Adirondack Audacity

  Adirondack Adirondack

  By L.R. Smolarek

  Adirondack Audacity is a work of fiction. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Linda Smolarek

  Cover design by Ron Turchiarelli

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1499215991

  To the beauty and freedom Of wild open spaces…..

  Acknowledgements

  When I started this project, it was my intent to portray the Adirondack Mountains as a central character of this novel. The mountains with their grace, beauty and majesty are a treasure to the people of New York State and beyond. Many thanks are due to the dedicated individuals whose perseverance has kept the mountains “Forever Wild” and to those who live and work in the Adirondacks trying to eke out a livelihood in harmony with nature.

  To my husband, who has not read a book of fiction since high school yet brought his engineering attention to detail and credibility to this work. To Ronnie Turchiarelli, who designed the cover graphics, I couldn’t have done it without you. And to set the record straight, I have a stepmother who in no way resembles Helen. Lena is my shopping, gardening, and tea buddy. The character of Helen is a product of my very vivid imagination. To my daughter, Meggie, who has proved with determination and hard work, obstacles can turn into accomplishments. As a reading specialist, she became my editor.

  To my proof readers: Susan Young, who lived and worked in the Adirondacks and where a part of her heart shall always reside. Janet Evans, dedicated teacher and fellow Adirondack enthusiast. Linda Thomas, who entered into the foray of romance novels after a sabbatical of many years, welcome back and thanks. Rick Hartman for a quick and timely review and a perspective only a man can give. Gerry Zahariev, your spot on critiques and humor keep me real. A disorganized true blonde such as myself, who can’t remember her own name on a daily basis needs a friend like Donna Gastle, an organized feet on the ground lady with amazing analytical skills. And last, but certainly not least, Sarah Belotti Smolarek, our beautiful bella, who agreed to marry my son and make him the happiest man in the world. Sarah’s comment when she finished reading Adirondack Audacity was.........I love it! And to future readers, I hope you do too!

  May this book be as fun to read, As it was to write,

  Linda

  50% of the profits from this book will be dedicated to wildlife and nature conservation projects.

  Prologue August 21, 2012 Okay, here’s the thing, only copious quantities of alcohol coupled with unconditional maternal love could put me on a plane flying 30,000 feet above the Rocky Mountains. The trip mandated by the fact my daughter lives on the other side of the country…….I miss her and it’s just too far to walk.

  The mountains lie below with the heavens above, but for me, I’m in purgatory. Updrafts from the peaks combined with wind shear cause the plane to buck and dip like a rodeo horse on steroids. I hate flying. It’s fallout from my childhood. I’d be playing with Barbie sitting all pretty in her pink Winnebago while my brothers built model airplanes out of Legos, and proceed to bash them into the wall, squealing with laughter as the plane exploded into a million pieces. Barbie and I cringed in horror as the little Lego people careened across the room, and my imagination added flames, the whole

  conflagration erupting into a fiery inferno. And that’s the memory I choose to pull out as I wing my way across the country. Great.

  M y name is Ellen O’Connor, and I’m more of a-feeton-theground kind of girl……..my interests tend to lie in the mundane adventures of life, hiking, gardening, or idling away the afternoon with a good book. But I’m still waiting for the pink Winnebago adventure to spice things up. Sure seemed to work for Barbie.

  As a birthday gift, my children upgraded my coach ticket to first class in hopes better accommodations would lessen my fear of flying. It didn’t……..first class simply meant……better alcohol and more of it.

  So one drink leads to two, two becomes three….and three means I’m drunk. So why am I still white knuckling the arm rest? Because….. I’m in a pressurized steel tube streaking across the sky at warp speed, held aloft by the grace of God serviced by fallible, bored and possibly high on marijuana flight personnel. That’s why my stomach clenches as the plane lurches downward dipping into an air pocket, only to lift and fall again. The walls of the cabin close in and my body tenses in rising panic. Overhead the “fasten seat belt” sign flashes on asking passengers to remain seated during the anticipated turbulence ahead. Seriously, we need a sign to state the obvious.

