Adirondack Audacity Read online

  I clasp Vic’s hand across the worn flannel, the sun warms our bodies as we stretch out on the sleeping bag, relishing the quiet mountain solitude. Summer on the mountain is ending. The buses leave for home tomorrow.

  “ Querida,” Vic murmurs, rolling his body on top of mine, his fingers spilling the sun bleached locks of my hair onto the grass, creating lines of molten gold. Blue eyes meet smoky dark eyes that glint with amber light; his eyes are mesmerizing, almost hypnotic.

  “Umm ,” I sigh in contentment, running my fingers with a feather touch along the edge of his jaw pausing to outline the shape of his finely chiseled lips. Tilting my head deliberately, I give him the invitation to lean in and take possession, complete and total surrender as desire meets desire. I melt into him as his arms wrap around me, drowning in the natural scent of him.

  Stopping to lean back on his elbow, his eyes study my face as his long fingers caress the hollow of my collarbone stroking the swell of my breast, the heat of his touch sends quivers of delight racing through my body. How am I to live without him?

  His lips move slowly and lingeringly from my mouth to my earlobe. “Caro, caro,” he says, burying his face in my neck while his hands rove up and down the length of my body. Waves of pent-up passion begin to build, craving fulfillment. We’ve not made love since the night Burt discovered us in the boathouse. I can feel the stirring in him as his hands move exploring every curve and hollow through my thin cotton shirt and shorts.

  “Did you bring Burt’s “presents?” I manage to eke out in a ragged breath as I struggle to overcome the dizzy spiraling need growing in my gut. His hands still their exploration as he gently brushes the hair back from my face looking deeply in my eyes, “Elle, are you sure?”

  “How do you say, make love to me in Spanish?” I whisper, my voice trembling as I kiss the small indentation in his chin. “Is it Harcerle el amora ?”

  “Close enough………close enough.” The low dusky notes of his voice are the quiet melody of a distant thunderstorm, echoing the slow reverberation in my chest, as my heart beats the low bass notes, thump, thump. “Love me, Vic.” I repeat in a throaty whisper as I tease the lobe of his ear with delicate nips of my teeth, lifting his hair allowing it to slither through my fingers like fallen black silk.

  “Do you know how much I love you?” he asks. “As much as I love you back.”

  “Forever and ever?”

  “Always.” There is one person in this world for each

  of us, one who is worth taking on the risks and pitfalls of love. For me it is him, I will risk anything to be with him. He kisses my hair, eyes and face and the pulse that beats in the hollow of my neck as his mouth forges a burning trail down to my breast. His fingers undoing the buttons of my shirt…one by one. I feel his mouth teasing my nipples until I groan, a strangely incoherent sound. Slipping his hands to my waist he slides the lower half of my clothes off, tossing them into a careless pile on the grass.

  My hands tug impatiently to pull the shirt away from his body, slipping needy fingers under the smooth fabric to knead the ridge of muscles along his ribs and abdomen. With one quick move I shuck the shirt from his body, hands roving slowly over his flat, muscled stomach, I feel him suck in his breath and soon his jeans join the growing pile of clothes.

  The molding of body against body, as heat and desire fuel flames of passion not to be denied. His hand is on my breast as his movements quicken and my body moves in response, matching his pace, pulsing and arching to forgetfulness, fulfillment and back.

  Lying there against him, his arms holding me close as beads of perspiration glisten on satiated skin, evaporating in the noon day sun. Turning over in his arms to face him, I watch the sunlight create a halo effect on his jet black hair, hair that tumbles over his forehead in careless disarray. I kiss the roughened skin covering a scar on his shoulder. Those vaqueros again. His hands run over my body trying to memorize each line and angle, pausing to kiss the mole on my inner arm, tracing the outline of a birthmark on the lower edge of my butt, caressing the scar on my knee from a bicycle fall when I was six. Using eyes, hands and mouth, following every curve, we create a remembrance to hold against the barren loss of the future.

  “I can’t stand the thought of leaving you ,” he reaches out running his hand down the length of my hair.

  I nod as tears well up in my eyes. I brush them away with the back of my hand.

