Adirondack Audacity Page 14

  Chapter 17 The Promise Convincing Gran to let Vic stay for the weekend while my family travels to the hockey tournament was……a piece of cake. Barely able to contain her curiosity, she readily agreed to the visit. And in her no nonsense, blunt vernacular she said, “You tell lover boy to get his ass up here so your grandmother can meet him.” She has such a way with words, it just warms my heart.

  So on a cold November day, the rain drumming against the pulsing windshield wipers, we drive to the bus station. Graciously, Gran waits in the car while I go meet Vic. The large white clock on the wall shows I’m fifteen minutes early. I pace back and forth by the arrival dock for the bus, my stomach a twisted coil of nerves, hands thrust in the pockets of my jeans, staring anxiously at the arrival ramp. Imagining our reunion, I see myself running to him in slow motion like in the movies, flinging my arms around him, embracing him with a mad passionate kiss. That was my image until I see him get off the bus…….he stops half way down the steps, scanning the waiting crowd for me. Our eyes meet, his dark eyes glitter hungrily. I blush and he still stares. A crooked smile plays across his face. Holy cow. He’s grown taller, he’s now maybe, six two, six three. Skin tanned, carrying a hint of bronze left over from the summer. His hair so long it skims the collar of his black leather jacket, unzipped showing the denim work shirt layered over a white Tshirt. His worn jeans slung low on his hips are cuffed over scuffed hiking boots. He looks….fantastic! Kind of that “dirty” boy look with the wrinkled worn clothing, shaggy hair, day old growth of beard, a look that is so, so sexy. I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with the thought…this is him……he is gorgeous….and he is coming home with me! He smiles, waving as he trots across the station zigzagging around people toward me. I just stand there, rooted to the spot with a silly grin plastered to my face. Dropping his backpack at my feet, he’s so close, but he doesn’t touch me. His proximity is overwhelming, exhilarating. The familiar pull is there, all my instincts goading me toward him, staring at the patch of skin showing in the V of his shirt, I bite my lip, helpless, driven by desire. I want to taste him there. Damn him.

  He sweeps me up in a huge hug. I reach up, diving my fingers in the unruly waves of dark hair at the base of his neck, pull his head down to meet my lips, blushing at the brazen intensity of my kiss. The sight of two teenagers kissing draws stares of amusement and some of outrage. I don’t care who sees us kissing and less of their opinion……until I hear behind me, “Et, hm, I was wondering if there was a problem.” Turning in Vic’s arms, my stomach drops, it’s my grandmother, looking both amused and outraged at the same time, if that is possible. Oh, I am so screwed….

  “Oh, Gran,” I cringe in embarrassment. Before I ’m able to gather my wits, Vic extends his hand to Gran with courtly grace and Old World charm saying, “Hello, Mrs. McCauley, I’m Vicente Rienz. Thank you for your hospitality and allowing me to stay with you for the weekend. I am honored to be invited.” His accent seems even more pronounced than usual. “Call me Vic.”

  I look at him in alarm, who is this Spanish grandee straight off the hacienda trying to charm my

  grandmother. And charm her he does, I watch in amazement as my sixty-eight year old grandmother melts beneath his gaze.

  “Hello, Vic . I’m Ellen’s grandmother, Gertrude, but everyone calls me Trudy, you should too.” Gran accepts his outstretched hand, sizing him up for character content and flaw. Their eyes meet over the handshake, acceptance and approval sealed with a nod.

  … Gran’s house is a small red cabin at the base of a steep hill. In the summer, the surrounding gardens are glorious with flowers. Now, the small porch sadly overlooks the remains of her flowerbed, only lifeless stalks of seedheads encased in frost hold promise of spring and life again. The entrance to the house is crammed with pots of geraniums to “winter over” on window ledges. Gran directs Vic to leave his duffle bag in the living room where a fieldstone fireplace dominates the room under a ceiling of exposed beams. The room is rich in color, wood paneling mellowed over the years to a reddish cherry hue. Plaid fabric on the couch and chairs harmonizes with pillows and rugs covered in matching earth tones make for a cozy retreat from the weather.

