Adirondack Audacity

by L. R. Smolarek

  “And what do you want me to be a saying,” she shakes the knife in his direction. “Oh, sure, come and bring all the little whores and doxies home, Bridget will cook and take care of us. We’re the beautiful people of Hollywood. We can do what we want and who cares about the consequences. So what if your soul burns in hell!”

  “What are you talking about? Where are these crazy ideas coming from?” Vic takes a half step backward as she points the knife menacingly in his direction. Then with a determined look on his face, he places his hands on his hips, leans over her slight form and demands, “What the hell is going on here? Have you lost your mind attacking Ellen like that!”

  “Me!, It’s you that is losing his mind.” She drops the knife with a clatter, yanking open a drawer, throwing five tabloid newspapers on the center island. “Look at that, I can’t even go to the grocery store to do my shopping without that trash staring me in the face. I’m ashamed to be working for a man of such loose morals.” She wipes a tear from her eye and stifles a sob. “I thought you were a good man, Mr. Vic. What’s happened to you?”

  “Bridget, you know these rag sheets exaggerate the truth.” He says with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

  “So you mean you were never with these women?” She challenges.

  “I’m sure….” his voice trails off as he studies the contents of the photos. “Well, yeah I did date Nicole for a couple of months, and Laura only lasted one night. Shit, Vanessa was only a publicity stunt for the movie and Kate was just plain fun. And this one is Ellen when she fainted in my arms the other night. A good thing her face was hidden.” I’m in the tabloids……I snatch the paper out of his hands. Good God, I can never step foot in the grocery store again….what will the neighbors think?

  “So you don’t deny it.”

  Vic sits on a stool with a pensive look on his face. “No, I guess I never stopped to think about how it looked. The stardom went to my head. I was riding the tide of Hollywood good times, thinking it won’t last forever, so why not enjoy it now.”

  “Mr. Vic,” Bridget shakes her head. “This is not you. You’ve never been a womanizer. I can count on one hand the number of woman you dated over the years, but after this last movie, this celebrity business has gone to your head. You have a teenage daughter to think about.”

  “You’re right. I never thought about Hanna seeing these trumped up newspapers, peddling their lies and exaggerations. It’s mostly publicity for the movie.” Vic says holding up the latest tabloid. “But you have to listen to me, Ellen is different.”

  “Why? Because she fainted in your arms?!”

  “Well, yes, she fainted from shock. She thought I was dead. You’ve seen her before. Wait a second.” Vic gets up off the stool, and pulls me further into the room. “Elle, come here, I have to revive Bridget’s memory.”

  “Why in the world would I remember this woman?” Bridget replies indigently.

  “You’ll see. Elle, come here.”

  Peering cautiously around the corner with the tabloid crushed against my chest like armor, I see Bridget holding a knife pointed in my direction. For safety I duck under the protective cover of Vic’s arm.

  “Bridget, look at Elle closely,” he turns me in his arms towards her. “Think of my studio.”

  “Ohhhhhhhhh, my stars,” she looks at me in mounting horror. “It’s the Daisy girl, the one hanging in the….”

  She makes the sign of the cross on her chest. “Saints preserve me. I’ve called the love of your life, a whore!” She looks at Vic and accuses, “You said she was dead.”

  “She was, no! Our parents lied to us.” He says defensively. “My father even went so far as to buy a gravestone and engrave Elle and the baby’s names on it.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Bridget says, bringing her hands up to her face in disbelief. “What happened to the babe?”

  “They signed our baby away for adoption at birth.” I say; a bitter edge to my voice. Vic’s arms tighten around me, understanding my pain.

  “Oh, you poor darlings,” Bridget reaches out touching my arm in sympathy. “And now you have gone and found each other after all this time. It’s like a miracle.” She sniffs, pulling a handkerchief from her apron pocket, blowing her nose with a honk. “By the mercy of the good Lord, how did you meet?”

  “At the movie premiere, Ellen’s daughter was a costume designer on the film and invited her mother as her guest. I saw Elle and thought I’d lost my mind. But then I saw the locket I’d given her so many years ago and I knew it was her.”