  “I don’t know how, but we’ll find a way to be together. I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel the way you do. I’m in love with you, Elle. That first night when I saw you trip down the steps of that bus, falling into the driver’s arms. I just knew I would love you.”

  “I love you, Vicente Rienz.” I tease, “But I have to admit, it took me a little longer to warm up to you.”

  “Yeah,” he says, running his thumb over my knuckles. “I was a pain in the ass when I first came here. I was so pissed off at my father, forcing me to take this job, and now it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Between finding you, Ben, Emi and the others, being in the mountains, I don’t want it to end.”

  I nod, reaching up to tuck that gorgeous black hair behind his ear. “I know;; I feel the same way. I dread the thought of being apart from you.”

  “We’ll think of something, I can hop a bus or hitch hike.” Tilting my chin up with a gentle touch of his hand, our eyes lock. “I’m afraid you’ll go home and find someone else.”

  Not bloody likely. My prospects at home are dull, boring and very limited. Frankly, the captain of the football team hasn’t exactly been knocking down my door. And once you’ve tasted dark, deep Spanish chocolate, the captain of the football team is……..rather mundane. “Not much chance of that happening.” I squeeze his hand.

  “You are so beautiful;; I can’t imagine every guy in school not wanting to be with you.” Really.…. he needs his vision checked when he gets home.

  I venture, “Maybe we could be exclusive, you know, how everyone exchanges rings and promises to be true to each other.”

  “I don’t have a ring to give you.” He turns his hands over, indicating the ring less state of them.

  Okay, sometimes I have great ideas and sometimes I get caught up in the enthusiasm of the moment, swept away by the emotion, beguiled by the romanticism of a gesture or a symbol….and sometimes that idea is really bad. This is one of those times. While Vic’s thinking of a ring to symbolize our commitment to each other, I pull from the recesses of my memory, a story I read years ago. The image is still fresh in my mind.

  “Ummmm, I read this book,” I begin tentatively. “A story about a pioneer girl growing up in the 1870’s and her friendship with a young Cherokee brave. My favorite part of the story is when they make a friendship pact. They cut the palms of their hands and hold the wounds together, symbolizing the blood bond between them, a vow that bridges the differences between family and culture. The story ends years later when he spares her husband and family from a raiding war party.” At the time I thought it was so romantic……and Vic reminds me of a Cherokee brave, tall, dark and handsome. In my mind I can picture him riding across the plains, bareback on a painted pony rescuing me, tossing me on the back of his horse. And somehow I think I would look cute in a poke bonnet………..and gingham. Very Little House on the Prairie.

  “I like it,” he chuckles, squeezing my hand saying, half serious and half in jest, “We’ll make a vow, a sacred pact, sealed with our own blood.” Reaching into his pack he brings out the small pocket knife he carries with him all the time. The blade glitters silver in the sun. My stomach clenches, maybe this wasn’t a good idea;; I just remembered, I don’t like blood…..or sharp objects.

  “Really?” I look at him with trepidation.

  “It’s kind of a Native American sacred custom. We cut each other’s palm then hold our hands together, mingling our blood, the ultimate bond.” But before I protest he whips out the blade and makes a quick slash across the palm of his hand. Jeweled drops of ruby re
d blood seep out, forming a small crimson line. Sweet Jesus, does nothing faze him? I hide my hand behind my back, I’ve changed my mind.

  “Elle, give me your hand, it doesn’t hurt much, just a quick sting.” He reaches out, and turns my hand over gently so the soft palm lies open. Oh boy…

  With a quick sure stroke he runs the blade over my hand, a slash of red springs to the surface, vivid against the white of my palm, a quick sting of pain. The pain fades quickly as my gaze shifts from the wound to his eyes. Sparks of light explode from his eyes as he hold his hand up, I place the open wound against his, our fingers intertwined, the warmth of his blood mingles with mine, creating a bond more consummate than most marriages.

  Holding hands together, our lips meet, warm, soft and deep. His lips don’t just brush or nibble, they absorb my entire being, leaving me dizzy and breathless. A shimmering heat wave starts in my toes, rising as he pulls me into his lap, draping my limbs over his while that wonderful mouth continues to move over mine causing a tremor to travel down my spine.