  Outside the security of the snug cabin, gusty winds out of the west rattle the windows and rain beats on the roof with the promise of snow by morning. The fire in the grate glows red, popping and spitting bits of gold embers against the hearth.

  While we set the table for dinner, Gran sent Vic outside to collect wood from a shed near the old outhouse, stocking the woodbin for the evening. We celebrated Vic’s seventeenth birthday with lasagna, tossed salad, and his favorite dessert……chocolate cake.

  Eating in front of the fireplace on the floor, Vic tells Gran about his life, how his family moves back and forth between Mexico and New York City. From his duffle bag he brings out photographs of his family and country along with the ones taken over the summer.

  “These are really good,” Gran says holding the pictures up to the light, stopping when she sees one of me. I’m sitting in a canoe, legs dangling over the edge, a smile peeking out from under a straw hat. The colors and composition of the photograph are nearly perfect almost professional quality. “Do you have any more?” she asks.

  Before Vic can answer, I try changing the subject and suggest, “How about playing some cards?” I’m nervous some of those “naked daisy day” pictures might be lurking in his pack. The last thing my grandmother needs to see is my naked butt in a field of daisies. Jumping to my feet I say, “I’ll get the deck.” Knowing fully well Gran can’t resist a game of cards. “You decide what we should play.”

  Vic and Gran’s eyes light up and in unison they yell, “Poker!” I groan. I’m a terrible poker player. I couldn’t bluff my way out of a convent full of nuns. For the next few hours, Vic and Gran are in their element, dealing cards, checking their hands, betting, folding, and scrutinizing each other under hooded eyes, expressionless faces, impossible to know who’s bluffing who. If my Grandmother lost a hand, she smacked her cards down with a resounding slam and called him a “horse’s ass.” By the end of the night he has his baseball cap on backward, saying to her, “What’s the matter, Granny, ‘fraid to put your money where your mouth is?” He finishes the insult by reaching over to steal one of her cigarettes, leaning back in his chair to blow smoke rings in the air above her head.

  “You, little shit, take that,” she’d counter, laying down a winning hand. Banging the table with her fist, she swept in his dwindling pile of peanuts, the accepted currency of the night and cackle like an old satisfied hen on a brood of eggs. At midnight a truce was called, Gran having the slightly larger pile of peanuts. I vow never to suggest cards again. Gran asks where he learned to play so well; Vic admitted the cowboys on the ranch in Mexico taught him…….and what else did the cowboys on the ranch teach him? Combat guerilla warfare, drug smuggling, possibly cattle rustling, counterfeiting……

  After Gran goes to bed, Vic and I curl up in each other’s arms, a movie playing in the background, but we’re oblivious to the television screen. The hours pass by, hugging, talking and kissing. At two o’clock in the morning Gran calls down from her bedroom, “Hey, you two, how about getting some sleep. Ellen, you go upstairs to your room. And lover boy, you had better not leave that couch or your ass will be out in the cold, hitch-hiking your way home……...no one tells it like my Gran.

  … A light snow fell overnight, blanketing the grass with a carpet of white. The temperatures hover in the thirties. The day is spent hiking and exploring the creeks and ravines that traverse the steep slopes behind Gran’s cabin. Not impressed with the tracking skills I learned from Burt, Vic cringes as I proudly identify fox scat next to set of paw prints.

  “Dog shit, that’s all that is, Elle, you’re not turnin g me on with that information.” He wrinkles his nose, a look of disdain on his face, stepping back as if the offending scat were something alive.

  “City boy,” I tease. “You’d be lost if I disappeared, l
eaving you all alone in the big bad woods.” With an impish grin, I turn, running down the hill, dodging branches in a weak attempt to lose him.

  “Hey, wait for me,” he yell s, chasing after me in hot pursuit. With a burst of speed he lunges, grabs my waist, and lifts me off the ground.

