Adirondack Audacity (29 page)

“Aggggh, No!” I feel the blush rising to stain my
cheeks and drop the bread, furiously brushing at the glob
of poop on my dress.
Damn it.
He collapses into a chair,
laughing, tears running down his face.
“Look, now you just sat in it!” I point accusingly at
him.
“I don’t care;; this is the most fun I’ve had in years.”
And he goes off into peals of laughter.
I stare at him and giggle, leave it to me to have bird
poop in my fairy tale. How is this happening? I don’t care
as long as the happily ever after……is ending up in his
arms.
He stands up, pulling me into his embrace and pauses
as he tenderly lifts his hand to cup my face, my cheek
rests against his palm, “I hope your battle with the gulls
didn’t sap your energy, I’m not planning on sleeping
much tonight. My test results came back, I’m clean. Clean
as a newborn babe.”
“Well first......we need a shower, with
lots
of
soap………” I brush a feather off his shirt, he raises an
eyebrow. “And by the way,” I murmur against the tender
flesh of his ear. “I had a nap ………so don’t plan on
getting
any
sleep tonight.”
Lifting me in his arms, he crosses the terrace to the
open portico of the bedroom, pausing at the doorway; he
looks down at my feet with a bemused expression. “By
the way, nice boots.”

The gray Land Rover speeds along the freeway,
leaving behind the smog and congestion of Los Angeles.
Sunlight streams through an open sunroof. Vic expertly
weaves in and out of the traffic maze, one hand on the
wheel, the other resting on my knee.

“I’m good, thank you, in fact
very
good.” In
actuality……I’m purring, after an evening of …..
well
, you
know…..followed by a morning walk on the beach,
breakfast on the terrace overlooking the ocean.
No
seagulls.
And now with his hand on my knee, warm and
reassuring, sending pleasurable sensations to other parts
of my body, what more could a girl want.

“It will take several hours to reach the ranch
. Instead
of chartering a plane; I thought you might enjoy a tour of
the countryside.”

“
Definitely, I can’t wait to see more of California.” I
stretch out my legs, admiring how long and lean they look
in jeans and cowboy boots. “I’m not much of a city girl.
Two or three days in a city and I start longing for trees
and green space. I’m looking forward to visiting your
ranch.”

“If you are looking for trees and green, the ranch
should be to your liking. And I can throw in a mountain
or two for a slight extra charge.” His hand caresses the
inside of my thigh, suggesting what he has in mind for
payment.

