“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.”
Chapter 33 California Dreaming 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.
“Are you comfortable?” He peers at me over the top of his aviator sunglasses. “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 yo
u 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.”
“Sure, sure, today it’s Ellen, tomorrow its Tammy, and so on and so on. It’s all over those disgusting tabloid newspapers.” She says, waving her hands at him in disgust. “When we set up this household, it was agreed this property was for family. The Hollywood business stays down there, in the land of Sodom and Gomorrah. You would not be bringing it home to taint your daughter. What will Miss Sophia say if she sees you with this tart?”
At the word tart directed in my direction on the heels of being called a floozy, I let out a squeal of indignation. “Excuse me!”
“Bridget!” Vic reprimands her. “What the hell!”
“I didn’t hire on to run no playboy bunny house like that, that, Hugh Iffler, Stiffer, oh, whatever that man whore is called,”she says, turning on her heels, heading to the kitchen in a huff. “If this is the way it’s going to be, Hank and I will be leaving.” The faint whoosh of the kitchen door swinging is the only sound left in the room. Vic and I stare at each other in stunned silence.
“Is she always like that?” I whisper, casting a fearful glance at the door, dreading a re-appearance of the apparition that went flying through it.
“Good Lord, no! I think she’s lost her mind,” he shakes his head in disbelief, raking a hand through his tumbling mass of hair. “Let me see if I can straighten this out.”
I follow Vic to the kitchen, pausing at the door as he confronts Bridget who’s slamming cupboard doors with as much vehemence as a barely five foot tall body can muster. She throws a green pepper on the chopping block and attacks it with vengeance.
“Bridget, please put down the knife and talk to me.” Vic says in the same soothing voice he would use with a spooked horse.
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