  “Relax, Elle,” he commands, a slightly amused look on his face, lightly running his fingertips over my mouth.

  “Oh,” I exhale in surprise, realizing I forgot to breathe. I hasten to comply, much to my awaking pleasure, his tongue gently probes, traces and dances in duet with mine. I feel him tremble against my own shiver of response. My hands tangle in his hair, fisted while I nibble one corner of his mouth, then the other, my breath exhaling like a torn sob. His hand roves the length of my body, igniting shots of white heat.

  Later still drowsy in the aftermath of love, watching the clouds scuttle overhead, “Elle?” he murmurs against my ear.

  “Umm?” I answer with a sleepy reply.

  “You smell like the forest.”

  “What?” I look at him as if he has lost his mind.

  “The forest, pine trees, ferns and moss. I think all that time you and Burt spend in the woods has seeped into your skin.”

  “How can moss smell, sounds like I need a shower.”

  “No, you smell clean and fresh, like opening the windows after a summer rain.”

  “You’re silly.” I’m distracted by his hands that have strayed from tickling to concentrating on more intimate areas. “Stop, stop, stop, let me catch my breath, you brute!” I holler in mock protest.

  “Fine, fine, you’re nothing but a woodland temptress disguised under that sweet innocent face.” He rolls onto his back resting his head on his hands, squinting up at the sun. “Oh, I almost forgot, guess what I have in here?” Vic sits up holding his pack over my head with a teasing come-and-get-it wag. “Mac gave us a going away present.”

  Oh, boy, I think to myself, anything from Kat and Mac is bound to be illegal.

  Sure enough, Vic unzips his pack and takes out a small baggie with a marijuana joint in it.

  “What do you think,” he says shrugging. “Should we?”

  As I lay here gloriously naked with nothing between me and the sky but bare skin…… is this really a good time to ask if I want to be prudent? Seems a little late for conservative thinking. “It’s a shame to waste a perfectly good joint.” I answer with a sweet innocent look on my face. “Light it up, baby!”

  “Yes, Miss Bossy Pants,” he shakes his finger at me as if admonishing a precocious child. “Or rather Miss Bossy without her pants.”

  “Yes, sir,” I respond, giving him a mock salute.

  Vic takes out a small packet of matches advertising a restaurant in New York City and lights the joint. He inhales and passes it to me on delicate fingertips.

  Lying in his arms, the heady sweet smell of pot, combined with the warmth of afternoon sun, causes my body to melt on a tide of relaxed euphoria.

  “Elle, pose for me.” Vic asks in a lazy voice holding up his camera with a quizzical look on his face.

  “What?’ I rouse from my languor to look at him.

  “I want your picture in the black- eyed Susans.” “In the daisies? But I’m naked.”

  “Nude, it’s art.”

  Drunk on the sun, high from the joint, inhibitions cast aside under the loving reverence coming from his eyes, I ask tentatively, “Can I wear my hat?” As if the hat somehow makes it less nude.

  “Sure,” he replies, changing the lens on his camera, turning the dials, checking for light and focus.

  The camera in the hands of a skilled photographer can open doors into a person’s soul as angles and shafts of light pierce though hidden veneers, little revealed secrets exposed onto film, images held frozen in time, captured, then bared to witness. Vic has the gift of understanding light and color, blending the shadows to a whole, drawing the eye to an image of balance and pleasure. We play hide and seek with the camera between the stalks of black-eyed Susans. His eyes making love to me through the shutter, click, click as I bask in the glow of his affection. Flowers placed strategically with careful posing preclude the pictures from being lewd, art graced by golden flowers dancing in the breeze. The

  photographs capturing innocence on the brink of womanhood, tasting the first fruits of adulthood while still cloaked in the quintessence of youth.

