Adirondack Audacity

by L. R. Smolarek

  “Open it, open it.” Lani commands.

  Larger and slightly heavier than the first box, no obvious clues to be found, I can only speculate on its contents. “With all this talk about Prince Charming, I’m afraid a magical castle will appear complete with a moat and turrets.” I say with a laugh, slipping the box from its sheath of paper. “What would Cinderella do without a castle?”

  Opening the box, I push the tissue paper aside and reveal the shining gleam of something leather winking up from its nestled cocoon. “Ohhh…….” Awe causes me to catch my breath in a gasp. “Cowboy boots.” Not just any cowboy boots, but intricately tooled leather pieces that only loosely resemble the clumsy boots worn by frontier cowboys. These boots, a work of art fashioned in leather, graceful and elegant. From the top of the curved calf to the finely molded heel, swirls of stitching over colored leather, made to accentuate a woman’s feminine foot in supple leather, soft enough for a baby to wear.

  “They’re exquisite.” Lani says in awe. “Here, try one on.” She hands me a boot. “How did he remember your foot size?”

  “I have no idea. But I think his assistant, Juls, is very good at her job.” I slip my foot into a perfectly sized boot. “I’m beginning to think this man has super-hero seduction charms, do they teach this stuff in Hollywood hot guy school or is he just incredibly sweet.” Wow. I sit back fanning myself with the unopened card, feeling a warm glow cloak my body at the mere thought of him. “I’m completely lost. He had me the minute his hand touched mine last night.” I look over to see Lani holding a boot in one hand and a Monolo the other. “I can see you’re not going to be any help keeping me grounded. If your eyes bug out any farther you’ll be mistaken for an alien.”

  “He had me with the flowers.” Lani says with a deprecating shrug. “What does this card say?”

  Dear Elle: These boots come with the invitation to join me at my ranch this weekend. Please say yes. Mi casa es su casa. My house is not a home without you. Come home to me, Elle.

  Vic “ Ohhh, it’s the castle,” I moan, falling back into the chair cushion.

  “Let me see that,” Lani snatches the card from my hand; her eyes quickly scan the handwriting. “Oh dear God, it is the castle.”

  With a dubious look in my direction, her eyes roam up and down, assessing my appearance, causing me to cry out, “What!” in self-defense. “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

  She shakes her head in disgust, “I can only hope he is coming to pick you up in a coach pulled by an old, slow pony, driven by a blind coachman who gets lost on the way. Even then I’m not sure there is enough time.” She stands up pulling me to my feet. “First, we start with the wardrobe,” she rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath, “And that old stretched-out sweatshirt isn’t going to get you laid.” Hmm…I muse to myself and smugly shrug my shoulders…seemed to work this morning……….

  Chapter 32 The Birds Topping Lani’s list of essentials for a romantic evening, in bold print, was something about a push up bra being critical. Hey, I have breasts……just not big ones.

  And…… because the art of seduction sometimes requires more than high heels, boobs and a good personality, the secret path to a man’s heart is often through his stomach……so when you combine a nice set of boobs atop a pair of high heels, throw in some food……. you can’t go wrong, it’s female magic.

  Unfortunately, I can’t cook…... Julia Childs, I’m not. Maybe if I had more French blood in me. As a working mom, I relied on frozen entrees complemented with salad from a bag and frozen vegetables. Hosting a dinner party sent me into a panic for weeks. Then I learned a little trick, meet the caterer at the back door, transfer the food onto my own serving dishes and china, voila, instant dinner party. Took Jack years to figure out why I was such a fantastic cook on special occasions, but a lousy one on weekdays. In my defense, I do have a few dishes I can whip up to impress the unsuspecting, but if Vic wants more than two meals, I’m screwed. Remind me to google catering/Los Angeles/delivery/fast!

  … Rather than have Ike pick me up, Lani drops me off at the front entrance to Vic’s house, staying only long enough to ogle the beautiful Spanish façade and view of the ocean. As she pulls away, the car stops and she sticks her head out of the window, hesitating before speaking, “Ummmm, Mom…..are you wearing underwear?”

  “What! Of course I’m wearing underwear. Why? Are they showing?” I try peering behind to look at my butt.

