Adirondack Audacity Read online

  My favorite picture…..Vic sitting on a rock, mountains in the foreground, wearing faded denim jeans with a hole in the knee, a plaid shirt open over a chest of rippling muscles, long black hair, dark eyes flecked with amber lights, his slow easy smile filled with a love that still sends tremors of desire through my body……….Vic.

  Chapter 24 Around and Around We Go….. The alarm clock on my night stand rang at three o’clock this morning. A trip to the west coast begins early. Like 6 a.m. early. Followed by a layover in Chicago, and I didn’t say no to the wine being offered….so…..by late afternoon….I dozed….okay, slept like the dead. Ahhh….the benefits to flying first class: wide leather seats, fleece blankets, soft pillows combined with complimentary champagne and a window seat worked their magic…I may have lost my fear of flying.

  “Travel much?” A tall man in his forties with the chiseled good looks of an athlete raises his wine glass in a mock toast. “First class is the only way to fly. I wouldn’t be caught dead back there in coach.” Annette’s hot businessman from a few aisles away has slipped into the seat beside to me.

  “Umm, yes, I guess.” I stammer , struggling to sit up, caught off guard by his sudden attempt at conversation. Smoothing my hair into place, I pray I haven’t drooled down my chin while I slept.

  “I’m Frank Norris .” He extends his hand. “Ellen O’Connor.” I accept the handshake from a hand too well manicured and soft to have done manual labor……of any sort……ever.

  “Spending time in L.A.?” He asks.

  “Actually, I’m visiting my daughter for a few weeks before school starts.” I answer politely. “And you?”

  “I’m in town for the next two weeks. I enjoy the restaurants, theater, and try to catch a ballgame or two between business meetings.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I reply.

  “My company is located outside of Minneapolis. I like changing gears from the Midwest to the West coast, get my fill of sun and fast paced California lifestyle.”

  “This is my first trip to California, so everything will be new and exciting.” God, How provincial can I sound?

  “Perhaps you would consider joining me for dinner some evening?” He cocks his head in askance; a wry smile creases laugh lines into the corners of his eyes. I’m thinking he’s had loads of success with that lazy grin in his lifetime. “Meet me in town, and take a break from your daughter,” he cajoles. “I’m on a first name basis with the maître des of some of the best restaurants in town. Think about it. Business travel gets lonely; I’d enjoy the company of a lovely lady.”

  Boy, this guy works fast. Lovely lady? I almost turn in my seat looking for the lovely lady. It’s been a long time since I flirted with a man, especially a stranger. I’ve forgotten what it feels like…..actually……it’s kind of nice. This guy has “player” written all over him…...but at the same time he is tall, handsome, crew cut silver grey hair with broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Crisp white button down shirt, tie slightly askew, suit coat casually tossed over the seat, this boy is the poster boy for expensive, high end business attire. And possibly the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Okay, I’m tempted. No evidence of a wedding band, not even a tan line. I cringe inwardly as I remember those pink condoms going to waste in my purse. My girlfriends will kill me if I let this opportunity pass. The question is, is he condom worthy? I can’t believe I just thought that, I feel my cheeks blush.

  “Maybe,” I take a gulp of wine. I’m beginning to feel lightheaded, and don’t know if it’s the wine on top of the champagne or the charged atmosphere created by the handsome man sitting across from me……or just sheer panic. I lean back in my seat, smile, trying to appear relaxed while sizing him up. What do they say, no time like the present to get back on the horse? Or is it get back in the saddle……..I’m not even sure how to find the barn, which end of the horse to saddle, and as far as taking that horse for a ride……let’s just say…….. it’s been awhile. And my dating experience is well…limited. Vic and Jack, the sum total of my love life……. and with them, love just happened. No dating required.

  …

  But by the time the plane starts it’s decent into the LAX airport, and a half hour of witty conversation later, I’m holding Frank Norris’s business card, with all of his contact numbers, promising to call him for dinner sometime within the next week. As he handed me his card, he held my hand longer than necessary, brushing his thumb across my knuckles, looking deeply into my eyes, his expression sincere as he whispers, “I’d like to see you again, Ellen, soon, show you the sights of the town.”

