Adirondack Audacity Read online

  I admit to being lonely, my children are grown, Lani living on the west coast, Trey off to college, and my friends involved in their own lives. I’ve been asked out by a few men since Jack’s death, but no sparks. For instance, there is John, about my age; he and his wife divorced five years ago. He’s a great guy;; pleasant looking, easygoing personality, even did the grocery shopping and laundry for his wife while they were married. The grocery shopping and laundry are tempting…….. Jack could never find anything more than a quart of milk at the store and thought the washer and dryer were a holding pattern for clean clothes on their way to the dresser drawer. But John elicits no sparks, not even the Fourth of July sparkler kind, bright, but ineffective. It sounds selfish, but the idea of dating and the far-fetched notion of remarrying seems impossible after loving Vic and Jack .……..I’ve had magic…….and nothing else will do.

  Shaking peanuts from the foil snack bag, and idly arranging them in a pattern, a habit from my days as a kindergarten teacher, I can’t help but think, it’s August. I’m heading in the wrong direction, instead of heading west to visit our daughter, Lani, in Los Angeles, I feel the familiar tug, north to the Adirondacks. I’m craving a walk in the forest, just to smell the balsam.

  Every August, Jack and I rented a camp on Saranac Lake for a month, inviting our family and friends, including the dogs. Our gatherings were almost tribal. It was a wonderful month of quiet mornings spent on mist shrouded inlets with loons calling from the cove, fishing from a guide boat almost too beautiful to be put to common use. And evenings of lavender sunsets, turning the lake into a silvered mirror, as the ground gives up the last held heat of the day. Porches, front and back, deep and wide served as a backdrop for the loon’s echoing cry.

  Friends and family scattered over the house and lawn forming a human strand of colored twinkle lights as jumbled pockets of laughter and camaraderie blink on and off across the property illuminating the house with cheer. I can still smell Jack’s famous barbecue sauce filling the air with its tantalizing aroma. We were never sure if everyone came back for the sauce, the house, or the cooler full of beer. But every year they came, the numbers swelling as nieces and nephews grew and brought families of their own. The lean-to by the lake was filled, tents popped up across the lawn under the cover of hemlock trees. It was wonderful, hectic………..and a hell of a lot of work. But I loved it and Jack thrived on the attention of his family.

  I haven’t rented the camp since Jack’s death. Without Jack it wouldn’t be the same. I can picture the family standing around looking lost and sad, the loss of his presence the missing hole in the fabric of our family. It would be that ghastly funeral replayed again. Once was enough. Maybe next year…..they say time heals all wounds.

  Lani invited me for a visit this month, hoping to fill the empty gap in my summer. I have a few weeks before I need to return home and help my son, Trey, pack for college and start the new school year. The last sweet days of summer spent with my daughter. And…….I will meet her new fiancé. Is my daughter old enough to have a fiancée? I’m a widow?! Damn…I want to pinch myself asking if this is some kind of sick joke. I take out a compact mirror from my purse and check for new wrinkles. It’s becoming a compulsive habit. I don’t look that old……blue eyes stare back at me, a nose inherited from my father, coppery blonde hair from my mother, currently maintained with a little help from my hairdresser. At five foot-seven inches, my figure could be described as athletic more than voluptuous. I wanted voluptuous, God said no. I have great teeth and hair; attributes for a good horse. I’m thinking men like me for my smile and easy going nature……. Jack said it was my great ass.

  The sky stewards are preparing to serve lunch, thank goodness, another glass of wine without food, means walking off the plane under my own accord in four inch stilettos…. highly doubtful. High heel shoes and excessive wine consumption do not make for graceful exits.

  The last thing I need is to meet Lani’s fiancé, drunk. They say first impressions are lasting. Another glass of wine and I’ll never be allowed to babysit the

  grandchildren. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Jason’s from the Midwest, wholesome, family values and all that. At least I wouldn’t be boring. Although sometimes boring can be good…..and then

  again…sometimes not. Children prefer their parents fade into the background opposed to…..being the center of attention. To this day, my daughter has not forgiven me for the time I brought cow bells to her championship soccer game. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The other moms loved it, my daughter…..not so much. It didn’t help I painted our large white poodle, blue and gold, the school colors. The paint turned out to be permanent, and the damn dog was the talk of the town for the next month.

