just enough time for a little serenade!” Cary said. He plopped himself down on the piano bench and launched into Cole Porter's “You're the Top.” Cary had played Cole Porter in
Night and Day
. What I didn't remember is how well the man could sing. I applauded and begged for an encore. Cary obliged until Helen announced that dinner was ready.

“Good stuff!” Cary said. He motioned for me to follow him, straight through the dining room—and into his bedroom.

“That,” he said, indicating the far side of the bed, “is your side. And this is my side.” His side was the one close to the door.

MY SIDE? HIS SIDE? WE'VE GOT SIDES?

Before I could get a word in, Cary turned on the TV and flopped back on his side of the bed, propping himself up with pillows, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He patted
my side
of the bed. “Come on,” he said. “I won't bite.”

I climbed aboard. I was glad I'd worn slacks. And clean socks.

Dr. Kildare
was playing. “I just love this show,” he said.

At that moment, Helen stepped into the room with a giant silver tray in her arms. “Just relax and stretch your legs out, dear,” she instructed me, rather like she was about to perform surgery.

I guess I was a little jumpy, because I did just the opposite—jerked my knees up just as Helen was lowering the tray onto my lap, flipping the tray into the air and watching a hail of silverware, crystal, china, and food fly everywhere. I was mortified! I scooted off the bed and started scraping food off the floor with my hands. I looked up to see Cary peeking over the edge of the bed. “You don't want to put Helen out of a job, do you?” I slowly let go of the shard of china I was holding.

In a flash, Helen had made the disaster disappear and was lowering a new tray onto my lap, fortunately without further incident. Now I began eating my way through the strangest dinner date of my life, and I couldn't have told you
what
we ate five minutes after Helen took away the trays. The whole situation made me feel like Alice in Wonderland. No, I felt like Diane Friesen from West Seattle in Cary Grant's bedroom, watching
Dr. Kildare
on Cary Grant's TV, on Cary Grant's bed, with nothing but a Cary Grant–imagined line separating us. What kind of looking glass had I stepped through? I felt like I was walking through a hall of funhouse mirrors, each reflecting its own scenario.
Dr. Kildare
burbled in the background like it was coming from an echo chamber. I didn't hear a word of it. I was too busy daydreaming about how the name “Dyan Grant” would sound. But I stopped myself short.
Don't get carried away, Dyan!

After everything had been cleared, Cary reached into the drawer of his nightstand. “Have you ever had a Picnic bar?” he asked.

“A
what
bar?”

“A
Picnic
bar. They're what makes life worth living for every English schoolboy. They're positively unbeatable!” It was made of milk chocolate, peanuts, raisins, and caramel. Watching Cary peel away the wrapper, I could almost see a little boy. It was touching and sweet beyond words. And astonishingly opposite to the kind of wild debauchery people imagined took place in Hollywood.

After a while, we went to the yard and gave Gumper some doggie treats. “Cary, with all of the TV shows you see, what made you call
me
after that episode of
Malibu Run
?”

“Something in your spirit.”

“What was it?”

“I sensed there was a part of you that was slightly untamed.”

“And you wanted to tame it?”

“Dyan, I wouldn't ever want to see that part of you tamed.”

“That's a good thing,” I said. Our eyes locked. After a moment, I said, “I think I'd better be going. And besides that, you've got an early morning.”

“I can't wait 'til I retire,” he said. “I'm going to sleep until noon every day, and do nothing but watch TV and stuff myself with fish and chips and Picnic bars. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Can I have one for the road?” I looked at him longingly.

“One what?” he said curiously.

“A Picnic bar.”

S
everal weeks later, we were back in Palm Springs, this time without a chaperone, but that wasn't going to change the fact that I was still completely in charge of my own maidenhood. Or what was left of it—which, save for my misstep with Eduardo, was actually quite a lot. When we walked through the front door, I came to a halt in the middle of the living room. I pointed right, to the master bedroom,
his
bedroom, and said, “That's
your
side.” And pointing left, to one of the guest bedrooms, I said, “And that's
my
side.”

At this, Cary chuckled and said, “Touché!”

“Tell me about the men in your life,” Cary said after we'd put away our bags and settled by the pool with lemonade.

“What would you like to know, Mr. Grant?”

“Whatever you care to divulge.”

There wasn't a lot that I cared to divulge. From the time I put on my first bra, it seemed, men had been aggressive toward me in a way that made me keep up my guard. Like Eduardo, Cary was one of the few men who didn't press past my comfort zone. Unlike Eduardo, I
hoped,
Cary was honest—about himself and his intentions.

I thought about how to reply and finally said, “I'll tell you the most important thing. I haven't met my soul mate yet.”