  “Oh, okay,” I croak, voice caught in my throat.

  Frank Norris may be a player………but he certainly is a smooth and practiced one……..I know he is an outrageous flirt……but for the first time in a long time I feel that flutter of attraction, that slow delicious sensation spreading outward like rippling waves from the lower center of my body that says………..oooh my, maybe…yes. …

  It was no small feat squeezing my feet back into the four-inch stiletto heels. What was I thinking, nothing says stupid like a pair of high heels to go dashing between terminals and humping luggage ungodly distances over uncertain terrain. I’m coveting the sensible white sneakers on the lady standing next to me as we wait for our luggage to be unloaded. In my vain attempt to appear young and chic for my fashion designer daughter……I may have done irreparable damage to my feet. How dare I break my stiletto code of operation, I know better. Never walk more than fifty feet, be dropped off at the restaurant door, make an entrance, find a chair, sit and assume the Kate Couric crossed-leg pose.

  I spy my bag coming around the turnstile, easily spotted by the colorful designer name tag Lani sent as a birthday gift in anticipation of the trip. Balancing on pencil-thin heels I make a grab for the sixty-pound suitcase as it moves down the belt. Ouch, damn it, I curse to myself, stomping my foot as the suitcase handle slips from my grasp, careening off for another spin around. Why didn’t I pack two smaller bags? Because that’s what smart women do…

  Okay, here comes the bag again. I stand in place, planting my heels for balance and make a grab for the suitcase. Shit, it hardly budges. And there it goes again. I venture forth giving chase on heels that have turned into wobbly stilts of tortured hell. This is turning into a comedy routine and now I’ve broken a nail. I scan the terminal in hopes of seeing Frank Norris……knight in shining armor…….ummm, no such luck.

  Realizing I’m on my own, I set down my purse, push up my sleeves, concentrate on the bag making its way toward me and taking a deep breath, grab and pull. I swear the thing is stuck. So this time instead of letting go, I plant a foot on the conveyor belt for leverage and yank. The next thing I know I’m hopping on one foot alongside the carousal, tugging and heaving…… to no avail. I decide to abandon the failed attempt, when to my horror………the thin heel of my shoe is wedged in a crack of the conveyer belt and bent at such an angle so I can’t get it out. Oh, my God, I’m hopping….and hopping…and hopping…I can’t get it out….shit, shit, shit. I’m going to lose my balance and fall, dragged along by a luggage carousel! What to do…..but swing the other leg up and on. As the motorcycle commercial says, “Let’s ride.” I’m now on the conveyor belt straddling my suitcase like a monkey to the amazed stares of the other passengers. Help, I mouth mutely while people step back, confused by the apparition rotating in front of them. I furiously work at the heel of my shoe to extract it from the vise like grip of the belt. Not budging. Glancing ahead shows I’m heading toward the plastic curtain into the unloading dock from the planes. Look out!.....I’m going through, baby.

  I duck my head in anticipation of the small space and see behind me, not more than twenty feet away the horrified face of Frank Norris. His mouth agape, no sympathy or compassion for a fellow traveler, actually, disgust is written all over his face. He snaps his jaw shut, turns on his heel and flees the scene. There goes that date. As I flap through the plastic curtain, Frank’s look
of horror is mirrored by the baggage handlers. They stop, caught in the middle of swinging bags from a luggage cart onto the belt and stare with wide eyed shock. Apparently a woman winging along on a baggage carousel is not an everyday occurrence. Go figure…….finally finding my voice, I shout, “Help me! Turn this damn thing off!” One of the handlers comes to life and streaks to the stop switch, just as I’m about to go back through the curtain and take an encore tour of the lobby.

  “Hey, lady, what the fuck do you think you are doing?” A stocky dark haired man demands.

  “What the hell do you think I’m doing? Going for a joy ride!” My eyes shoot lightning bolts at him. “My shoe is stuck, I can’t get it out.” I hear a collective whoop of laughter erupt from the workers.

  “No shit?” One of them asks wiping the tears from his face.