  As the sun sets in the western horizon, we swim in the icy cold current that feeds the lake from an underground spring, the cold shocking us back to reality. With a towel snitched from the camp laundry, we buff off chilled skin roughened by goose bumps, the dry air of late summer holds the hint of autumn. We dress each other slowly from the pile of clothes left in a careless heap. Loving hands smooth down shirts, buttons slip through holes… a kiss left with tender care as a collar is folded into place. Taking a last cigarette from the crushed pack, Vic smiles, “That’s it, summer’s done.” He crumples the wrapper into a tight ball, and with the whisper of a match, the cigarette glows. We share that last cigarette, slowly exhaling, staining the night air with rings of smoke. Holding our scarred hands together, we sit watching the sunset turn the sky pink, grey and vermillion and fade to twilight as the stars appear on the horizon’s edge. Morris will be furious…..we’ve missed dinner and have no excuse, because summer is gone…..and only the abyss of winter lies ahead.

  Adirondack Lost

  Chapter 16 Helen “ Welcome home, Ellen,” my stepmother, Helen, says without a trace of warmth in her voice, turning her cheek so I can dutifully kiss her. “It is certainly good to have you home after your little vacation to the mountains. Starting tomorrow we’re cleaning the house from top to bottom. It’s entirely too much work for me. I’ve been patiently waiting for you to come home from all that camp foolishness.” In a snit of jealousy, she pulls my brothers away before I can hug them. “Boys, leave your sister alone, I’m sure she’s too grown up from her camp experience to want your attention.” She says camp, as if it were a dirty word. As I look at my brothers’ sun-kissed freckle faces, I realize how much I’ve missed them. I do want their attention. At one time we were everything to each other.

  As my father extends his arms to hug me, Helen commands, “John, get Ellen’s bag so we can head for home.” She nods to me. “I told your grandmother not to come knowing you would be too tired from the bus ride.” And like three little puppets on a string, my father and brothers jump to do her bidding. My heart sinks, some things never change…..

  … Helen took my camp wages, except for the money I hid. I told her Mr. and Mrs Erhart charged us room and board. The rest of the money she placed in a bank account she called my “rainy day” nest egg. I call it …..robbery. When I protested, wanting to put the money into a college fund, she sniffed and said that would be a waste. What did I need with college when I could finish high school with a secretarial degree, find a good job and maybe get married? She said it so eloquently, “Even if you do look like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, Ellen, I’m sure some man will want you. Saving your money will help make you more desirable. Heaven knows, it won’t be your looks.” That statement had me staring at the mirror for a half hour, examining every angle of my face. Scarecrow? I’m not that tall. I
always thought I resembled Glenda, the good witch. As a little girl I’d dress up in my princess outfit and tiara, and spread good will with a wave of my wand. I know who Helen resembles…….and it ain’t no fairy godmother.

  What Helen doesn’t know is…..I’ve combined her secretarial courses with college entrance courses at school. I have my father sign my report cards because he never looks at them. Vic and I plan to find schools near each other, use our saved money and take out loans for the rest. This summer taught me I can survive…and thrive away from my family. I’m stronger than I thought. She forgot the scarecrow had….brains.

  I set up a P.O. box at the post office where Vic could send letters and avoid the spying eyes of Helen. Twice a week I stop on my way home from school and pour over his letters about life in Mexico. A large manila envelope arrived a few days ago, inside was a letter and several photographs from the summer. He didn’t send the ones from our last day in the field of black-eyed Susans. Thank God, all I need is for someone to see me butt naked in a field of daisies. There are no words to explain what you were doing naked in a field with a teenage guy carrying a telephoto lens. Thankfully, he only included group shots and photos of us jumping from the cliff. I don’t think Helen cares if I try to kill myself.

  In October I write telling him I may have mono, the kissing disease. What a joke, no kissing going on for me this fall. Everyone at school has it, I’m sure that’s why I’m so tired. I just wore myself out between school, sports and helping around the house. I’ve never been so tired in my life, luckily my volleyball season is over and Helen declared the house clean. I would yell, yippee……if I weren’t so tired.

  At the end of the month, at dinner one evening, Helen casually mentions my brother Rory has a hockey tournament in Pennsylvania the weekend of November 15th. An idea bursts in my head like a Fourth of July fireworks display. Vic’s school is on holiday that week, something about the patron saint’s feast day. He was hoping to come back to New York to visit his mother. The timing is perfect. No one knows about Vic, not my friends at school, certainly not my father or Helen, not even Gran. I can’t bring him to Helen’s house and the thought of meeting him in a hotel is gross...it’s time to tell Gran.