Adirondack Audacity Page 20

  And now buffed, polished and pampered to womanly perfection, fortified by an afternoon nap, what can I say but…Wow!…….like magic……..I’ve never looked better……….at least not since I was twenty-two.

  My daughter selected a few gowns from the stock production wardrobe at the studio. Her boss insisted I borrow one for the evening. I knew Lani excelled at her work as a fashion designer, I just didn’t know she was a miracle worker. The minute I step into the blue dress, there is no doubt, it’s perfect. The long sheaf of vivid turquoise undulates and sparkles with color as I walk across the room. I spin and survey my reflection in the mirror. My slim ankles flirt and dance beneath the diaphanous hem. The gown clings to my body and long limbs; the bodice presses what little I have upwards until I am precariously close to overflowing its bounds.

  Instead of twisting and teasing my hair into a fashionable coiffure, I leave it down to fall in soft waves around my face and spill over my shoulders. I tuck one side behind my ear, the copper highlights glitter in competition with the diamond studs dangling from my ears. I wear the necklace Vic gave me years ago and a bracelet from Jack, the simplicity of the jewelry works with the extravagant dress.

  … The premier of FireBrand is a huge success. After watching the movie, I have that feeling, the one, after a great movie, where the audience sits in stunned silence through the credits, unable to leave the theater and break the spell. Movie magic……

  Tonight FireBrand joins the ranks of classics; everyone there knew it. The air snaps and pops with jubilation. And yes, I have to admit, Annette was right, Esteban Diago is hot……..Whew!

  Sitting in the limousine on the way to the after-party, still mesmerized by the movie’s hypnotic hold, Jason and I congratulate Lani on the extraordinary details of the costumes. Creating characters of the underworld, turning mere mortals into surreal beings of middle earth and underground seas through the simple use of fabric, color and texture is true artistry. We talk in hushed tones as the driver pulls into a line of expensive cars, slowly inching forward. Tall King palms form an arch of rustling green branches over the drive leading up to the portico of the Sodoma Hotel.

  The legendary costume designer, Julia Ward, invited Lani to represent the design staff, quite an honor, and sent along her limousine and driver. Lani’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes give testimony to her excitement. Pulling up to the entrance of the hotel, Ms. Ward’s driver jumps out of the car and quickly opens the passenger door onto a green carpet. Feeling like Cinderella alighting from her coach of finery, my foot touches down on a velvet green carpet. Glowing lanterns lead the way into the sumptuous entrance of the hotel.

  Jason proudly escorts us down the runway. We follow the green carpet with a steady stream of Hollywood’s elite dressed in their finery. Two photographers marshal the guests to pose against a waterfall draped in tropical plants. Our arrival at the end of listed celebrities and dignitaries gets little notice, but never-the-less, we’re on the list.

  I can’t help but feel a kinship with Judy Garland walking down the yellow brick road, catching her first glimpse of the Emerald City. Stopping to take it all in, I clutch Jason’s arm whispering, “Oh, my God,” and try not to gape as we walk into the venue. My eyes alight with child-like excitement.

  Decorated to mimic FireBrand, the room is a mythical land of the netherworld, peopled by the lost tribes of the earth, vanquished to the inner realms. A world of vast inner earth oceans, islands of climatic forests ranging from tundra to deserts. Inhabited by a race of people, proud and stubborn governed by religious tribal law. Based on a book by the bestselling author, Hamish Bodawanna, FireBrand exploded on the screen using state of the art cinema photography under the creative genius of a brilliant director.

  The dim lights of the hotel lobby illuminate the play of blue and green beams arching from a fountain into glittering rainbows, creating the illusion of passing from the realm of this earth into the land of FireBrand. Under the stream of blue green light the fabulous gowns of the women designed by names such as Vera Wang and Valentino glow like jewels on parade.

  Golden bubbles float out open doors to a garden where exotic plants perfume the night air. Out on the flagstone patio a spread of tables are decorated to resemble the twelve islands of the FireBrand legend. Tables simmer in the moonlight mimicking a coral reef dappled with shafts of afternoon sun, vast outposts laden with food beyond imagination in a sea of people. Ice sculptures tower from the tabletops depicting characters from the movie, dripping and melting in the humid night air, a mist of silver steam.