  “No, just a little panty line, but you might want to get rid of them.”

  “Get rid of them, why?” I sneak another look at my butt.

  “Well……men think it’s sexy when women don’t wear underwear.”

  “Oh, that sounds slutty to me.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” she says defensively. “I know you’ve been out of the dating loop for a while and……..”

  “I know what men like! I was married for like twenty five years.” Jeez.

  “Yeah, but that was just Dad. Not like going out with a real guy.”

  Right, not a real guy, just the biggest horn dog around, complete with a set of pilot wings pinned to his chest. I keep this thought to myself. It’s bad karma to speak ill of the dead, especially to his daughter.

  “I can imagine it’s difficult to date again, being old and all. I thought I would give you a few hints.” She shrugs her shoulders, squinting at me over the top of her sunglasses.

  Old and all! I can’t believe I’m having this

  conversation with my daughter. Pointing to the street, I shout, “Go!” She gives a devilish grin and with a wave of her hand, she’s gone.

  Ungrateful child. And to think I suffered through twenty-three hours of labor to bring her into the world.

  Still contemplating the question, is it a panties on….or a panties off night….in creeps the insidious idea that maybe, just maybe Vic’s a vegetarian. Worse, yet vegan. And the fillet mignon in my grocery bag is so beautiful;; the cow’s mother would stand in line to eat it. But maybe he doesn’t eat meat. How could I be so stupid not think of a back-up meal? The whole state of California is practically vegan. Maybe he eats tofu now? Bean curd? Anything that ends in the word curd can’t be good.

  Caught up in my thoughts, I jump at the sound of the garage door opening, followed by the rumble of a motorcycle. A yellow Harley Davidson motorcycle with flames painted on the front and back bumpers slowly inches out onto the driveway. Even in my confused state of mind, I can’t help but think, way cool! The motorcycle pulls up and Ike cuts the engine, extinguishing the deep rumbling thunder.

  “Wow, hi.”

  “Hey, chica,” he says, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his thick unruly hair. “I didn’t know what time you were arriving, so I left the side door open. There are a couple bottles of wine in the refrigerator and Vic should be home soon. I’m taking off for a few of days, so the house is yours.”

  “Oh, thank you. Please don’t feel you need to leave on my account.” I protest. “This is your home.”

  “Ahhh, yeah, I do.” He laughs and rolls his eyes. He pushes the bike back onto its kickstand and dismounts. Holy moly I always thought cowboys lived out on the prairies, riding horses, and herding cows. But watching Ike Adamsen wearing a black leather jacket and chaps dismount his motorcycle in the setting sun, russet hair burnished to copper, his tawny skin with a smattering of freckles, hooded hazel eyes sparkling with

  humor….makes me envious of the proper ladies of the Old West. Just sitting there in their bonnets watching those cowboys, all long and lean. …..mount and dismount…in tight butt hugging jeans covered with leather chaps… leg up….over….. makes you kind of jealous of the horse. Giddyap. This guy is some kind of handsome. Older than Vic by about ten years, but good looking in a Robert Redford craggy, outdoorsy kind of way. Everything about him is autumn; all brown, reds, gold and bronze. He exudes strength and security, like a towering oak crowned in the glory of fall. What is it about the men in California? Is it the sun
, the sea air, closer proximity to the equator…..wow!

  “Ellen?” I look into hazel eyes alight with humor. Oh…...I wasn’t paying attention to a word he said.

  “Oh, sorry, I was just distracted by

  the…..ummmm……….ocean view. The one behind your back.” I add lamely, pointing to the garage, which blocks the view of the ocean.

  “Sure,” he says, arching his eyebrows at me as he takes the grocery bag from my hand. “Come on in and I’ll show you the kitchen.” I follow behind, wondering how Vic would look in leather chaps. Just the thought makes my body temperature rise……it must be the close proximity to the equator….the intense sunlight…lack of clouds…whew…whatever.

  “Vic doesn’t cook much,” Ike continues, innocently unaware of the scrutiny his ass is receiving. “If we eat in, I usually throw something together. Do you cook?”

  “What? Yes, all the time.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. The brightly colored kitchen tiles glow in the setting sun, adding a festive air. A cool breeze comes through the open French doors bringing the scent of bougainvillea and ocean.