  “So you have a daughter?” Bridget asks suspiciously. “Are ye married?”

  “I have a daughter and a son. My husband died of a heart attack almost two years ago.” The memories of my life with Jack seem a world away.

  “So you are both free……to be together at last.” Bridget claps her hands in happiness for us. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale or one of them Hallmark movies.”

  Holding up an arm in mock defense, Vic says, “It was a fairy tale until we walked through the door and ran into an Irish hellcat.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” she says, a chagrined look on her face. “Hank accuses me of getting too worked up about things. But you can see why I had my concerns.”

  “I understand, but Elle is different.” Vic says with authority. “So, no more doxy talk.” With a hoot of laugher, he shakes his head and asks, “What the hell is a doxy? Is that some old Irish term or did you just make that up?”

  “Just you never mind, I’m so sorry, Miss Ellen,” Bridget says, contritely. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. To apologize I’m going to make you a lovely dinner and retire to my quarters until late tomorrow morning, leaving the house to the two of you, so you can be reacquainting yourselves.”

  …

  In a dark sky with no city lights, the stars vie only with the half-moon casting dappled shadows throughout

  the woods. Strands of white lights wrapped around the branches of a large oak tree twinkle and wink like so many small woodland fairies flirting amongst the leaves. The pool glows like an aquamarine gem illuminated by the underwater lights. The magnificent dinner Bridget prepared, reduced to a scattering of crumbs littering the table.

  Swaying gently back and forth on the patio swing, we sip our coffee in companionable silence. A plate with the remains of a chocolate torte rests on the table next to a French press coffee pot. Firelight flickers from a pit built out of rough hued rocks that complements the natural design of the pool area. Feeling content and half-asleep, we sway back and forth on the swing.

  “I can’t eat another bite.” I moan, desperately wanting to unsnap the top button of my jeans, only vanity prevents me from doing so…….and fear of what will pop out.

  “I’m stuffed.” He twirls a piece of my hair around his finger.

  “Bridget may have a temper, but she sure can cook. And as far as I’m concerned she can call me a doxy all she wants as long as I don’t have to go near the kitchen.” He chuckles and kisses the top of my head as I lament, “The pots and pans are much safer in her capable hands.”

  “That’s fine with me.” His hand caresses my leg. “I can’t afford to eat like this every day; I’ll have to run five miles tomorrow morning to work off this meal.”

  He cocks his head looking at me. “Do you run?”

  Run….Do I run?!….is he nuts? I haven’t run since……oh, boy, a long time. I played volleyball in high school because I didn’t have to run. I hike, bike, and paddle because no running is involved. “Look at us,” I squeak, hoping to divert him from the idea of a morning jog. “No family, students, movie people, paparazzi. Just sitting here, swinging along sipping our coffee.”

  “I could stay like this for a very long time.” The look in his eyes sends my heart careening into the wall of my chest.

  “Oh, you’d get bored with me.” My voice husky, slightly breathless; secretly hoping he vows he can’t live a day without me.

  “I don’t think so,” H
e sighs and smiles, reflexively drawing me closer. “Never, I feel so comfortable with you, like we never parted.”

  “Yes,” I agree slowly, “But our lives are so different. All that Hollywood glamour, huge houses, drivers with limos and paparazzi, it’s overwhelming. I feel out of place. It’s a world I don’t know or understand.”

  “It’s just me, Elle. None of that matters. It’s the trappings of the industry.”

  “But it’s your life.”

  “Yes, but with proper security measures, you can protect your family.”

  “It’s a different lifestyle. All those beautiful woman throwing themselves at you, I can’t bear the thought of sharing you with anyone. I’m greedy, I want all of you. Will one woman be enough?” And I can’t help but think, a woman who is twice as old as his recent dates, and double the cellulite.

  “Elle, I’m not going anywhere. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  “Sophia?”

  “There was passion in the beginning. I mistook passion for love. And honestly, at the time, she was good for my career. We drifted apart and I admit to cheating on her. Hanna keeps us connected. We have occasional family dinners, sometimes even vacations with Hanna. We replaced passion with mutual respect and friendship.”