“That pric
e might be negotiable.” I wiggle my bottom
on the seat in appreciation of his attention.
The valley and hills rise on either side of the highway.
Rolling hills of brown grass dotted with sparse trees
stretch mile after mile, dry and thirsty after a summer of
meager rainfall.
“Tell me about your house. How did you find it?” I
ask, curling my hand over his knuckles.
“A realtor in Los Angeles. I told her I was looking for
property that was a cross between Mexico and the
Adirondacks.” He shrugs his shoulders glancing into the
rear view mirror. “I thought it was an impossible dream,
but she didn’t hesitate for a moment at the ridiculous
request, said she would call me back in a few days. Sure
enough, four days later she had found La Posada Lobo.”
“La Posada Lobo? What does that mean?” Taking a
sip from my water bottle, I angle my body in the seat for
a better view of him. Esteban Diago is a man accustomed
to fine leather, fast woman and even faster vehicles,
which a glance at the speedometer confirms.
“House of the Wolf,” he says with a mischievous
smile.
“House of the Wolf?” I ask, frowning.
“Think, remember camp,” the corners of his mouth
twitch upward. “I have fond memories of things that are
called Wolf and coincidently the previous owner’s name
was Wolf. So it was called Wolf House, I just made it
Spanish.”
“Wolf?” Comprehension dawns on me. “
Ohhhh.”
My
voice takes a slow descending pause. “That was the name
of our mountain.”
“You didn’t forget,” he raises his eyebrows, eyes
alight with amusement.
“No, how could I ever forget Wolf Mountain.” My
mind goes back to that mountain top where we made
love so many years ago. And doubt plagues my suspicious
mind with questions, after being apart for so long, can we
forge a place beyond family, careers, and past loves? Will
the years and differences float away and a love from the
past hold true.
Turning off the freeway, the SUV hugs a two-lane
country road weaving through foothills. The houses and
towns fade, replaced by trees and rolling grasslands. The
grass on either side of the roads turns from the color of
straw to a cool shade of green as the vehile climbs higher
in elevation. The air becomes fragrant with pine, cedar,
and fir, the faint smell of salty sea air is carried by a
breeze from the distant coast.
“We’re almost there.” Vic stifles a yawn. Stretching,
I’m guilty of dozing off on the ride. “Soon we’ll be
coming to the small town where we shop and get most of
the supplies for the ranch. It’s rather quaint and old
fashioned. I think you’ll enjoy exploring it when you have
a chance.”
“The scenery is beautiful.” I have this feeling in my
chest, I’m coming home. But that’s not possible; I’ve
never been north of Los Angeles. Maybe it’s a spiritual
aura, coming to a house, maybe…..coming to our home.
“Here’s the entrance gate.” He says, flipping on the
turn signal. The Land Rover turns onto a driveway of
crushed white pebbles, passing under an adobe arch,
perfectly aged to the golden patina of old Mexico or a
villa in Tuscany.
“
Oh!”
My eyes widen at the sight of the tree lined
drive, the house nowhere in sight.
“Where’s the house?” I ask, leaning forward, looking
out both sides of the windshield, seeing only a lane of
trees and still no house. On one side of the trees is a
wooded area, and on the other there’s a vast grassland. I
imagine a meadow abound with wildflowers in the spring.
“The house is about a mile down the road. Are you
feeling okay?” He asks with concern in his voice. “You
look pale, car sick?”
“No, no.”
Are you fricking crazy, look at this driveway!
My
mind screams. “You’re mistaking envy for nausea.” I say.
“It’s just a different shade of green.”
You haven’t seen the house yet.”
“I know, and if this driveway is any inkling of what is
to come, I’m going to be an even deeper shade of green.”
Craning my neck to get a better look at the row of
trees lining the driveway, I exclaim, “Who needs a house,
this is so beautiful, just pitch a tent and live here. It’s
lovely, utterly tranquil…….and suddenly, the unbidden
image of him standing outside a sultan’s nomadic tent,
chest bare, dressed only in a tunic and turban, while
inside I lay reclined on a bed of pillows, dressed in the
filmy costume of a belly dancer, waiting for his
attention……..
whoa
, wait a minute…….belly dancer,
sheer costume…. belly……..belly exposed………..after
three children……..oh, no…….that’s not going to
happen.
Poof,
image gone.
Ignoring my distraction into the world of fantasy, he
continues on, “Pitching a tent won’t be necessary, we
have running water, flush toilets, and all the conveniences
of modern life.” He squeezes my hand. “It’s not huge by
today’s standards, just three bedrooms, kitchen, dining
room, living room and of course, a pool. I didn’t want to
go into debt buying a sprawling mansion. The movie
business is very fickle. One day the public loves you and
the next they can’t remember your name. I wanted a
home with enough room to take care of my family, but at
the same time have character and charm.”
He stops the Land Rover in the middle of the
driveway, putting it in park before turning to me. Laying
an arm across my shoulder, he looks serious. “I want to
talk to you before we get to the house.” Pausing, his gaze
slides over my face. He seems to struggle with his
thoughts for a moment then releases his breath in a long
sigh. “I hope you like the house. Elle, it’s the first place
I’ve ever felt at home. And I hope this house could be
your home too. Again, I know it’s too early to be talking
like this, but this is how I feel. I usually don’t bring my
socalled “dates” to La Posada Lobo. This property is for
family and close friends, kind of a sanctuary for us,” he
grimaces. “In fact, I’ll have to do some quick explaining
to Bridget when she sees you. She is my housekeeper, a
cousin of Ike’s from Ireland and
very
old school. Bridget
and her husband Hank virtually run the place for me.
They have a small home just down the road from the
main house. I don’t know what I would do without them
and Ike. Through thick and thin, they are my family.”
“What exactly is Ike’s story, how did he end up on
the freighter with you?” I ask, dodging the very scary
subject of our future,
where, when and how I was going to fit
into his life.
“Ike,” Vic muses, thinking for a moment, looking out
the windshield at the trees forming a canopy overhead.
“Ike is Canadian, grew up in Toronto, he got a girl
pregnant. They got married too young, it was a disastrous
marriage.”
“Like us without the marriage part?”
“No, this was totally different. Ike admits he was a
stupid kid who got drunk, and she was a one-night stand
that ended up pregnant. We were in love, no parallels to
our story.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, he felt trapped, so he started drinking and
gambling as an escape. He ended up in jail for assaulting a
cop. And his wife threw him out and refused him
visitation rights to his daughter. In jail he realized he was
