Stories From Candyland (9 page)

Aaron loved telling people the story about the diamond that Blake gave Krystle.

“Candy was on the set when someone brought out the diamond ring John Forsythe was giving to Linda Evans on that
week’s episode. Candy jumped up from her chair and said, ‘He would never buy her such a tiny ring. Get a bigger one.’ We had to stop production while Candy and the wardrobe people went out and found the perfect ring for the show.

“She was right. You wouldn’t believe how many viewers wrote letters about the ring and how it was the ultimate piece of jewelry for Krystle.”

My mother had taught me well about jewelry.

One of the most difficult times to maintain my silence was when Tori asked Nolan to design her a “dress with breasts.” My little girl was just seven. Aaron thought it was cute. Nolan was happy to oblige.

My mother and I never talked about “breasts,” and now my daughter wanted Hollywood’s top designer to make a pair for her attached to a grown-up dress. Yikes! I’ll bet Dr. Spock wouldn’t have had an answer for that one, and Dr. Ruth and Sue Johanson weren’t famous enough for me to know about them yet. Dear Abby lived nearby, but I knew Aaron wouldn’t like it if I asked her what to do.

I experienced that helpless feeling, as though I was a little seven-year-old in school, withdrawn and not knowing what to say. This time I wanted to be the right 1970s mother, not 1950s classmate, but it felt the same. What was the right answer? What would a “good” mother do? Did Aaron have any “good mothers” on his television shows? Anyone like Donna Reed, or Mrs. Walton, or even Jane Jetson? I couldn’t think of any.

Tori got her dress. I still haven’t recovered from the shock of seeing her in that dress and holding a cigarette. I flashed on the old Kodak commercial and the song “Turn Around”:

Where are you going,
   My little one, little one. . .

Aaron liked to have me visit the sets, and when I did, my shyness zoomed into high gear. Right after we were married, he was working on a show called
New People
, which was shooting at Zuma Beach. I went to the location, and we stayed at a little motel near the water.

Our first night there he told me, “Candy, I want to show you off.”

“I can’t. I have to clean.”

I’m still not sure if the motel bathroom was so terrible that I needed to use Lysol all over it, or if I just cleaned to avoid meeting new people. Anyway, I chose being a good wife over a silly social occasion, and our room was cleaner than anyone else’s.

It rained the next day, yet Aaron insisted I stop cleaning and come to the set. He sent a man over with a yellow rain slicker. I was certain my new husband hadn’t seen it. He wouldn’t have liked the way I looked in it.

But my appearance wasn’t his main concern.

“Did you return it to wardrobe?” he later asked.

“Of course. Why would I want an ugly men’s slicker?” I forgot my “silence is golden” lessons with that answer. He didn’t say anything, but I took care not to reply like that often during our long marriage.

I stayed silent when Aaron told me that Stefanie Powers had declared that she did not want Nolan Miller on the set of
Hart to Hart
, and that she didn’t like his designs. Ouch. “He’s not allowed,” she said. Remarkably, my husband—her boss—agreed to her demand, although not for long. I figured he knew his actors better than I did, and his track record told me he was making the right move.

I also listened in amazement and disbelief when Aaron told me that Kate Jackson had banned him from the set of
Charlie’s Angels
, although I didn’t stay silent. “Wait, Aaron, you’re the boss. It’s your show.” He nodded and assured me “it would work out.” It wasn’t the first or the last of the diva stories from the set of
Charlie’s Angels
, and he ignored Jackson’s soon-forgotten command for him to stay away.

I often wanted to counsel others to be a bit more discreet, too. In that period, the tabloids were evolving from reporting stories of three-headed, sixteen-toed monsters from another planet to printing juicy details about what the stars said and did (or didn’t say and do). I wished some of his stars were less prominent in the tabloids, but Aaron assured me it only helped the shows they were on. He told me his public relations people were not allowed to speak to the tabloids, except
once a year, when they published their television preview issues. Everyone cooperated then, to promote the fall series. I didn’t comment about the obvious double standard in this, even though I disliked the concept.

On Friday nights, when the shows were taping, I often played poker with the crew during the long breaks some of them had. Boy, was that a great place for gossip! I was so quiet, and I think some of the guys sometimes forgot who I was. That’s when I was happiest, being Candy, not “the Mrs.”

