Kate Remembered by A. Scott Berg Page B

less pronounced. Then came her handsome, white-haired husband, Ellsworth Grant, whom Kate had warned me was very rich. They were the parents of the actress Katharine Houghton, who had played Kate’s daughter in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Kate introduced me, saying, “This is Scott Berg, my biographer.”
    â€œWhoa,” I said, shaking hands with our hosts, who were somewhat taken aback themselves, knowing there had been a lifelong interdiction against giving writers personal access to the family. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
    â€œWell,” said Kate, “I mean he’s learning everything there is to learn about me . . . because now he’s writing a piece about me for a magazine. Think of him as ‘the man from Spy ,’ ” a reference to the magazine for which the Jimmy Stewart character worked in The Philadelphia Story. “Now this is Marion and Ellsworth Grant,” she said. “They’ve been married forever, they’ve been in love with each other forever, and they’ve been sleeping with each other since they were fifteen.”
    â€œKatty!” said Marion. “Kate!” said I. And Ellsworth stood silent, grinning.
    â€œWell, it’s true,” said Kate, “and you should be proud of it, because you’re still a damn good-looking couple. Now what are you doing to this place?” We trooped through the house, upstairs to the master bedroom, where Kate decided the bed was terribly positioned. “Now look,” she said, “you’ve absolutely got to move this bed. I mean, it’s crazy. You’ve got one of the most beautiful views in the world, and you’re not even waking up to it. Move it over here and you’ll wake up to glorious sunrises, looking out onto the water. It’s insane otherwise.”
    â€œWell,” said Ellsworth, “we like it here.”
    â€œBut what’s the point?” said Kate, now exasperated. “I mean what’s the point of living in one of the most beautiful spots in the world, with one of the most beautiful views right out your window, and you’re refusing to look at it? You’re hopeless. The both of you, I mean, just hopeless. It’s a waste, this whole house is utterly wasted on the likes of you two. . . .” And we were off.
    Back at Kate’s house we went into the kitchen to scare up lunch. Phyllis was already at work, preparing chicken salad. “Don’t forget to slice the grapes,” Kate told her, obviously for the thousandth time. “Vertically, not horizontally,” she added, turning to me to explain that they tasted different if they were cut across their equators. At the far end of the kitchen, between the second refrigerator, the cabinets, and a stove filled with boiling and steaming pots of all sizes, their lids clacking, hurtled a big man—tall and stocky—in a red sweatsuit and wearing a rooster cap, complete with cockscomb. Kate introduced me to her brother Dick. He offered a huge, hamlike hand.
    â€œWelcome,” he said, holding a big spoon to my mouth. “Now taste this.” It was turkey soup, very hot, filled with vegetables. “Now, what would be good in that?” he asked, as he made his way to the cabinet in search of spices. He returned to the stove with cayenne pepper, then he removed a macaroni-and-cheese casserole from the oven and stirred a saucepan full of candied grapefruit rinds. “Now try one of these,” he said, handing me one of the cooled candies.
    Kate was hungry, so we retreated to her side of the kitchen, where Phyllis was finishing the trays of chicken salad and green salad and toast and milk and zucchini soup. Each of us picked up a tray, though Kate paused at the counter to grab a dark chocolate turtle out of a two-pound box before entering the dining room. After cleaning our plates, Kate asked Phyllis to see if any of the pots on Dick’s stove