  Chains of paper lanterns hang throughout the gardens, a white pergola is strung with loops of green gauzy material cascading to the ground, resembling an underwater kelp forest, twisting and turning in the pale light. Beneath the stars, a dance floor swirls under blue lights, surrounded by columns sculpted to resemble coral heads.

  Enchanted, I barely notice the waiter offering a tray of azure blue glasses in the shape of an underwater blossom, filled with ambulla, a pink tinted beverage, the drink of mythical gods in this underworld fantasy. I take a sip, anything pink with bubbles…what’s not to love. Clutching the glass stem to still my trembling hands, I ping the rim of the glass with a lacquered nail, the sound brings me back to reality.… because I must be dreaming.

  It i sn’t just the grandeur of the surroundings that feel surreal, but the people are like aliens from some distant planet, well known but little visited. The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions. I’ve met four Hollywood actors, two producers, and several people involved in costume design and film graphics. Lani keeps me close to her side; the sheer lavish scale of this event is exciting and intimidating. I’ve never been to anything, anything even close to this in my life.

  Needing a quiet spot to sit and rest my feet, I shoo Lani and Jason off to the dance floor. Seeking a private nook to watch the party undisturbed, I risk a peek into the tent set for dinner. Oh my. The visual display is stunning. Four enormous chandeliers strung with sparkling netting cast the ceiling into a kaleidoscope of ocean color. There must be twenty tables set with crystal glasses, crisp coral and green linens cover the tables and chairs. Climbing vines clamor up the center columns of the tent and spread throughout the netting covering the ceiling. Brilliantly colored birds and fish co-exist among the greenery, land and sea as one. In the center of each table a miniature fountain bubbles over with azure colored water. Stealing a glance at the seating chart, I can’t help but wonder who will sit at our table, the possibilities are endless…..

  Chapter 26 Shattered Standing on tiptoes, my eyes impatiently sweep the room hoping for a glimpse of Jason and Lani. They’re nowhere to be found, probably off necking in a dark corner under a curtain of kelp. I tug nervously at my lower lip, searching for a path that would allow me to move through the room without actually having to stop and talk to people. At times like this, I really miss Jack. With his good looks, Irish charm and quick wit leading the way, social engagements were a breeze. He always knew what to say. I’d simply hold on to his arm and we’d mingle, engage in conversations, and move from group to group, conducting our own private party. He’d whisper in my ear, whether the well-endowed recent divorcee across the room was natural or fake, who got the latest promotion, or cheated on their golf score, at times it was hard to keep a straight face. It was party banter, our own little social commentary.

  Sighing, I watch the tight groups of couples laughing and talking, wondering how to ease into a conversation. I can see it now. “So Ellen, what do you think of the latest Jimmy Choo collection?” and my response, “Jimmy Who?” or “Yes, my son had a choo-choo growing up, didn’t yours?” oh boy.

  I decide to save my social début for another time and less intimidating group. I wander along the edge of the patio, stopping to inhale the scent of a pale peach rose. My fingers marvel at the silken feel of the petals against my fingertips. Chewing nervously at a hang nail on my left thumb, my earlier false bravado floats away on a golden bubble, evap
orating in the night air, leaving me feeling very much…. alone. Well for starters, I chide myself; get your thumb out of your mouth! No one wants to talk to a forty-seven year old woman sucking her thumb. Jeez.

  Snatching my finger away from my mouth I hear, “Excuse me,” from a deep male voice behind me. Oh….the sound causes me to whirl around in surprise and ill-concealed relief to be noticed and sought out.

  Drat. …. it’s only a waiter carrying a tray of empty glasses trying to pass through on his way to the kitchen. As I pick up the hem of my dress to clear a path for him, the thin strap of my purse catches the edge of his starched French cuff. And we watch in horror as the tray topples off his out-stretched hand, crashing to the floor.

  The sound of shattering glass echo’s across the patio causing every eye to turn in our direction.

