“It’s . . . other things.” I touch the dashboard. “This car belonged to my father.”
“Did he used to take you for ice-cream in it?”
“Never.” I sniff. “He was allergic to dairy. But he bought this vehicle used—it was already something of a classic—when I was seven. He was working again, after a long dry spell. One day, when he’d had the car a few weeks, Cary Grant dropped by—”
“The movie star?”
“The movie star. Mr. Grant came by, and Daddy said he could take the car for a spin if he wanted. So Mr. Grant—”
Tully stops eating his ice-cream cone. “Cary Grant drove this car?” he says.
“Yes, he sat right where you’re sitting.”
Tully takes that in and then glances at the second ice-cream cone he’s holding, the one he bought for me. “Won’t you please take this before it melts all over the ghost of Cary Grant?”
I accept a paper napkin and the cone, licking the rivulets dripping down its side. After I get the ice-cream under control, I say, “Mr. Grant was very athletic. He was older, had already stopped making movies, but even so he vaulted over the car door and got behind the wheel. This was at our house in Santa Monica, and—”
“I thought your family lived in Malibu,” Tully says.
God, where to begin?
“My father owned the Malibu house, yes,” I say. “His wife lived there. So did their daughter, Charlotte—your intended mother-in-law.”
“Yeah, but—”
“My father never married my mother, all right? Daddy’s wife , Irene—Charlotte’s mother—was . . . well, she was Catholic, among other things. She was also not a nice person, not a kind person. In any event, she and my father didn’t get along. When he was fortysomething, my dad fell in love with a twenty-three-year-old English actress. She brought grace into his life. She also rather quickly got pregnant with me. But Irene refused to give my dad a divorce. I think, legally, maybe he could have gotten one, but it was about so much more than legalities. So Daddy wound up keeping two homes: one in Malibu with Irene and Charlotte, the other in Santa Monica with my mum and me. And that’s what I called her, by the way—Mum. She liked me to call her that. She was from England.”
“Your father kept two households at the same time?” Tully says.
“Yes.”
“Very Continental of him. Must have been pricey.”
“It was.”
“Was he rich?”
“Not really, he was a writer. Screenplays. He made excellent money in the 1940s, before I was born, hence, the Malibu house. But by the time I came along, he’d been through the Red Scare, the blacklist, all of it, and his career had suffered. He ended up writing for television, which he hated, just to pay the bills. When he bought this car, he was writing for television.”
Tully has draped himself sideways in the driver’s seat, his back resting against the car door. He munches his ice-cream cone, eyeing me over the top of it. “What about your mom? Is she still alive?”
“She drowned in the ocean when I was eight.”
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry,” Tully says. “I didn’t . . . you mean . . . like an accident?”
I shrug. “She was unhappy. She wanted to be married. She wanted to work again—she sometimes played small parts in films. She adored my father, but so many things had worn her down. I think one day Mum made up her mind to go for a swim and . . .” I’m going to start crying again, I know it.
“Anyway,” I say, backing off the topic of my mother. “Cary Grant. So there I was on the lawn in Santa Monica, watching my father and Mr. Grant. When Mr. Grant got in the car, he noticed me standing there. He winked and said, ‘Hiya, kid.’ Then he asked my father if I could come along and go get ice-cream. My dad laughed and said sure, and lifted me up and plunked me down in this very seat. And I, seven-year-old Margo Anna-Louise Just, drove off in a red convertible with Cary Grant.”
“And he molested
“Did he used to take you for ice-cream in it?”
“Never.” I sniff. “He was allergic to dairy. But he bought this vehicle used—it was already something of a classic—when I was seven. He was working again, after a long dry spell. One day, when he’d had the car a few weeks, Cary Grant dropped by—”
“The movie star?”
“The movie star. Mr. Grant came by, and Daddy said he could take the car for a spin if he wanted. So Mr. Grant—”
Tully stops eating his ice-cream cone. “Cary Grant drove this car?” he says.
“Yes, he sat right where you’re sitting.”
Tully takes that in and then glances at the second ice-cream cone he’s holding, the one he bought for me. “Won’t you please take this before it melts all over the ghost of Cary Grant?”
I accept a paper napkin and the cone, licking the rivulets dripping down its side. After I get the ice-cream under control, I say, “Mr. Grant was very athletic. He was older, had already stopped making movies, but even so he vaulted over the car door and got behind the wheel. This was at our house in Santa Monica, and—”
“I thought your family lived in Malibu,” Tully says.
God, where to begin?
“My father owned the Malibu house, yes,” I say. “His wife lived there. So did their daughter, Charlotte—your intended mother-in-law.”
“Yeah, but—”
“My father never married my mother, all right? Daddy’s wife , Irene—Charlotte’s mother—was . . . well, she was Catholic, among other things. She was also not a nice person, not a kind person. In any event, she and my father didn’t get along. When he was fortysomething, my dad fell in love with a twenty-three-year-old English actress. She brought grace into his life. She also rather quickly got pregnant with me. But Irene refused to give my dad a divorce. I think, legally, maybe he could have gotten one, but it was about so much more than legalities. So Daddy wound up keeping two homes: one in Malibu with Irene and Charlotte, the other in Santa Monica with my mum and me. And that’s what I called her, by the way—Mum. She liked me to call her that. She was from England.”
“Your father kept two households at the same time?” Tully says.
“Yes.”
“Very Continental of him. Must have been pricey.”
“It was.”
“Was he rich?”
“Not really, he was a writer. Screenplays. He made excellent money in the 1940s, before I was born, hence, the Malibu house. But by the time I came along, he’d been through the Red Scare, the blacklist, all of it, and his career had suffered. He ended up writing for television, which he hated, just to pay the bills. When he bought this car, he was writing for television.”
Tully has draped himself sideways in the driver’s seat, his back resting against the car door. He munches his ice-cream cone, eyeing me over the top of it. “What about your mom? Is she still alive?”
“She drowned in the ocean when I was eight.”
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry,” Tully says. “I didn’t . . . you mean . . . like an accident?”
I shrug. “She was unhappy. She wanted to be married. She wanted to work again—she sometimes played small parts in films. She adored my father, but so many things had worn her down. I think one day Mum made up her mind to go for a swim and . . .” I’m going to start crying again, I know it.
“Anyway,” I say, backing off the topic of my mother. “Cary Grant. So there I was on the lawn in Santa Monica, watching my father and Mr. Grant. When Mr. Grant got in the car, he noticed me standing there. He winked and said, ‘Hiya, kid.’ Then he asked my father if I could come along and go get ice-cream. My dad laughed and said sure, and lifted me up and plunked me down in this very seat. And I, seven-year-old Margo Anna-Louise Just, drove off in a red convertible with Cary Grant.”
“And he molested
Similar Books