  “You cheated on her and she forgave you?”

  “I wouldn’t call divorce forgiveness. Her fury at me made tabloid headlines. A case of wounded pride, how dare anyone cheat on the fabulous Sophia, even though she was sleeping with her leading man. She was just more discreet.”

  “Vic, I don’t know if I can live with someone not committed to me. I have no more tolerance for affairs. I’ve lived that life and I’m done with it.”

  “Elle, I’m not Jack.”

  “No, but you’re Esteban Diago, Mr. Hot Stuff, sex on a stick, every woman’s fantasy.”

  “Not every woman, polls say only about thirty percent.”

  “Not funny!”

  “You’re right, but seriously, I’m not Jack. Give me time and I’ll prove it to you.” He refills our glasses with a pinot noir from the Sonoma area of California. He stares pensively at the stars overhead, swirling the liquid in the glass before giving me a half smile over the rim. “I’m in no position to talk, I’m not an angel,” he says. “But I’m tired of being lonely.” His intense gaze darkens suddenly and he blinks. “Sharing is not an option for me, I’m done wandering.” Taking my hand, he holds it over his heart; I flex my fingers slightly, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. “I love you, Elle;; please, stay with me.”

  I desperately want to believe him and trust that he wants a lasting relationship…..but I have doubts, his track record with women suggests otherwise. For now, it’s just easier to be in the moment, as I slowly undo the buttons of his shirt, tricky with one hand, better to concentrate on the fun of being with him. The great sex, just having him in my life again and not dwell on the future, it’s too soon………my heart needs

  time……..because to love and possibly lose him again……..would shatter me into pieces, beyond repair.

  Chapter 34 A Slippery Slide “Leave the breakfast dishes, Bridget will take care of them.” Vic grabs my arm heading me toward the kitchen door. We had spent the morning sleeping in on a luxuriously soft king size bed followed by a sumptuous breakfast feast, which I somehow managed to cook… only because Bridget left behind detailed instructions.

  “I have something I want to show you.” He insists. I look at the countertop and table, in my attempt to cook breakfast; I demolished the immaculate kitchen, completely. Dirty pots and pans, a bowl with pancake batter spilling down the side, toast crumbs and coffee grounds litter the countertops. Is he nuts? Bridget will have an Irish coronary if she sees this mess, and she’ll know I can’t cook for beans. The breakfast was edible, in fact, delicious; but the entire process of preparing the meal was tortuous ……and the poor kitchen bears the scars of that pain.

  “I can’t leave a dirty kitchen.” I stop, digging my heels in to prevent his forward motion. “I wouldn’t feel right expecting Bridget to clean up after us. That’s not fair.”

  “It’s her job ,” he says, pulling me toward the door. “And if you touch those dishes, both our heads will roll. Trust me on this.”

  “Just let me straighten up a bit ; put the dirty dishes in the sink and the food in the refrigerator.”

  “Not a good idea,” he says with an ominous tone to his voice.

  “Bang ,bang, bang…….comes the sound of pounding on the back door, followed by Bridget’s bright green eyes peeking through the curtains. Attila the Hun would have made less noise. “Yoohoo, are ye in there. Can I come in? Are you decent?”

  “Come in,” Vic calls out, walking over to open the door. “And as you can see, we are more than decent.” His voice sounds disappointed, looking at our fleece and jean clad bodies, not an inch of flesh showing.

  “Well, I would hope you’d be up and about. It’s almost ten o’clock. Half the day is gone.” She fusses good-naturedly, heading for the coffeepot and stops, a stunned expression on her face. “I….see….you had your breakfast….” Her eyes travel over the countertop and stove, taking in the dripping pancake batter, spilled coffee grounds, and pan of half burnt bacon. “Oh my Lord in heaven,” she crosses herself. “It looks like you were very……hungry.” She trails off weakly. Scratching her head with one hand, surveying the damage, she offers, “It must be difficult, cooking in a strange kitchen……not knowing where things are kept.” With an ill-concealed hump, she reaches for the apron hanging on a peg near the back door. Yeah, that’s the reason, I mentally groan.