  “Oh, shit, I’m screwed, so screwed,” the waiter mumbles under his breath. He is a short well-muscled young man who looks like he works as stunt man by day. “I may as well quit now before they fire me. Damn it!” He curses, stooping down to pick up the pieces of glass littered across the floor.

  “I’m so sorry. Let me help.” I insist, hitching up my dress, kneeling to help him clean up the scattered wreckage.

  “Ouch!” He cries as a bright red bead of blood oozes from his fingertip. Sucking the tip of his injured finger he fixes his eyes on me with a malevolent stare.

  “Are you all right?” I ask, reaching out to touch his arm in concern. “I’m so sorry, this is my fault. Maybe I can talk to someone?” If looks could kill, I’d be dead on the spot; this guy’s eyes are shooting daggers at me.

  “No, lady, seriously, what are you doing. Leave me alone.” He hisses. “You’re a guest; get up before I get in more trouble.” He shakes his head in disgust at my stupidity.

  “I’m not a guest, a least not like the rest of them.” I protest. “I’m just a regular person, like you.” I proceed to launch into a full-blown explanation until his mean little eyes compounded by a snarl of “Get the fuck away!” cause my head to snap back in shock …….and I shut up.

  Holding up my hands in surrender, I can’t help suggest just one more thing, “Let me get a napkin to bandage your hand.” The maternal instinct kicks in, even if he is a rotten little prick. As I reach for the napkin on the edge of the table, he stands up abruptly, our heads bash together; the force of the collision sends us careening to the floor on our butts. “Shit!” We say simultaneously. I feel all eyes in the room upon us……..

  “Mother!” I hear hissed from behind my left shoulder. Lani. She’s really pissed off, she never calls me, mother.

  Busted! I breathe out cringing. So much for the two of them off necking in the kelp forest. Oh Lord, just let me die now.

  “What the hell are you doing down there?” her voice dripping with mortification.

  Go away, I try sending her a telepathic message, save yourself, no one knows I’m related to you. Run, don’t ruin your career.

  “Lady, just go, now!” The waiter pleads.

  These Hollywood people; try and act like a decent helpful person and they get all bent out of shape….they think everyone has an ulterior motive……

  Brushing my hands to shake off any stray fragments of glass as well as the social mores of this town, I feel a hand on my elbow helping me to my feet.

  Standing up, I look with astonishment into the eyes of Esteban Diago, Esteban Diago!......my mind screams as my jaw drops in a very unglamorous gape. The Esteban Diago has placed a trembling hand on my arm, helping me to my feet, looking as if he has just seen a ghost.

  His tan face visibly pales; beads of perspiration dot his forehead. His breath coming in short ragged gasps from a heaving chest, the trembling of his hands increases as his eyes focus on the locket around my neck. His gaze swoops upwards from the locket to my eyes like a hawk after its’ prey with such intensity it causes me to step back.

  “Dios mio, Elle?” his voice rasps out in a hoarse whisper.

  Who is this man, what is wrong with him? Is he on drugs? I think to myself in confusion. Elle, why is he calling me, Elle?

  His face is so close, I can see the pupils of his eyes pulse, the eyes familiar, but the voice starts a chill at the base of my spine, moving through me as if I had just swam through a cold current. The air around me seems to shimmer. I’m seized with unreasonable panic that the next breath I take may choke me. My blood runs cold as a sense of familiar gnaws from the recesses of my subconscious. Deja vu, I’ve been here before, this feeling repressed, buried for years. Diago’s eyes…..dark deep eyes, gleaming with flecks of gold…the black hair ….skin the color of melted caramel…….tall and lean……….it can’t be………

  He misinterprets the shaking of my head to mean no, a look of bitter disappointment crosses his face. “I’m sorry. You look so much like someone I once knew.” He whispers.

  “No, no,” I say desperately, wildly, confusion clouding my mind, “You called me, Elle?” He nods his head, his eyes tempestuous. “Only one person has ever called me, Elle. He’s dead. He died many years ago, in a motorcycle accident.”

  A soft moan escapes his lips, the pallor of his skin deepens, and with a trembling hand he reaches out to trace the intricate carving on the locket. The warmth of his hand against my chest causes a slow steady flush of heat rising to my face.

