Free Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant by Dyan Cannon

idea.”
    â€œWait ’til you taste it. It’s great.”
    We drove into town and found a Baskin-Robbins with a line spilling onto the street. We took our place at the end, just like regular citizens—which, of course, I was, though Cary couldn’t have blended in if he wanted to. In a flash, everyone was buzzing with excitement and he was surrounded by a cluster of autograph seekers and folks who asked to have their pictures taken with him. I knew this happened to Cary constantly, but he graciously posed and smiled for one shot after another. I found myself liking him more than ever.
    At the counter, I ordered a licorice cone while Cary opted for butter pecan. I took such a generous first bite that my whole mouth was covered with black ice cream. Cary watched me, grinning. We laughed. “Attractive, right?” I said, pointing to the napkin dispenser.
    â€œVery,” he said, and then he kissed me full on my icy black lips.
    It was the best kiss of my life.
    â€œYou were right,” he said. “That licorice isn’t half-bad.”
    â€œWell then, how about another, uh, scoop?”
    He kissed me again.
    It took me totally by surprise. It was not what you expected from Cary Grant, who was English and therefore private, and very private even for an Englishman. Displaying physical affection was not in his repertoire. As for me, the ice cream parlor and everyone in it melted away and at that moment there were only the two of us.
    I had never been kissed like that.
    Cary Grant liked me.
    And I liked Cary Grant.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Fork in the Road
    A s much time as we spent together over the next four or five months, we still made time to be with our own friends. I was still close to Michael. Objectively, Michael and I were perfect for each other in many ways. In most ways, actually, except for the one thing that matters more than anything: we didn’t have that old black magic, as they used to call it. Or I didn’t have it for Michael. There is no accounting for chemistry, but one fact of life you can’t get around is that if you ain’t got it, you ain’t got it, and nothing’s going to change it. But I loved and admired Michael, all the more for his profound unselfishness. The fact that he wanted a romance didn’t stop him from loving me as a friend.
    Cary could be possessive, but he was cute about it. He’d offhandedly inquire what I’d been up to and harrumph good-naturedly if I’d been out with a male friend.
    â€œMichael again?” he remarked once. “What is it with you and Michael?”
    â€œCary, he is a dear, sweet friend and a nice Jewish boy.”
    â€œI know nice Jewish boys,” Cary said with mock seriousness. “Nice Jewish boys like the same things other men like, and I’m not talking about chicken soup.”
    â€œI promise, you have nothing to worry about.”
    Early one evening, I met Michael at the furniture store he owned on Melrose Avenue. Just as we were heading out for a movie, the phone rang. He answered it and looked up. “It’s for you,” he said. He didn’t look thrilled.
    It was a little startling that Cary had tracked me down. But in those amazingly peaceful days before cell phones, Addie always knew where I was in case I got a call for an audition. When Cary told me why he called, I understood perfectly. He’d gotten a dinner invitation from Clifford Odets, the playwright. To me, he reigned supreme. I’d done his play The Country Girl in acting class, and I loved Awake and Sing! and Golden Boy .
    I protested that I had plans, but Michael had picked up the bit about Clifford Odets having a dinner party and he just simply refused to let me miss it. I was torn; I really wasn’t one to switch plans on anyone unless it was a matter of life and death, but this was really a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If we’d switched places, I probably would’ve pushed Michael out