on his way to becoming an alcoholic and a jailbird.
Soo…..he rationalized a plan to get away from it all. He
knew he screwed up and wanted to get his life back on
track. And what better place than on a boat stuck in the
middle of the ocean. He became a freighter tramp. By the
time I met him, he was sober, invested in his art and a
certified yogi.”
“His art?”
“He does detail painting on motorcycles, vans,
motorhomes, he likes painting things that move. Next to
taking care of me which is a full time job in itself,” he
chuckles. “That’s his job. And once or twice a year he
takes a motorcycle trip across the country, always ending
up in Pittsburgh to watch a Pirates baseball game.”
“I know the Pirates. Jack was a baseball nut, dragged
me all over the country to watch games. Ike is a Pirates
fan?”
“Actually, he’d be the first to admit how crazy this
sounds. He met a woman at a game, years ago, but he
never got her name. And for some reason he can’t get her
out of his head. Every year he goes to Pittsburgh in
hopes that maybe, someday he will see her again. And it’s
a destination for him, he has friends there and his
daughter lives in Delaware.”
“Poor Ike. No woman in his life?”
“He dates now and then but no one for very long.”
He quirks his eyebrows up. “Maybe he’s waiting for that
lady from Pittsburgh, the impossible dream and thereby
avoids commitment.”
I nod my head and profoundly whisper, “Oh,” The
whirlwind of events and emotional upheaval of the past
few days have taken a toll on my ability to carry on an
intelligent conversation.
“That’s why our finding each other is so miraculous.”
He slides his thumb over the curve of my bottom lip, as
he lowers his head. “I never stopped loving you, Elle.”
The look in his eyes takes my breath away. So full of heat,
so full of sensual promise.
…
Much later, a sprawling house appears as we round a
curve in the driveway. A two-story adobe house stands at
the edge of the woods, shaded and cool on one side while
the other half basks in afternoon sunlight. Colorful waves
of flowers grow up the walls of the house to bend over
windows framed in sage green shutters. A juniper beam
portico covers the wide stone steps leading to an
enormous entranceway. The massive wooden doors stand
hospitably open, revealing a glimpse of terra cotta tiles
covering the courtyard floor.
“Vic, it’s beautiful.” I murmur sincerely as he brings
the car to a halt before the wooden doors. The tinkling of
water flowing into a small circular-shaped pool in the
courtyard beckons visitors into the house. A peaceful
place, a house of sanctuary.
An exclamation of delight escapes my lips as we walk
through the doorway, high walls covered with flowering
vines give the appearance of an old world garden.
Clusters of flowers spill over large pots set next to a small
wrought iron café table. At the far end of the courtyard
tucked into the shade, rattan lounge chairs beg for an
afternoon nap, velvety eggplant colored blankets are
draped across the headrest, soft and cozy made for
snuggling.
“Do you like it?” Vic asks anxiously.
“Vic,” I say in breathless awe. “This is unbelievable!”
The courtyard flows into the living room, designed
around a huge stone fireplace flanked by walls of warm
Tuscan stucco. Rustic furniture in rich earth tones
provide a lived-in comfortable feel to the room, and
heavy wooden doors flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows
open to the outdoors. Timber beams support the ceiling
rafters, punctuated by large skylights. Beams of sunlight
splash across the mahogany floors covered with rugs
done in patterns of the southwest.
Patio tiles of red canyon rock lead outside to a terrace
dominated by a waterfall cascading into the pool. The
terrace is bordered by trees, flowering bushes and pots of
citrus trees and flowers. Under a roofed pergola sits a
heavy wooden table surrounded by cushioned chairs. In
anticipation of the next repast, the table is set with china
and crystal goblets skirted by gleaming silverware and
candles. Wall sconces tucked into the corner posts stand
ready to pour shimmering light against the dark night. A
couch with deep cushions and two matching chairs circle
an outdoor fireplace.
I pirouette in a full circle. “It’s like living outside.” I
exclaim. “The entire house flows around the courtyard or
the pool. How can you ever leave it?”
“I try to spend as much time as possible here. Hanna
lives about five miles away, so it’s convenient to be with
her.” He leans against an adobe column, pulling me into
his arms; the musky man smell of him fills my senses as I
wrap my arms around his waist. “The beach house and
the limo in Los Angeles are rentals, this is my home.” He
shifts his weight to the other foot, kissing the top of my
head. “The pool area was added when we first moved
here. Unfortunately, the house was too rustic for Sophia,
Hanna’s mother. She prefers a more formal house.” I nod
in understanding, my head on his chest, loving the
rumbling sound of his voice against my ear. “The house
was the first of many arguments. But Hanna loves it as
much as I do. I hope you will too.”
As we head towards the bedroom, Vic pauses on the
landing of the curved staircase, looking down at my
suitcase. “What the hell happened to the wheel of your
suitcase?” he asks. I cringe, thinking how can I tell him
about the “luggage episode” after my encounter with the
seagulls. Just how much nuts can one man handle in a
few days?
From the back of the house a door bangs open
followed by a strident voice calling out, “Vic, Mr. Vic,
would that be you? The security system says it was your
code entered at the gate. If it’s not Mr. Vic, you had
better run; my husband is on the way with a shotgun.”
The voice threatens.
“Oh boy, here she comes, my Irish banshee,” he
mutters under his breath. “Bridget, it’s me. I’m here in
the living room.” He calls out to her.
“Why didn’t you call?” A small diminutive woman
with a heavy Irish brogue accuses as she comes whipping
through the entranceway like a locomotive around a steep
curve. “Ya know you supposed to call ahead, so that I
can be getting the house tidy and ready for yea.”
Bridget is the model of Irish breeding; barely 5 foot
tall in stature with a shock of short red curls and skin the
color of pale cream kissed by rose petals. Across the
bridge of her nose is a dusting of faint freckles.
While her appearance suggests a sweet disposition,
her sea green eyes spark with fury when she sees me……
standing next to Vic on the stairs, heading to the
bedroom. Her eyes glitter with suppressed rage.
“Ooooh, ho, so I see, why you couldn’t be bothering
yourself to call,” her chin juts out, hands on her hips,
clinched into fists of anger. “So it’s finally come to this,
you’ve brought one of your floozy girlfriends home to
the house.”
“Whoa, whoa, Bridget, wait, you’ve got the wrong
idea.” Vic holds his hand up to stop the flow of her
words. “This is Ellen. You know my Elle.”