you?”
“Certainly not! Absolutely, unequivocally no!” I wave my ice-cream so hard, the top scoop goes soaring off into the desert. “In those days, only Joan Crawford was gaining a reputation for child abuse. Mr. Grant was a wonderful man. He loved children. I always understood he wanted a large family, but that didn’t happen for him.”
“He was gay,” Tully says.
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Gay,” Tully repeats. “It’s like an open secret. He was at least bisexual.”
“If you mean those old photos everyone’s always going on about—the ones with Randolph Scott—that could have been a one-off. Anyway, Mr. Grant’s sexual orientation is beside the point.”
“You think?” Tully says. “Then what is the point?” He tongues what’s left of his ice-cream into a curving white peak.
“The point—and I don’t necessarily expect you to get this, but give it a go—the point is, don’t you see how an adventure like that could imprint on a little girl’s brain? How driving off at the age of seven in a red MG driven by Cary Grant would be difficult to top in later years? You don’t get over it; no woman could. To some extent, it’s influenced everything I’ve ever done. Millions of women melted from just seeing him on the screen, and I . . . I rode with him in a convertible. And that’s why I cried when you brought me ice-cream. Because once—when my parents were alive and I was young and happy—I sat in this very car and was offered ice-cream by—”
“The greatest male star in the history of American motion pictures.”
“Precisely. Thank you for understanding that.”
I lick my cone. Tully watches me. His eyes are a deep, compelling brown, a bit crinkly at the corners. In his rumpled way, he’s rather nice-looking. I suddenly feel protective toward him. “Look,” I say, “I’m sorry about just now, becoming emotional. I’m not always so sentimental, but recently I’ve been going through—”
“Menopause,” Tully says, with the same know-it-all tone he used in outing Cary Grant.
I lift an eyebrow. “No,” I say slowly, “as a matter of fact, my medical practitioner tells me I have a few more years to go in that department.”
I’m still working on my ice-cream cone when Tully finishes his. He wipes his fingers on a paper napkin, then twists round so he’s sitting properly in his seat. He starts up the car. We get back on the road, once again feel the wind in our faces.
“Go on,” Tully says, raising his voice so I can hear him over the hum of the MG’s engine. “What happened with Cary Grant?”
I decide to let Tully’s menopause remark go by. After all, he’s having a rough day. And he and I share the common goal of tracking down Georgia. When we do find her, and I get my fifty thousand dollars, perhaps Tully and Georgia really will make up; perhaps they really will get married. That would make him my . . . what? My nephew-in-law. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be chums. There’s no reason I shouldn’t tell him my Cary Grant story.
“We went for a drive by the ocean,” I say. “After a while, Mr. Grant pulled up to a place like that one back there.” I point behind us, at the hamburger stand we left down the road. “He bought me ice-cream, yes. But it was more than that. He gave me the gift of himself, his time and attention. He was charming, completely focused on me—a little girl—and the moment. It was like spending the day with a handsome, debonair Santa Claus. He taught me that day how to take a compliment. He said—in that delightful, clipped way of his—‘Whenever someone says you’re pretty, Margo, or that’s a nice frock, always smile and say thank you.’ He told me I should remember that because I’d get a great many compliments in life. He asked me about my friends and if I liked school, and he said I’d grow up to be very beautiful, like my mother.”
“And you did,” Tully says.
Oh, that was sweet. I smile, the way
“Certainly not! Absolutely, unequivocally no!” I wave my ice-cream so hard, the top scoop goes soaring off into the desert. “In those days, only Joan Crawford was gaining a reputation for child abuse. Mr. Grant was a wonderful man. He loved children. I always understood he wanted a large family, but that didn’t happen for him.”
“He was gay,” Tully says.
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Gay,” Tully repeats. “It’s like an open secret. He was at least bisexual.”
“If you mean those old photos everyone’s always going on about—the ones with Randolph Scott—that could have been a one-off. Anyway, Mr. Grant’s sexual orientation is beside the point.”
“You think?” Tully says. “Then what is the point?” He tongues what’s left of his ice-cream into a curving white peak.
“The point—and I don’t necessarily expect you to get this, but give it a go—the point is, don’t you see how an adventure like that could imprint on a little girl’s brain? How driving off at the age of seven in a red MG driven by Cary Grant would be difficult to top in later years? You don’t get over it; no woman could. To some extent, it’s influenced everything I’ve ever done. Millions of women melted from just seeing him on the screen, and I . . . I rode with him in a convertible. And that’s why I cried when you brought me ice-cream. Because once—when my parents were alive and I was young and happy—I sat in this very car and was offered ice-cream by—”
“The greatest male star in the history of American motion pictures.”
“Precisely. Thank you for understanding that.”
I lick my cone. Tully watches me. His eyes are a deep, compelling brown, a bit crinkly at the corners. In his rumpled way, he’s rather nice-looking. I suddenly feel protective toward him. “Look,” I say, “I’m sorry about just now, becoming emotional. I’m not always so sentimental, but recently I’ve been going through—”
“Menopause,” Tully says, with the same know-it-all tone he used in outing Cary Grant.
I lift an eyebrow. “No,” I say slowly, “as a matter of fact, my medical practitioner tells me I have a few more years to go in that department.”
I’m still working on my ice-cream cone when Tully finishes his. He wipes his fingers on a paper napkin, then twists round so he’s sitting properly in his seat. He starts up the car. We get back on the road, once again feel the wind in our faces.
“Go on,” Tully says, raising his voice so I can hear him over the hum of the MG’s engine. “What happened with Cary Grant?”
I decide to let Tully’s menopause remark go by. After all, he’s having a rough day. And he and I share the common goal of tracking down Georgia. When we do find her, and I get my fifty thousand dollars, perhaps Tully and Georgia really will make up; perhaps they really will get married. That would make him my . . . what? My nephew-in-law. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be chums. There’s no reason I shouldn’t tell him my Cary Grant story.
“We went for a drive by the ocean,” I say. “After a while, Mr. Grant pulled up to a place like that one back there.” I point behind us, at the hamburger stand we left down the road. “He bought me ice-cream, yes. But it was more than that. He gave me the gift of himself, his time and attention. He was charming, completely focused on me—a little girl—and the moment. It was like spending the day with a handsome, debonair Santa Claus. He taught me that day how to take a compliment. He said—in that delightful, clipped way of his—‘Whenever someone says you’re pretty, Margo, or that’s a nice frock, always smile and say thank you.’ He told me I should remember that because I’d get a great many compliments in life. He asked me about my friends and if I liked school, and he said I’d grow up to be very beautiful, like my mother.”
“And you did,” Tully says.
Oh, that was sweet. I smile, the way
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