  “Seriously, help me get it out!” I demand realizing my short shirt has ridden up my thighs, giving the “gentlemen” an ample view of my legs and a possible sampling of my Victoria Secret underwear. Coral pink…..with the matching bra…..of course….they were on sale, I couldn’t resist.

  …

  Twenty minutes later, I exit the baggage claim area with damaged pride, a badly mangled shoe and a suitcase that goes wibble, wobble down the concourse. Authorized personnel only……..yeah, right….not if you’re KlutzEllen.

  A glance at the clock on the wall tells me the plane arrived early. Thank God, Lani didn’t witness my joy ride. Checking my cell phone for messages, I see the business card from Frank Norris peering up from the bottom of my purse. So much for that possibility, I take the card out and tear it into tiny pieces and watch it flutter like discarded confetti into the trash bin. The box of pink condoms seems to wink up at me with mocking glee…..better luck next time, loser.

  And then I see her, Lani, striding confidently down the concourse, her father’s smudged coal black hair falling in tumbling curls that cascade down her back. Her sapphire blue eyes twinkle with mischief as she calls out, “Ellie Jane!”

  I cringe with embarrassment over her perversion of my proper name, Ellen Jane and call back in retort, “Fiona!” her hated middle name after Jack’s

  grandmother.

  Lani was christened Delany Fiona O’Connor. When she was three weeks old, Jack’s ancient grandmother, Fiona, bent with age, picked up the diminutive baby. Her gnarled hands, swollen knuckles of arthritic pain from working on the coast of Ireland held the baby aloft and pronounced, “This child has a will and spirit of her own, she won’t be tamed. Be careful how you treat her, a heavy hand will destroy you both.” Grandma Fi was held in awe within the O’Connor family for her throw back to the old Celtic ways and beliefs. She’s what they called a Black Catholic; she played both sides of the spiritual fence attending daily mass while at the same time retaining a few pagan traditions.

  Grandma Fiona was right, while small of stature, Lani possessed a strong spirit. Jack and I learned harsh words and punishment only reaped more misbehavior and discovered that left to her own discretion she usually made the right choices. As parents we learned to pick our battles with her, and wage war only when necessary. Truth be told, Lani is the best of Jack and me. She has Jack’s love of a good time, tempered by my practical, conservative nature. And I suspect the strong will is a holdover from Grandma Fi.

  My cramped toes along with two broken fingernails are soon forgotten as I enfold Lani’s five-four frame into my arms. I breathe in the scent of vanilla laced with a hint of jasmine. Lani.

  At first glance, she appears like the girl next door. But her almond shaped blue eyes stand out in stark contrast to the tumbling curls of black hair. She designs her own clothing and her appearance always garners a second look. At an early age she had a knack for combining colors and texture. That talent landed her a prestigious job as a design assistant to one of the most influential costume designers in Hollywood, right out of college.

  “Ellie Jane, you’re suffocating me.” She laughs in mock fear, yet shows no signs of loosening her embrace.

  “Darling, let me look at you. You are some kind of gorgeous, as your father would say.” Standing back, I admire how healthy and fit she looks, her lean body brushed a golden bronze by the California sun.

  “It’s so good to see you.” I hug her again and whisper in her ear. “Don’t ask me about my flight until we’ve had a glass of wine.”

  “Oh no,” She giggles. “Klutz-Ellen?

  “Let’s say Klutz-Ellen is alive and well in California. Shall we move away from the scene of the crime? You won’t believe what I’ve done this time.”

  “Anything to do with your shoe?” She points an accusing finger at my foot.

  “Casualty of battle.”

  “Must have been a hell of a fight, cuz that poor shoe looks like it deserves a proper burial.”

  “With honors.”

  “Mom, this is my Jason.” Lani proudly takes the hand of a tall young man whose been standing off to the side. “Jason this is my mother, Ellen O’Connor, and if you’re real nice, you can call her, Ellie Jane.”