  “Put me down,” I protest, squirming in his arms. “Remember, I’m only a part time City Boy. My mia bella,” he leans me against a tree. I feel the rough bark through my wool jacket. Shoving his gloves in his pockets, his hands warm my cold cheeks, and slowly his lips lower. Gently at first, then with increased intensity devouring my lips, his mouth traces the warmth of his hands along my cheekbones and down my neck. Pulling the hat from my head, his hands run through my hair catching the lingering rays of afternoon sun. His breath glazes my hair as he whispers in my ear, “Elle, I can’t tell you how you torment my dreams.” Strong, sinewy arms gather me close, the warmth from our bodies dispelling the chill of November air.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says, stopping, his gaze wanders up and down the length of my body. “Did you get smaller?” His voice tinged with amusement as he gathers my compliant body in his arms.

  “No.” I reply. “You grew into a Latino version of the Jolly Green Giant.” I laugh, leaning back to look up into his face. “Look at you, you’re huge.” His chin rests gently on top of my head. My mouth posed at the hollow of his neck allows me to place small kisses along the curve of his collarbone. His hair having lost the gold sheen of summer is darker, longer, brushing the collar of his plaid flannel shirt. I gather it up in a ponytail, luxuriating in the silken feel teasing at my fingertips.

  “Oh, before I forget, I brought you something.” He taps his chin playfully. “Let me think, where did I put it?”

  “Really? You didn’t need to bring me anything.”

  Looking skyward, he shakes his head as his right hand reaches into the front pocket of his jeans…….those jeans so tightly stretched across his slender hips, and he extracts a small manila jeweler’s envelope. “Sit down, Mia,” he points with boyish eagerness to a tree stump. He shakes the envelope and a shiny object slides into his fingers. “Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” he instructs, placing a soft kiss on my forehead. Slightly suspicious, I cocked my head to one side, but dark eyes shuttered by long fringed lashes give no clues.

  “This had better not be a frog or snake…”

  “Seriously, look who you’re talking to….I don’t do slimy things.”

  “They’re not slimy.”

  “Be quiet and close your eyes.”

  With eyes closed……he places a delicate object with a chain in my hand, my fingers close around the gift as he whispers, “Okay, open your eyes.”

  Resting in the palm of my hand is a delicate silver chain with a small heart-shaped locket, the etching on the outside of the locket shines in the weak sunlight. A gasp of astonishment escapes my lips at the beautiful workmanship lying in my hand. The locket looks antique.

  “Oh, Vic, this is beautiful.” I turn the locket over examining the clasp, “Help me put it on.”

  “Here,” he takes the piece and the hinge springs open revealing two miniature pictures. “You, on one side of the locket and me on the other side, two hearts come together as one.” He turns the locket and the words Cor te reducit are inscribed on the back. “It belonged to my grandmother on my father’s side.”

  “Oh, Vic, I can’t accept this, it belonged to your grandmother.” I shake my head vehemently. “It’s too precious. What if I lose it or something? I’ll be afraid to wear it.”

  He holds up a hand to silence me. “Mia, mia, it is for you. It’s mine to give. Please accept it.”

  I tuck a lock of hair behind my ears. “Thank you.” I say softly, rubbing my finger over the raised surface of the engraving. “What do the words mean?”

  “The words are in Latin, translated it means, the heart leads you back.” He takes the locket from my hand and his fingers undo the top buttons of my blouse, leaving a trail of heat between my breasts. Holding up the silver locket from his grandmother, he says, “My heart will always lead me back to you.” The words weigh heavy on my chest like an unspoken vow. Quietly, I take the chain and slip it over my neck, holding my hand over his heart and say, “I will wear it always.” Our lips meet, forging a pledge.

  Snowflakes like soft white petals fall from the sky landing on our cheeks, with infinite care he kisses each melting flake, sending sparks through my body where cool diamonds lay. With my face in his hands, his kisses deepen, in a voice hoarse with emotion he says, “I love you.” And while daylight fails and night falls, the snowflakes drift and blow, lift and fly, I tenderly kiss the inside of his palm, our eyes lock, “And I will always love you, Vic.”

  …

  The next day after dropping Vic off at the bus station, Gran’s face is inscrutable on the drive home, neither of us talking. The sun makes a feeble attempt to break through the clouds, reflecting the mood in the car.