  Closing his eyes, almost grimacing in pain he runs a hand across his forehead through locks of black hair, gleaming with strands of sun bleached copper. Exhaling audibly, he appears to struggle for control, his body in a state of agitation. Tears well in his eyes as he tries to speak, but can’t seem to get the words out, he stops, and whispers, “Ella, Ella, my mia bella, won’t you come out and play tonight?” As the words leave his lips the chill in my spine creeps ever higher as those glorious dark eyes bore into mine. Up close, the face is different, but the eyes and hair, it can’t be. I whimper; my knees buckle underneath me as I grab hold of his arms with both hands for support, my eyes wide with shock.

  As Diago stares into my face, he traces a finger down my arm. The hint of a smile begins to take life, he removes his hand and looks at the inside of his palm, holding it up to my face for inspection. I knew what I would see. And there it was, etched across the inside of his palm, the thin line of a scar, a pale crescent against his swarthy skin. As clear today as it was thirty years ago.

  The rush of blood in my ears turns to an incessant buzzing. My body trembles under his hands; I can’t seem to bring air into my lungs. I can’t breathe.

  As if seeing it for the first time, I turn my right hand over, looking at my palm, wearing the identical scar. The scar carved into our palms as dumb seventeen-year-old kids, hands pressed together, blood mixing and mingling to form a pact, in our eyes a sacred oath.

  With a thudding heart, I match my scar to his, the nails of my fingers biting into the back of his hand. The other hand slides up the satin lapel of his tuxedo jacket, the top button of his shirt undone and I can feel the heat rising from his chest as I am drawn closer to him. Our eyes locked in disbelief.

  His left hand moves from my hip sliding up to touch my back where fabric ends and skin begins; his touch a brand on my flesh. And we stand staring, drinking each other in, the atmosphere charged between us, almost crackling, neither saying anything, just looking. Then he leans down and kisses my lips softly, igniting my blood. I moan into his mouth and one of his hands moves into my hair, pulling my head back as we kiss savagely. The room spins, bright spots of color appear before my eyes, my knees buckle beneath me. I feel him scoop me into his arms as I faint and the world goes black…..Vic…….

  Chapter 27 Reckoning Reality returns with the flash of a camera, the feel of strong arms cradling me against a warm, hard chest. I want the flashing to go away, to burrow deeper into the safety of the arms. My mind jumbled by the confusion unfolding around me, exclamations of surprise and shock, the high pitched hum of many voices talking at once. The click, click, of a camera shutter shooting frame
after frame. My dazed mind slow to comprehend the turn of events, am I really in Esteban Diago’s arms? Is Esteban Diago really Vic? Is Vic, Esteban? Am I crazy? The impossibility of these thoughts causes my head to whirl…and I feel faint again.

  “Jackson, have Ike meet me at the back door with the car.” Vic…..Esteban…whoever he is, calls over his shoulder to a short balding man, as he turns down a hallway. “We’ve got to get out of here before the paparazzi goes crazy.”

  “I can walk;; you don’t need to carry me.” I protest yet tighten my hold around his neck. Who am I kidding? Whoever this guy is, he’s hot and I’m holding on… Nuzzling my face into the starched front of his

  shirt……the smell……is Vic.

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He says, picking up the pace. “Look what happened last time.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Diago!” I hear Lani calling from behind, her high heels clicking down the tiled corridor. “Slow down! Stop! Excuse me. Sir? Just where are you taking my mother? Ellie Jane, are you hurt? Mom!” “Lani! It’s Vic!” I try to reassure her.

  “Vic? Who the hell is Vic!”

  “My boyfriend, the one from the Adirondacks.”

  “He’s dead! What does that have to do with Esteban Diago carrying you off into the night?” She says panting with the exertion of keeping pace with Vic. “Diago, slow down, damn it!” She explodes.

  “Mr. Diago, maybe we could stop and talk for a minute.” Jason implores from the background.

  “Sorry kids, we have to get out of here or your mother’s life as she knows it will be over. The paparazzi are vicious. We’ll explain later, but for now trust me.”

  “Lani, meet Vic. Vic, meet my daughter.” I gesture weakly with one hand between the two of them.