  While short on food items, the “bachelor” kitchen is stocked with every culinary gadget or tool available to turn even the lowliest cook into a gourmet chef. …… and I need all the help I can get. Ike and I inspected the pantry and found a tablecloth, china, wineglasses and even taper candles. Standing back with pride, I survey the small table on the terrace set with a white tablecloth, china, and candles of assorted sizes. Flowers cut from the small garden add a touch of color to the romantic setting. Off in the distance the low rhythmic wash of ocean waves coupled with the call of seabirds provides all the acoustics needed for an evening of al fresco dining.

  Satisfied with my efforts, I pause to admire the ocean view, the heat of the day ebbing as the sun begins its slow descent bringing the promise of a cool evening. As I stand sipping a glass of chardonnay from the Napa Valley the tantalizing aroma of dinner cooking in the kitchen wafts through the French doors.

  What to wear for dinner…had been the question of the afternoon……sexy or sophisticated? Lani ambushed her wardrobe to create a sophisticated sexy beach look. A snug-fitting coral print dress and the push-up bra…doing wonders……instant boob job. The dress clings in the right spots, and floats over the not-so-right spots, falling just below the knees. A simple pair of silver hoop earrings add in a few bangle bracelets and, of course, the locket completes the outfit. Smiling ruefully, I look down at my choice in footwear. Lani had a fit, but I insisted. Nothing but the cowboy boots would do. Hey, they almost match, there is coral thread running through the stitching….and the boots say yes to his invitation to the ranch. And I definitely want to say yes to a weekend of Vic.

  Shifting my shoulders to glance at the front door, a sigh escapes my lips. I’m impatient for his return, yet anxious. In the light of day will the thrill of our reunion be dulled by the reality of life? My mind traces back to the memory of him this morning, his face relaxed in the innocence of sleep, a thick wave of dark hair falling across his brow. Am I naive to think I can have him? Me, Ellen O’Connor, fifth grade teacher from a small town…..how can I compete with Hollywood?

  Taking a sip of wine, I watch the magic of the tides at work, slowly swallowing the beach until a thin spit of sand remains. The sinking sun mutes the turquoise blue sky into a soft mauve, painting the terrace in a wash of gold. A lone surfer paddles out to catch one last wave before sunset. The large umbrellas that earlier in the day scattered across the beach like brightly colored starfish are packed and gone home. Along with them the children, buckets and shovels, leaving behind only sculpted mounds of sand decorated with bits of shells and beach debris.

  Setting down the wine glass, I lean over the railing, squinting at a bird feeding on the beach, moving up and down the surf line, feasting on the leftovers from the ocean and afternoon picnickers. My attention riveted by the bird. Holy jumping John James Audubon. Is that a Glaucous Gull? Before leaving home, I had made a list of possible birds in California that I might add to my life list. New bird sightings……. I remember seeing this particular gull, it’s rare, not normally found in this part of California. I can’t be sure without binoculars, but I think I see the small red dot on its bill. The bird works its way over to a trash barrel picking at stray crumbs littering the beach. Maybe if I threw out some food, it might wander over. I can imagine the lecture from Burt preaching the evils of feeding wild animals. Just this one time, I promise. What can it hurt to toss out a little piece of bread? How often can you add a new bird to your life list?

  I quietly sneak into the kitchen, find a loaf of bread and dash back outside. So intent on luring in the rare bird, I don’t notice the other resident gulls perk up at the sight of a plastic bag full of gull nirvana. An open invitation, clueless, I start throwing small pieces of bread in the direction of the Glaucous Gull, and before I can blink my eyes, I’m in a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds. Out of nowhere hundreds of gulls descend on me, wings flapping, feathers dropping, noisy raucous calls, the patio littered with them. My beautiful table has four of them perched on the china plates, the railing looks like a call back for Chorus Line. Two land on the gutter above my head. I wave my hands to shoo them away but the swaying bag of bread only entices them closer. One pecks at my feet. Ouch! “Shoo, go away, shoo,” I yell at them. “What is wrong with you birds? Didn’t anyone teach you any manners? Shoo means go!” To scare off a mountain lion or black bear, the idea is to look intimidating. Stand tall, wave and flap your hands, make a lot of noise, works like a charm with huge ferocious predators, with these damn gulls……..not so much. The more I flap and yell, the more they come….and come. This is ridiculous. I’m trapped in a corner by a brazen horde of hungry birds, beady little eyes watching my every move. My beautiful dinner table ruined, the terrace floor covered with birds, feathers and Oh, my God………I watch in horror as one