  “Excuse me, are you ready for lunch?” The flight breaks into my reverie by setting down an artfully arranged Caesar salad on a pale peach placemat. Steaming hot bread sticks in a small wicker basket covered with a matching plaid napkin are placed next to plate.

  “Yes, thank you, it looks delicious.”

  “Would you care for another glass of wine?” She’s an attractive, middle aged woman with short brunette hair spiked with highlights of auburn, giving her a youthful athletic appearance.

  “Yes, thank you, just a small glass.” I smile at her, liking the look of her short hair. Maybe I should cut my hair and go for that buff, toned female jock look. Unfortunately, Jack would rise up out of the lake where his ashes are scattered and haunt me. He loved my long hair, never allowing me to cut it. So I never did and it seems sacrilegious to his memory to do so now.

  The flight attendant returns with my wine, her name is Annette. She leans over to set down the glass and asks, “Are you enjoying the flight?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m on my way to see my daughter in Los Angeles.” I slide the silverware from the confines of the napkin, placing it neatly on my lap.

  “Oh, what fun, my daughter lives outside of San Francisco. We always have the best time shopping, dining, sightseeing, or taking a morning jog in the park. I’m sure you’ll have a blast.”

  “I’m really looking forward to it.” I say,

  companionably leaning back to take a sip of the chilled Chardonnay. “I’ve never been to L.A., and I can’t wait to see her house. It’s a mission style bungalow she remodeled with her fiancé. And I finally get to meet the fiancé.”

  “A new fiancé you haven’t even met? That should be interesting.”

  “I’ve spoken with him on the phone several times. She’s known him for quite a while as a friend and then after six months of dating, they’re engaged.”

  “That is fast. But when you find true love, I always say, grab it with both hands.” Annette re-corks the wine, placing it in an ice bucket. “Does she have any adventures planned while you’re visiting? Not that anything could top a new fiancé.” She sits down in the seat next to me, and relaxes for a moment as we chat.

  Warming to the subject, I can’t help confiding. “Actually, a movie premier. Lani was the assistant costume designer on the movie set of FireBrand. And when the head costume designer was unable to attend the premier and after party, she gave Lani her tickets. So Lani called and asked me to go with her. Who could resist such an invitation?” I shrug my shoulders in delicious anticipation. “She picked my dress out from the wardrobe of the costume design department. It sounds so glamorous.”

  “What!! FireBrand? The new movie with that hunky Spanish guy, wait a sec.”

  Annette jumps to her feet, walks down the aisle to the magazine rack and selects a glossy issue of People magazine. “I knew I had seen something on him and the movie. Look! A full cover story. His name is Esteban Diago. Before this movie he had a few supporting roles in major films. He was a big deal down in Latin America, but now he is “all the buzz” around Hollywood.” She makes quotation marks with her fingers, “This will probably be the first of many starring roles for him. He’s from somewhere in South America, don’t you think
he is the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen. He was married to Sophia Delong and I think they have a child. He doesn’t go in for all the publicity stuff, supposedly the quiet type. I’m surprised to see the full magazine spread, must be PR hype for the movie.” She gushes, a flush of excitement causing her cheeks to glow. “I would love to go the premier just to have the opportunity to rub elbows and maybe a little something else against him; if you get my drift?”

  I laugh in amusement over her bawdy confession and pick up the magazine for closer inspection…..and for a second I think my heart stops.

  “Oh my God!” My breath escapes through lips

  gone white.

  “What?” asks Annette in alarm, “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  If she only knew…………I stare at the cover of the magazine. My breath coming in short panting gasps, prickles of shock run up my spine while my fingers trace the outline of Esteban Diago’s face.

  “Are you all right? Annette touches my arm in concern for my health….. or sanity, not sure which worries her the most.