  Instead of taking me home, Gran turns down the short dirt road leading to her house. Sighing, I stomp up the steps leading to the porch, prepared for a lecture. Picking up Sasha, Gran’s calico cat, I flop into a chair next to the fireplace. Without a word, Gran goes to the sink fills the teakettle, and places it on the stove to boil. Then she covers the kitchen table with a lace tablecloth and tea set, complete with matching plates, cups, saucers, creamer and sugar bowl. When Gran decides it’s time for a serious discussion, nothing but the best china and linen will do for the occasion. As I watch her boiling the water, measuring the cut tea into a teapot, I know……it’s talk time…….

  “Ellen, stop pouting and come over here. I want to talk to you before I take you home to your father,” she calls over her shoulder, pouring hot water over the tea leaves.

  “I’m not thirsty.” I tickle my face with the long hair of the cat purring on my lap, avoiding her eyes.

  “Get your ass over here now and I don’t mean maybe,” She stands in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, arms akimbo on her hips, a damp spot darkening the front of her gingham apron. Crap and double crap.

  “Fine,” I capitulate knowing I’m defeated, so why argue.

  “Let’s not beat around the bush and come straight to the point. You’ve got it bad.”

  “Pardon me, I’ve got what?” I pause in mid-stream of pouring tea into my cup. What does she mean I’ve got it bad? What does she know?

  “Two seventeen year olds, so totally in love any blind fool can see it a million miles away, that’s what,” she shakes her head. “Ellen, you must listen to me very carefully. I don’t want you to make the same mistake I made when I was your age.” She points to a picture of her and my grandfather taken long ago in front of an antique car. She pauses, taking a deep breath, “I met your grandfather at a local town dance when I was seventeen years old. Everyone went to the dances back then. We’d dance, steal a nip of hard cider or whiskey out behind the town hall and maybe engage in some mild flirtation. Your grandfather was so handsome, full of energy, and older than me.” She pauses lost in memory. “I was mad about him and my parents hated him. He was not from around these parts, worked for a German farmer the next town over. I would sneak out and meet him at night. I didn’t care. I was that much in love with him. And before I knew it, I was pregnant.” Here Gran stops her narration at my gasp of surprise; her story registers a shock wave through me.

  “By then I was eighteen, still too young.” She holds up her hand to forestall any questions until she finishes speaking her piece. “In my day there was no birth control, abortion, or placing a baby out for adoption. My father marched over to the German farm house with a shotgun in his hand telling your grandfather to do his duty as a man and marry me.” She rose from the chair going to the cabinet in the dining room returning with a picture of their wedding day in her hands, placing it on the table in front of me. I stare into the rigid faces of my grandparents looking for the signs of joy and happiness that should be
evident in their wedding portrait. There were none.

  “Something went sour after our wedding and the birth of your father, the passion leaked out of our lives. We had very little in common; eventually drifting apart, living separate lives. Divorce was not an option. Sad to say, it wasn’t a happy marriage.”

  “Gran, why are you telling me this,” I squirm on the hard wooden chair wondering how much those shrewd eyes had surmised about my relationship with Vic.

  She folds her napkin into a small square before looking into my eyes. “I’m telling you to be careful, and slow down. I’ve seen young people fall in love; it is more than they can handle at this time in their lives. It takes maturity and discipline to wait, allow your infatuation to grow into a deep committed love, a love to last a lifetime.”

  “But people fall in love when they’re young, marry and live happy lives.” My feelings for Vic vibrating in my voice, demanding she recognize not all experiences end like her own.

  “I agree, but the advice I’m giving you is to establish a friendship that you can base a lifetime upon, passion is a wonderful gift, but passion fades, and needs to be replaced by real love. Make sure your passion is based on love not body heat. Look for common interests; learn about his family, what are his beliefs and values. Talk, talk, and talk until you can talk no more.” She says rapping on the top of the table with her fist to drive her point home.

  “You cannot afford to get pregnant,” she says. “I shudder to imagine what your father and Helen’s reaction would be to an unwed mother living in their house. You have to be the strong one, Ellen, you can’t count on Vic to make a rational decision in the heat of passion.” I feel her eyes boring into me, and my blood runs cold, knowing I’ve already let her down. She continues, “I know I’m asking a great deal of you, but promise me that you won’t have sex until you graduate from high school and are out from under Helen’s roof.”