  And the irony of it……..my husband was a pilot. Jack would roll his eyes and chuckle over my foolish behavior. Married to a pilot for over two decades; and here I am….afraid of flying. Odd, isn’t it? Jack reveled in the pitches and dips of the plane, the excitement of take-off, and the thrill of landing in stormy weather.

  Outside the window a dense blanket of cloud stretches in all directions, exactly how heaven should look. I wonder if Jack is out there, somewhere riding around on a puffy cloud playing the harp. A rather ludicrous thought if you knew Jack. Most likely he’d be trying to con St. Peter into a game of poker, or peeking under the angel’s wings to see if they have real breasts.

  Its been almost two years, and I still can’t reconcile myself to his death. He was too young to die. And I’m too young to be a widow. I think widows are supposted to be old ladies with glasses hanging off chains, tunic tops, gray hair and sensible shoes…..?

  Personally, I prefer blue jeans paired with a cozy flannel shirt, and somewhere along the way, I’ve developed a passion for red dresses…….. and stiletto heels. I’m currently coveting a pair of Manolo Blahnik’s, only thing holding me back is….. money.

  Jack was forty-nine years old, in the prime of his life. He ate well, jogged two miles a day and with his easygoing Irish temperament, the pressures of life never overwhelmed him. At the merest hint of a problem, he’d say with an exaggerated Irish brogue, “Darling, don’t ye be worrying, things have a way of working themselves out. Who knows, we could be dead tomorrow, so enjoy today.” And with those words of wisdom he’d kiss the top of my head and be off…………..leaving me to deal with the crisis at hand. That was my happy-go-lucky husband, shrugging away the cares of the world, secure in the knowledge his good looks and charm would extricate him out of any dilemma life sent his way.

  And it usually did, a golden boy, classically handsome, and confident of his place in the world. Jack was blessed with good looks, athletic prowess and charisma, a lethal combination in a man who recognized his talents at an early age and spent a lifetime honing his skills. He was a Kennedy without the curse, until that day in early December, when his body lay lifeless on top of mine. The spark, the grace, the wit, the sum that had been him was simply gone, like an eternal spirit summoned back to the nether world by the gods who clearly missed him.

  One minute he’s laughing and joking, making love to me, the next moment seized by a gripping pain in his chest, he falls dead on top of me. And it was just like him to leave me the way he did. In the middle of sex, he has the big O, I don’t, and then I’m left behind, butt naked underneath him. I imagine him up in heaven lounging on a cloud, chuckling “Oh, darling, just leaving you with a little bit of love,” waving his wings at me, “If I have to go, I might as well go happy.” With little thought of how I was going to extricate myself fr
om under his lifeless body. I’m sure the people who work on emergency squads have seen just about everything. Jack would have loved the fact when the ParaMeds arrived; I was bare-ass naked desperately performing CPR on him. I can still hear one of the guy’s comments, “He must be dead, because no man with any spark of life left in him could lay there with her bouncing up and down on him like that.” Very professional. And they took their sweet time handing me my robe. And again I hear Jack……“Ahh, let the boys have a little fun.” He turned the brogue on and off when it suited his needs. He was a charming devil of a man.

  He treated me like a queen……a queen who took care of the duties of the king while the king went his merry way. He never questioned our family finances or discipline decisions for the children, and still chased me around the bedroom to the point I had to change in the closet if I wanted peace.

  And Jack gave me the family I desperately needed, a large extended Irish family with brothers, sisters, aunties, uncles and parents who loved me like their own. All and all it was a fair trade-off; many women envied my marriage. I married the catch. The catch or the “but” in our relationship was………well, frankly, Jack was a bit of a…….shit. He had a weakness…. for women, all women….. any size…… any shape……..any age. I learned to look away from the lipstick smudge on the collar, a stray hair clinging to his jacket, and the occasional late nights without explanation. I was number one in his heart, but other women lurked in the shadows of our bedroom. He was a player, it was who he was, and he needed the constant validation of his manhood.