  unceremoniously flips his butt up, and a white glob of poop splashes down the side of a wine glass. . euuuuu…. That’s it. I’ve got to get out of here. As I prepare to launch myself into the foray of beaks and feathers, and battle my way to the house, I hear the sound of Vic’s voice calling from the front hall. I panic. I can’t let him see me like this; I look like an idiot held hostage by a band marauding of birds. I’m the nature girl!! But I can’t move; held paralyzed against the stucco walls by fear, intense mortification and the insane hope he won’t see me. As I inch along the wall, I hear the sound of a door closing followed by the sound of shoes hitting the floor. Vic hates wearing shoes, sheds them at every opportunity.

  “Elle? Ella, Ella, mia bella, where are you?” His voice calls from the kitchen. Oh crap and double crap. Now I’m really screwed.

  “Out here! On the terrace, Vic.” My pulse quickens at the sound of his voice. The gulls have quieted, their beady eyes never leaving the bag of bread clutched in my hand, ready to pounce if I move.

  “God, I thought this day would never end, sitting in one boring meeting after another, missing you.” He stops short; pausing at the doorway, a bewildered expression on his face at the sight of dozens of seagulls perched on his patio. “What the Fuck?!” My heart does a flipflop….he’s a vision of male perfection, wearing only a pair of dark trousers and looking impossibly cool in a white shirt. And he’s barefoot.

  “Elle?” He calls, tossing his jacket over a rattan chair by the door. “Are you out there?”

  His voice sends the gulls into mass of shrieking, flapping confusion.

  “Yes,” I call out to him, humiliation sweeps through me. “I’m trapped;; the gulls won’t let me move.”

  “What the fuck?” he repeats again. “Hold on, buttercup, I know how to get rid of them. Damn nuisance birds.” He disappears from the doorway and returns with a bullhorn in his hand. He steps out into the squawking, screaming mass of birds and releases a blast from the horn. The gulls are momentary stunned by the noise, a second blast sends them to the sky like a band of drun
ken pirates fleeing with their plunder.

  “Are you all right?” He turns to me in concern after chasing the last of the birds away.

  “I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “They just came?”

  “Kind of …”

  “They are getting bolder by the day, nothing but a pack of flying rats.”

  Feeling guilty, I hold out the bag of bread, proof of my crime.

  “You fed the seagulls?” he asks, incredulously. I nod mutely.

  “Don’t you know you never, ever feed birds on the beach, they are nothing but a horde of roving beggars, ready to attack any stray piece of food and fight each other to the death for it?”

  “No!” I whimper defensively. “I’ve never lived anywhere near the ocean. I didn’t know how aggressive they get over food.” And feeling the need to stand up for the birds, I continue on, “Burt said everyone needs garbage men and gulls act as nature’s garbage men or something like that.” I offer lamely, remembering one of Burt lectures on scavengers. “And I thought I saw a rare gull, one to add to my bird list.” I choke back a sob. “I’m so sorry, Vic, I didn’t mean to ruin your house.” I bite my lip and tears well in my eyes as I survey the damage. Broken wine glasses lay scattered across the table; flowers hang in limp disarray, feathers and bird droppings everywhere. Maybe this isn’t going work, I can’t even put together a simple dinner.

  “Elle, don’t cry.” He whispers, his eyes crinkle with laughter, taking in my appearance, bag of bread still clutched in my hand. His body starts shaking with mirth, a wide grin splits his face, “Oh God, how I’ve missed you, Klutz-Ellen.” Laughter rumbles from deep within his chest. “Just let me look at you.” Our eyes meet, hold for a moment, the breeze does nothing to cool the heat building between us. A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bella, Bella, mia bella, you look like a goddess of summer even with feathers and bird poop on your shoulder.”