Adirondack Audacity (22 page)

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….

A dog barking brings me out of a long complicated
dream of hot 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.

And now buffed, polished and pampered to womanly
perfection, fortified by an afternoon nap, what can I say
but…W
ow
!…….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…..

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, evaporating 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…..V
ic…….