  Tears and arguments to no avail; it was this way, or no way. That was Jack……take it or leave it. Life is a series of compromises.

  The fasten seat belt sign blinks off; and I exhale a sigh of relief. About time, my wineglass is empty and my buzz is wearing off. Where is that flight attendant? Brought on by the altitude and too much alcohol, my mind continues to reminisce, I remember the day I met Jack. I was a senior at the University of Syracuse, studying elementary education, and receiving quite a tutorial in the realities of life from my eleven-year old inner city students. Jack was stationed at the Air National Guard base just outside of the city. He had graduated from Embry-Riddle College with a degree in aviation and enlisted in the Air National Guard to gain experience for his commercial pilot’s license. He exuded boyish appeal in a man’s body, wearing sloppy oxford shirts and slim khakis, a clean-cut boy in an era of longhaired hippies.

  I met him jogging in the park; he came up from behind and started running next to me. What can I say, I was smitten. He devastated me with his smile of even white teeth that would make an orthodontist cry. He was black Irish, dark curling hair that tumbled in heavy waves, Celtic morning blue eyes sprang from his face in startling contrast.

  The deal breaker was the dog; he was jogging with a golden retriever named Lucas. My collie, Gabby, took one look at Lucas and was smitten too. We had coffee and the rest is history.

  Before meeting Jack, I was content on my own, thinking I didn’t need another man in my life. After losing Vic, I thought my heart incapable of love. And I was fine except for the nights, the long dark nights I laid awake, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, barely holding loneliness at bay. But then Jack came

  along…..and it was another chance at life.

  But ….they say you never forget your first love and while that summer in the Adirondacks seems so long ago; to me it seems like…..yesterday….

  It’s funny, how one summercan change everything. It must be something about the warmth, the smell of pine, th e morning mist ona mountain lake,

  th e chargedairaftera late-day thunderstorm. A first love……

  a summerlove.

  Ev eryone can reach back to one summer, pause,

  andfind the exact momentwhen everything

  changed.

  Thatsummerwasmy Adirondack Summer.

  Chapter 1 Adirondack Summer-June 24, 1982 At seventeen, I’ve never been more than 50 miles away from home, never spent a night in a hotel, never crossed the state line, and now………I’m on a bus heading to the Adirondack Mountains. To a place I never heard of until two months ago, Camp High Point at Cascade Mountain. What kind of name is that? Summer camps usually have long unpronounceable Indian names that twist and turn on your tongue. Camp names usually bring to mind Native Americans who wandered these lands years ago, constellations, a type of tree, or even a species of birds. Camp High Point at the Cascade sounds like the place British aristocracy ship their children off to for the summer. Very posh.

  The reason I’m on this bus is simple……..in my world I have two nicknames, labels that follow me and define my life, nicknames that change depending on the mood of the day. For example, when I fell down the stairs in front of the varsity football team……showing off my pink polka-dot underwear….. and by the end of the day instead of being Ellen McCauley, the whole school is calling me Dots……..that’s a Klutz-Ellen day.

  Or when I’m forced to miss softball practice, again, and my coach swears he’s going to bench me, he doesn’t quite understand my stepmother, Helen. When you live with Helen, you live with her rules……and that means starting dinner, folding laundry, and babysitting my brothers is far more important than softball practice or a normal teenage social life……..that’s a Cinder-Ellen day.

  I blame the Klutz-Ellen days on my blonde hair; I’m somewhere between a blonde and a red head, sort of like Lucille Ball running smack dab into Marilyn Monroe’s chest. Only I didn’t get the red hair or the voluptuous breasts.

  The Cinder-Ellen days, truth be told …I blame Helen and her endless list of chores.

  In addition to nicknames, I have demons. Who wouldn’t? My mother died in horrific car crash when I was twelve, my stepmother tutored under the Wicked Witch of the West, and my father has never made an authentic decision in his life. In addition, I live with two little brothers apprenticed to be junior terrorists. The fact that my stepmother adores them, and loathes me, doesn’t bode well for yours truly.