  “Jason, it’s a pleasure to meet you, and call me Ellen.” I stretch out my arms to hug him. “One person calling me, Ellie Jane in the world is enough. Lani’s roommates in college were convinced I was born and raised somewhere in rural Tennessee. Please…just call me Ellen.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. O’Connor.” Returning my hug, he chuckles and says, “Lani has told me so much about you, I can see now every word was true.” Good God, what has she told him? He has the long, thoughtful face of a scholar with brown eyes that hide behind the dark rim of his glasses. Honey brown hair is streaked California blonde and he has the body of a surfer. His manner is respectful with the easy going demeanor of his

  Midwestern upbringing. Sliding an arm around Lani’s waist, I sense a comfortable ease between them, a blending of personalities, friends turned lovers.

  Slipping her arm through mine, Lani asks, “How is Trey?”

  “Your brother is fine, in fact, better than fine. He has the house to himself, a stocked refrigerator and all of his friends are home with two weeks to celebrate before they leave for college.” Rolling my eyes, I continue, “I pray I find nothing worse than a pile of dirty laundry and a sink full of dishes when I return. I threatened him. If our home looks like a frat house gone wild after a holiday weekend, I’ll visit him at college armed with naked baby pictures, home canning, and decorate his dorm room with Grandma Fi’s hand crocheted dollies.” I blow out a deep sigh. “I’m not optimistic, remember last time I left him? I found beer cans in the gutters and bottle caps in my flower beds for a year.”

  “I hope you’re hungry?” Lani says changing the subject before I can lament any further on the exploits of my son. “I’ve booked us a table at this fab little restaurant on the beach; it overlooks the ocean and has the best seafood around. We can catch up while enjoying the scenery.” Still holding Lani’s hand, Jason grabs the handle of my suitcase and stops after a few steps, “What happened to this wheel?” He bends down with a puzzled look on his face, inspecting my suitcase, trying to find out what’s causing it to go wibble, wobble, down the concourse.

  Apparently my catastrophe was a series of mishaps, starting with a cracked link in the conveyor belt, causing my suitcase wheel to become wedged, followed by my high heel, compounded by the champagne and wine consumed on the flight. I should know better…..Klutz Ellen and alcohol don’t mix. A.A., where were you?

  “It’s a long story; you do have a sense of humor?” I ask Jason, watching him try to pull my unbalanced bag, thinking, boy; you’re going to need it. His face splits into a grin, “I hope it’s as good as some of the other stories Lani’s told me. You’re a riot, Mrs. O’Connor.”

  “Ellen, please.” I wince. It’s not my fault…and pray with fervor, please God, no more fall outs with KlutzEllen. My life needs a vacation from her….

  Chapter 25 Enchantment A dog barking brings me out of a long complicated dream of ho
t steamy men. First there was Frank Norris, the businessman on the plane, then along came the handsome black bartender with the wicked smile and sexy wink from the restaurant last night followed by the hot movie star on the cover of the magazine. All of them, all night long, chasing me around the luggage

  carousal…..three hot men chasing me…..at the same time……yeah, that’s called an impossible dream.

  Where am I? Sitting up in bed, I look around at the unfamiliar surroundings and remember I’m staying with Lani and Jason, in their adorable bungalow….in California. Where garbage trucks wake you before the sun rises, followed by the recycling truck and then the neighbor’s barking dog. I didn’t sleep well last night, probably due to the time change from the east coast, the excitement of seeing Lani, meeting Jason and the new house. For whatever reason, sleep eluded me. I lay awake watching the clock turn one, then two, and somewhere around three, I drifted off into a sleep riddled with dreams. Crazy disoriented images that make no sense in the early light of day. One thing I do remember were the men; hot and steamy…and all that chasing….no wonder I’m exhausted. The aroma of coffee perking downstairs draws me to wakefulness….Lani and I have plans today. I think she said something about hiking, a farmer’s market, shopping, meeting a few friends….and tonight is the movie premier. Boy, I’m going to need a power nap this afternoon, but first, I need coffee…and lots of it.

  ...

  Looking into the mirror, I barely recognize the reflection gazing back at me as late afternoon sun slants

  through the window shutters. A transformation has taken place since this morning. Lani took one look at me over coffee, blurry eyed from lack of sleep, no makeup, hair pulled back in an untidy knot, chipped nail polish and cancelled our plans. Insisting, no mandated.....a girl’s day at a spa owned by her friend. Oh, the burden of having a fashionista for a daughter.