  “I’m sorry, this Diago looks…..he looks….” I shake my head to clear my thoughts, peering at the magazine picture closely and then laugh with a chagrined expression on my face…mistaken identity. I notice Annette looking strangely at me and hasten to explain. “He looks like an old boyfriend of mine.” Pointing at the picture, I explain, “But the nose and cheekbones, the overall look of his face, very different. And Diago has no hair, or very little. His hair is blonde and close shaven, and he has a beard. The person I was thinking of had black hair, and lots of it.” I look up at Annette with a shaky smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, but the person I was thinking of, well, it couldn’t be him.” I dismiss the likeness to Vic with a depreciating laugh.

  “You dated someone who looked like this?” She asks, holding up the magazine for a closer look, then peers back at me in disbelief.

  “Yes! It was many years ago.” I reply almost defensively. I can look hot, it takes a little work, but I can do it. I actually thought I looked pretty hot now. Okay, I’m not a fabulous cook. I don’t always balance my checking account to the penny, and I never wear a watch which means, I’m perpetually late. I’ve learned to live with these shortcomings, but I always thought once in a while I could look really hot. Well, maybe not really hot…just hot. Fine then tepid….but above average. Who am I kidding?

  “Well, I can tell you,” Annette says with a knowing wink and an evil lift of her eyebrow. “I wouldn’t mind slipping this one under the sheets for a night of play.” Chuckling over her honesty, I look at the dark handsome face smiling up from the cover of the magazine. “He is some kind of delicious, isn’t he?” I add my own leering wink and suggestive eyebrow wiggle, enjoying our bit of girl banter.

  “Yes, madam, I’m going to leave you with this magazine, so you can do a little research. You’re going to see him in the flesh. Who knows what might happen? He’s in his forties, so it wouldn’t be like robbing the cradle, apparently he loves the ladies. He is plastered all over the tabloids with a different woman each week.” she says gleefully rubbing her hands together. “Men with experience are sooo much better.”

  “Why you dirty, old lady,” I tease her in mock retort.

  “Like a fine wine, darling, women……. and some men, improve with age. The Europeans feel a woman hasn’t reached her peak until her forties. Honey, we’re just beginning to live. My grandmother lived to ninety-three; I could live for another fortythree years.” She places her hands on her hips and gives a saucy wiggle. “And I don’t intend to live them as a nun. And neither should you, I don’t see any wedding band on that hand holding you back.” With a saucy tip of her head, she pats my arm, “Enjoy L.A., honey, check out Diago for me. Now I need to collect a few trays, and there’s a very attractive business man in A-4 who has my name written all over his weekend agenda.”

  I admire her bravado. She’s right, there’s no wedding band holding me back. I took my rings off as I packed, placing them in the jewelry box, abandoned, but not forgotten. Holding up my left hand framed against the window, I can still see the pale circle against the tan of my fingers. An echo of my wedding band.

  With thoughts of being on the prowl darting through my mind, I remember the box of pink condoms my friend, Kat slipped into my purse as she hugged me goodbye at the airport.

  “Pink and textured, they’re more fun.” She sang into my ear as she unzipped my purse slipping the box discretely to the bottom. Kat never changed, going from the queen of trouble at camp to a thriving business woman, managing a chain of liquor stores in the Albany area. She’s divorced, it was a brief marriage and she had no children, claims she doesn’t have time for that shit. She along with Emi Jo and Tee came to my house for our annual girl’s weekend and to see me off on my trip to California.

  “What! Are you crazy!” I gasped in horror. “Get those things out of my purse. What if someone sees them? Like my daughter!”

  “It’s time you got lucky. Even Jack would say enough of the Irish wake.” Kat snorts. “You can’t be a nun forever. A girl has to be prepared these days.”

  “Prepared!” I hissed at her. I remember looking over my shoulder with trepidation, hoping no one was close enough to hear the conversation. “What about the security check?”

  “They are small and discrete;; they’ll pass right through.” Emi Jo said. The voice of wisdom. She married Ben and is now the mother of four children, adding ten pounds with each child. She exudes happiness and contentment. Tee left early to get back to New York City, something about an important deposition at her law firm that needed immediate attention. She is still pressed, starched and imbibed with the ambitious vestige of her former innocent self.

  “I don’t want them.” Reaching into my handbag I tried shoving the offending box back at her.

