Stories From Candyland (24 page)

Willy and I gathered up all the piles of money, asked a security guard to get in the elevator with us, and went back to our room. We threw the money on the bed. I felt like we were in one of those bank robbery movies and the feds were going to break down the door at any minute. We didn’t have suitcases full of money or rubber bands to separate the bills, like in the movies. We just had tons of cash.

Willy and I counted it and made neat piles. Counting my other winnings, it came to more than $100,000. There was something reassuring and comforting about all that cash. In retrospect, when I think about it, I realize how dangerous it was. Wait. It gets worse. We stuffed the money into our baggage, purses, and paper bags and flew home with it.

I wouldn’t blame Willy if she never flew with me again, either.

A lot of the stories my friends told me to tell or keep secret have to do with food. Randy nailed one of my little habits:

In high school, I would love coming home with my friends because a lot of the time my mom would be in the kitchen baking
something or making sandwiches. My favorite mom sandwich is sourdough bread, mayonnaise (she puts lots), tomato, avocado, sliced chicken or turkey and sprouts.

Of course, it was evenly spread to cover all of the bread (a habit I inherited myself) and salt-and-peppering everything evenly.

Randy now understands why sandwiches need to be even. Isn’t it irritating to be eating a sandwich and run out of either bread or meat? The middle can’t be thicker than everything else, or the last bite won’t be as good as the first. Who wants to end up with a chunk of meat?

I have been caught taking apart sandwiches in restaurants to make them even. One time I was busted at the famous Nate ’n Al’s deli in Beverly Hills. The owner came over to our table and asked if there was something wrong with our sandwiches.

“They’re not even. There’s too much meat.”

He later told me I was the only customer who had ever complained that the sandwich had too much meat.

My friend and decorator Bob Dally has a food story about a trip we took to Paris to buy furniture for The Manor. “It might be kind of funny to tell the chicken-in-the-bag story when you and Carole Haber had me thinking that chicken was cooked in a paper bag,” he e-mailed.

During that trip we went to a restaurant where no English
was spoken, except by Bob, Carole, and me. Carole was a French teacher, so we weren’t worried.

“Here’s chicken cooked in a bag for two,” Carole said, looking at the menu. Bob and I decided to split it.

A huge chicken arrived, and it looked to me like the bag had veins running through it. Bob laughed and said that was silly. It had only been cooked in a bag. The “bag” was like a thin, fine balloon, very delicate, with the chicken inside. Something wasn’t right. Those were veins, I kept saying. I was right. The “bag” turned out to be a pig’s bladder, and our chicken was inside it. It took Bob years to get over it.

My friend Alicia Rose reminded me about a number of rushed dinners she and I had had. For most of our marriage, Aaron worked very late. I would feed Tori and Randy early and then wait for him. Most nights we stayed home and had a quiet dinner together.

When he retired, he’d encourage me to go out with friends; he was content to stay home, as always.

Alicia and I started going out to dinner, and the pattern was always the same: Aaron would call every five minutes. “Are you there yet?” Five minutes later, he’d call. “Have you ordered?” The next call would be to ask if our food had arrived. Then if we were having dessert. Coffee? No soufflés, right? What time would we be home? Sometimes we hadn’t even been seated, and he thought we should be on our way home.

“He’s just worried,” Alicia would reassure me. I knew this, but I still didn’t like the double standard. I worried every night about him, too, but I didn’t make him feel guilty for coming home late. Maybe I should have suggested he develop a new show called
Double Standard
.

Aaron loved to tell stories about the real-life characters he’d met. I was more discreet, enjoying watching the show business types in action and “doing their deals.” My friend Joyce Kraines suggested I write about “all the amazing people you have had the opportunity to meet.” I think I’d need to write a novel if I really wanted to tell the good stories.

Bill Haber, Aaron’s longtime agent, was always teasing us about how hard we both worked and that we never seemed to sleep. When one of us finally fell asleep, the other one would usually find an excuse to wake up our mate.

Bill sent me an e-mail reminding me how Aaron and I would watch CNN and hear stories about people in need, and then spend the rest of the night tracking down information so we could help.

One time, we even paid for a new heart for a teenager. He had played basketball with his friends, and he couldn’t do anything because of his bad heart. We had to help. There was so much red tape involved, so we volunteered to be his dieticians,
shoppers, and fitness coaches until he could get the new heart. That kind of problem makes sleep seem a lot less important.

One of my passions is Mah-Jongg, and my Mah-Jongg buddies are among my closest friends. Many of us have been pals for decades, and the laughter never stops.

Fran Huddleston reminded me of a Mah-Jongg story where my butler, Rodney, went a little overboard. He was, as always, eager to help. During one game, he asked if we needed anything. Fran joked that she needed more jokers. Rodney returned with a bag full of jokers and reported, “Mrs. Spelling keeps these in the bottom drawer.”

I realized later that Rodney had gone through all my sets of Mah-Jongg tiles. I told him extra lemonade and cake would have been better.

I’ve written about my holiday party at the end of 2007. Some of my friends wanted to make sure I covered it in my book. I’ll sit back and let them take over while I smile proudly.

Paula Kent Meehan, a friend and traveling buddy, wanted to make sure I mentioned the hundreds of toy soldiers on the front steps and the live toy soldiers marching around the fountain.

Linda and Bill Rouse were tickled when they walked in and saw Don Rickles and his wife. They had watched Don’s
HBO special the night before. They also liked the bowling and karaoke. “Candy has a beautiful voice and is always humming,” Linda told friends. “As we were leaving, I said to Bill, ‘I want to show you something.’ We went into the doll museum, and sitting on one of the shelves was our original first-grade reading book.”

When they left, they told me they wished Aaron had been there to enjoy it. They reminded me that his dream was to see people having that much fun in our home, and Linda said, “I hope he is looking down at us now.”

Music was a big part of that night, as it always was in our lives. Sheila Kolker liked the “snow” she could see from the windows, and she reminded me of a fantasy I lived that night:

The highlight of our night was when all of a sudden the piano player continued to play and Candy stood by his side and proceeded to sing like an angel. Everyone stood around in awe and what was going on in my mind was not only how beautiful she sounded, but how poised and confident she looked. I’ve known Candy since our boys were little; and as time goes by, we learn more and more about our friend. This was an amazing surprise because I have always admired her grace and elegance, and now I can add to that, a gorgeous voice to match.