  Not that I’m complaining…….okay, I’m

  complaining. So when I saw an advertisement in the newspaper for a nature counselor at a children’s camp in the Adirondacks, I jumped at the chance…….because in my mind that ad said one word……Escape.

  So here I am on a bus to the mountains, sun light streaming through the open windows as a June heat wave grips the Northeast. My idea of getting away from it all…..did not include being smashed against the bus frame by the bulk of a woman whose girth exceeds the size of her seat by a factor of two, an 85 degree day with humidity somewhere between hell and the Amazon Rainforest…. no air conditioning, and no lunch. Helen left my lunch on the kitchen counter, a little farewell revenge. Dust motes float in the stifling heat, and the air carries the faint smell of disinfectant. Watching the scenery roll by, I’m mesmerized by the rising waves of heat shimmering off the highway.

  Catching sight of my reflection in the window of the bus, I wince. Like most seventeen year old girls, I’m obsessed with my appearance. I keep hoping someone will tell me I’m beautiful…….I’m still waiting. My father has blonde hair, my mother had auburn hair, and I fall somewhere in the middle. My hair is the color of a warm caramel in winter, streaked to coppery blonde by the summer sun. In fifth grade, I was the smallest girl in my class with hair hanging in curling ringlets down my back. By high school I’m weirdly tall, a collection of arms and legs that tangle and trip me at the slightest provocation. And the ringlets are gone. Could I have peaked in the fifth grade? I once heard an aunt say I have almond shaped eyes. I liked that, almond shaped eyes sound exotic and mysterious. We’ll ignore the fact my eyes are….blue, just blue. Not aquamarine, sapphire, or turquoise like the heroines in romance novels. No, just blue. At seventeen I’m not attracting a lot of boys; and quite frankly I’m not trying. Boys my age are preoccupied with four things, sports, cars, beer and boobs, the order of importance changing with their mood. Don’t get me wrong, I like sports. But I am not
the least bit interested in beer or cars, and I’d like to keep my boobs intact from the groping and mauling that goes on in the back seat of parked cars. Not having excessively large breasts, just the standard ABC cup variety, I’ve decided I’m saving them for the right guy. I just hope the right guy comes along before I hit eighty and the boobs head south to meet my belly-button.

  Squirming ever so slightly to avoid body contact with my seatmate whose snores threaten to overpower the diesel engine of the bus, I reach into my backpack and pull out a tattered pamphlet, corners curled and frayed from too much handling. Camp High Point at Cascade Mountain is written in bold print across the top margin. The front cover shows campers canoeing on a lake, hiking through the woods, singing around a campfire, and horseback riding across a meadow……I’ve never ridden a horse.

  Smoothing out the wrinkles of the brochure on my knee, I read for the hundredth time the list of camp promises…. and add a few of my own.

  I’m seventeen and have done, basically, nothing. Never smoked a cigarette…….never drank a beer…….never kissed a boy. I’m not counting Mark Pinowicz. He only kissed me to see if he could French kiss with his braces on, and he wanted to try it out on me because I wasn’t popular enough to count. To say the least it was a very unrewarding experience.

  So maybe I’ll go skinny dipping………not wear a bra for the entire summer………..definitely drink

  beer………or do something illegal….like smoke a joint….hmmm, the possibilities of summer are endless….

  But truth be told, the real reason I’ve left home for the summer is…..it’s been five years since my mother’s death…and the night my mom died, part of my father died too. And life as I knew it ceased to exist. As much as I tried to fill her shoes and help ease his grief, nothing I did filled the void of her absence. My father was never the same, a combination of guilt and grief. He blames himself for the accident. My mother drove home from the party that night because he was drunk. He didn’t notice she had been drinking too, and she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She ran a stop sign, collided with a utility truck and went through the windshield. She was dead upon arrival at the hospital.