  “Bridget, let me help you clean up.” I start picking up the egg carton and milk, heading toward the refrigerator. Smack, the sound of a spatula hitting the countertop causes me to jump. Holy shit! She’s pissed!

  “Don’t you dare touch a dirty dish in this house!” she glares at me over the top of the spatula, wielding it like an assault weapon. “It’s one thing for you to be mucking around in my kitchen, cooking for Mr. Vic and all, but don’t you go and think you’ll be putting me out of me job and start cleaning up. I clean this house. Understood?!” “Yes, of course, I just want to help.”

  “I don’t be needing your help. Do I look like a feeble old woman who can’t be keeping up with her chores.” She glowers at me.

  “No, no, absolutely not!” I think I just cowered. chicken.

  “Good, then we understand each other. You can help cook and care for Mr. Vic, but I do the cleaning in this house.”

  “Yes, yes, understood, and I appreciated the note with instructions for cooking breakfast. It was helpful.” I start twisting a lank of hair around my finger and offer lamely, “I don’t cook much.”

  “Really,” Bridget says dryly, looking over the kitchen, hands on her hips. “I wouldn’t have guessed.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Go on now, get out of my hair and let me be doing my job.”

  “Told you.” Vic hisses in my ear, as we escape out the back door, pots and pans rattling and banging in the kitchen behind us. “Don’t worry;; her bark is worse than her bite.”

  I’m beginning to think she has the bite of a maneating Bengal tiger.

  …

  “Where are we going?” I ask. He squeezes my hand in response, leading me down a flagstone path towards the stable area, stopping before a large adobe barn. Except for the heavy timbers supporting the barn-like structure, the architecture and color scheme match the main house. A driveway of hard packed gravel leads from the main entrance of the house and loops back around to the stable. Through the open top half of the stall doors, comes the sound of horses munching hay and hoofs stamping against wooden floors. A huge black horse sticks his head out, and nickers to Vic.

  “Hey, Diablo, you greedy devil, I’ll bring you a carrot later.” Vic calls out to the horse, walking to a door on the far end of the barn. The horse whines in protest.

  The building appears to be divide
d into three sections. Vic points out that the barn contains a stable for the horses, a small apartment for Ike and the rear of the building is for his office and tack room. Inside the tack room, saddles of polished leather hang from tack racks mounted on the walls. Bridles and halters along with lead ropes fill the empty spaces. The scent of leather, saddle soap, horses and hay permeates the air. I’ve always loved the smell of a horse barn.

  A staircase in the tack room leads to the upper level. Vic puts a hand on my back and propels me up the steps. At the top he pauses, taking a key from his pocket, unlocking the door, steering me into a huge vaulted room. A loft. A bank of windows showers the room in sunlight with a magnificent view of rolling hills stretching across the valley. Several easels with art projects in various stages of completion stand next to the windows. One is an oil painting, another a charcoal study, and the third, a water color. Dominating the center of the room is a circular bed placed directly under a skylight; covered with a comforter of midnight blue embossed with patterns of stars and planets. Deep piles of pillows rest in the middle of the bed, to be tossed about in any or all directions, depending on the whim of the sleeper. A vast sofa covered in a woodsy plaid sits at an angle to the windows. On the far wall a black granite bar completes a minikitchen. As I walk around, I’m awestruck….again.

  “Oh my ……..what is this place?” I breathe;; pausing to run my hand along the plush fabric of the sofa.

  “Well,” Vic explains, holding out his hands, “It’s my gallery, studio, darkroom, and observatory, all under one roof.” he points to a telescope by the window. “It’s my sanctuary, I come here to create and unwind. I keep it locked, no one is allowed in. Not that there is any reason to keep anyone out, I just like the idea of my own private world. I let Bridget in a few times a year to clean, other than that it’s my space.”

  He points to a series of oil paintings on the wall, “I’ve had the occasional invitation to present my work in a few galleries across the country, even before the movie thing started, which is very gratifying.”