“You have to stop winning at poker,” Aaron warned me. “The crew gets really mad when you win.”

People always thought Aaron and I lived the life of
Dynasty
. More than once, while entertaining overnight guests, we would be waiting for the houseguest to come join us in the kitchen for breakfast, only to find the guest waiting in his or her room for “breakfast in bed.” “That’s how it works on Aaron’s shows,” one British studio executive and one-time houseguest told me. “I assumed that’s how you would treat your houseguests.” He soon moved to a hotel.

The designer Nolan Miller had a secret distinction in Aaron’s and my life. He was the houseguest who wouldn’t leave. He stayed seven and a half years. At first it was fun to hear his great stories, and at the beginning, he would bring beautiful flowers home for us. Then we began talking about
his leaving. He even owned an apartment building where he said he was going to live, but had never completed what he said was the necessary construction. In time, it was clear to all of us that he should move out. According to my count, he lived with us for 2,739 days, and we fed him more than 6,000 meals. He left with a classic 1965 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, which Aaron and I bought for him as a present because he’d told us it was his “life’s dream.”

Aaron’s brother, Danny, once asked why we hadn’t introduced him to the cook, so he could give him a list of what he wanted for every meal. “We don’t have a cook now, Danny,” I explained. “I cook for Aaron and the kids.”

He seemed disappointed. But when I cooked for him, too, he seemed to mind less.

While Aaron and I were dating, I visited the set of
The Mod Squad
. I had taken the afternoon off from my sales job at Joseph Magnin, and I wanted to see Aaron. I also had a brand-new car I could barely afford—a four-day-old silver 1966 Corvette—and I couldn’t wait to drive it on to the studio lot.

I know my choice of car was odd for someone who was trying to blend in. But I had a good job, life was good, and I felt I had achieved some success. In L.A., a car was the ultimate
status symbol, and I loved mine. The Corvette was the first new car I’d ever had, and I was acting like a responsible adult with it, making the payments on the dream vehicle.

I parked the car carefully and went to find Aaron. Just as I was greeting him, I heard a crash. Out of nowhere, a small studio crane had dropped its load and punched a hole into the fiberglass hood of my brand-new sports car! Everyone gathered around to see what had happened.

“Everybody, meet Candy Marer,” Aaron said, beaming. “This is the girl I’m going to marry.” I don’t know if I was more horrified at my wrecked car or at being introduced to a group of strangers.

At least no one expected me to speak.

“She’s such a good sport,” one of the camera operators said. “She’s not even yelling. My girlfriend would be screaming.”

Fortunately, the production company had insurance, and my Corvette was repaired.

The Corvette incident was symbolic of Aaron’s and my relationship. We never yelled or screamed at each other, and rarely had arguments. Aaron liked to show me off.

As Aaron became more successful, money to fix—or buy—cars became inconsequential. Our discussions about money were basically about how to give our kids everything they should have without giving them a sense of entitlement. We’d witnessed Hollywood and other affluent families whose children spent money capriciously and recklessly,
and we wanted Tori and Randy to grow up to be responsible and knowledgable about finances.

Tori was a Brownie, Girl Scout, aspiring ice skater, horseback rider, rabbit breeder, and grunion-running hater. Randy played T-ball, Little League, collected baseball cards, took tennis lessons, and was a video game expert. If it sounds “normal,” it’s because their school lives and extracurricular activities were like those of every other child. I was a room mother at their school. I sat through dance lessons, consoled Randy when his tennis coach upset him. We were strict disciplinarians about bedtimes, homework, phone restrictions, and curfews. They weren’t Hollywood kids. They were American kids. We were together almost all the time, either at home, on the beach, or on family outings.

My respect for silence served me well during my marriage. Early on I decided that there was no sense in arguing with my husband. He was a wordsmith, and I had spent years being afraid to speak. I wouldn’t have had a chance with him. I couldn’t win.

It was just as well. We loved each other, and we were one of the few Hollywood couples who avoided tabloid coverage over family arguments.

Thanks to the Four Seasons and William Shakespeare for the encouragement, and to Thomas Carlyle, whose words pulled me through my self-consciousness when he wrote, “Silence is more eloquent than words.”

Chapter 6
Celebrity Houses and
Glue Guns Require a Gift-
Wrapping Room