  “Lord only knows, you’re too cautious to have sex without protection. And I know you’d never buy your own raincoats, suits, rubbers, oh, whatever they’re called now. So just leave them in your purse. Look they even match.” I look down at my pink purse appreciating the good-natured intent behind the gift. I had planned on tossing them into the nearest trash can….which I forgot to do, and now the offending objects are staring up at me from the depths of my purse. Shit.

  Pink condoms, raincoats, boots … Good God, I wouldn’t know what to do with them. I repress a snort of laughter imagining the scene. Oh, here honey, just put some protection on, as I hand my lover a hot pink rubber. And what self-respecting man would wear a pink condom……… a horny one. Maybe Annette can give me some pointers. A glance over my shoulder shows Annette flirting with the handsome businessman a few aisles away. Upon closer inspection, he is kind of cute…..and I’m not dead. At least not the last time I checked my wrist for a pulse. Yep, still here.

  With a rueful expression I turn my attention to the cover of People magazine.

  Damn, Annette is right, that Diago is some kind of gorgeous and so was the woman hanging off his arm, looking up into his face with adoration, as if he had just uttered the most scintillating remark. Vanessa Leason.

  Sipping my wine while picking at the salad, I step into the lives of the star and co-star of FireBrand.

  I run my hand over the glossy picture of Diago standing in the foreground of a meteor shower, tracing the star points etched against the sky. The movie plot centers on a meteor shower that forces the inhabitants of earth to seek shelter in the mystical land of FireBrand.

  The Perseid meteor shower in the Adirondacks. The memories come flooding back in a torrent. The Perseid meteor shower, a spectacular explosion of stars shooting across the sky, made even more fabulous in the dark night of the mountains. Shaking my head, a small smile plays across my face at the chain of events sparked by this earthly marvel.

  August. The Perseid Meteor Shower and Vic. They go hand in hand. It’s been a few years since I’ve paid my summer homage to him, a memorial of our brief love. A time sh
ut away and sealed in the recesses of my heart. Yet, once a year I would bring it out, allow it life, light and air and remember…….Vic laughing, standing on a mountain boulder framed by the lake, black hair burnished ebony by the sun.

  When Jack and I rented the camp in the Adirondacks, I’d choose a night in August for my secret ritual. A night when Jack was away flying somewhere, no guests, my children asleep, a brief respite of calm amidst the flurry of guests. On such a night, I’d take out the old moth eaten sleeping bag, riddled with holes and spread it on the dock. With reverent hands, I opened a battered scrap book filled with pictures, pressed flowers, faded letters, bursting with sketches and watercolors painted by Vic. A legacy of his artwork.

  Pulling on his old team sweatshirt, I swore it still carried the faint lingering of his scent, impossibly so, as if his presence joined me on the dock those nights.

  The scrapbook opened only once a year, on a summer night, a sacred bond of fidelity to Jack binds the lock the rest of the year.

  On either side of the album, a sanctuary of balsam scented candles lined the dock. Shaking out a cigarette from an old crumbled pack, I’d light it from the candle flame, and watch the shreds of tobacco catch fire and glow, inhaling deeply as my body filled with calm. Psssst, hissed a beer can as the tab was pulled back, an offering to the past, wishing the beer and cigarette were instead a joint, for the blessed anesthesia it would bring to this bittersweet reunion. Leaning back on that old sleeping bag, slightly drunk and high on nicotine under the moonlight, I imagine Vic next to me gazing up into the stars, taking me into his arms………I still ache for him;; the loss dulled but never vanished.

  The images in the scrapbook pressed upon my mind, I see the shiny, peeling, scotch tape, no longer strong enough to keep the wild flowers intact and pressed. The flattened flowers of the journal entries turned brown, becoming transparent with age. Time not only discolored the contents of the scrapbook, but had begun the task of decaying. The volume filled with remembrances, friends from camp, faces smiling with eager anticipation of all life has to offer. Photos pressed and anchored to the pages, recording a summer, memories too precious to let go. Without the pictures, I can barely remember what Vic looks like. I often wonder, nothing happens by accident, I learned this the hard way. I grew to fear the power of consequences and found myself powerless to avoid the treacheries of fate.