Adirondack Audacity

by L. R. Smolarek

  My recovery from the miscarriage in November was neither swift nor easy. There are reasons women in their forties don’t get pregnant…our bodies suck at it…..it’s kind of been there….done that…..and not going there again. So exhausted and emotionally spent, I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job at school and moved myself into Camp Sky Haven. Standing on the balcony overlooking the lake, breathing in the crisp spring air, I’m reminded of the tuberculosis patients at the turn of the century coming to the Adirondacks in hopes of finding a cure. The mountains hold a healing power.

  And while renting a camp in the mountains for an entire summer may seem drastic, the idea involves us moving into the Old Forge area and becoming part of the community. Actually, I become part of the community. After Vic’s last movie, half the magazine covers in America carry his picture. And despite the fact he had plastic surgery after the motorcycle accident years ago, the resemblance between Vic and our son remains astonishing. He needs to stay undercover…..for a while. With my leave of absence from school, I have time to walk the dog through town, join in on town events, and volunteer for a committee or two.

  Hence, the idea of renting a house, where I can live full time, instill myself in town while getting acquainted with Josh and his family. Vic will commute back and forth depending on his schedule.

  Due to a PR event in Miami, Vic left camp this morning at first light on the seaplane. Pressing business, his publicist said, it couldn’t wait. Really? Florida, the font of unlimited sun, oceans of retired people, mecca of the early bird special…can’t wait. Since when is anything pressing in Florida, I once saw a gopher tortoise beat an old lady riding a three wheel bike across the road. If they have anything…..it’s time…..they can wait. I miss him already. Selfish.

  Setting the mug on the railing, I inhale deeply raising my arms in a yoga stretch, enjoying the luxury of the serene mountain morning. A sense of peace and contentment pervades my body. Alone in the mountains. Tranquility, until a wet nose followed by a thumping tail nearly knocks me over. About a year ago, my children suggested, Jack’s parents insisted, and finally, the family took matters into their own hands….and bought me a dog. A big scruffy tri-colored collie named Cyrus. After Jack’s death, everyone decided I was spending too much time alone. Trey involved in school and sports, Lani on the West Coast, I needed companionship. No one gave me credit for having a life of my own. And none of us bargained on Cyrus. Seventy-five pounds of boundless energy, unfettered by the multiple dog obedience classes we attended. The last one asked us to leave after Cyrus tried humping a Pekinese. It was like trying to wedge a compact car under a moving semi-truck. As the instructor pointed to the door, she suggested tranquilizers, I wasn’t sure if she meant for me or the dog.

  Cyrus entertains himself by galloping from one end of the house to the other, ears flapping and tongue wagging. The black, tan and white of his fur a blur as he whirls down the halls and around the kitchen counter. And he loves the water, collies historically hate being wet, a holdover from generations of tending sheep in the cold soggy fields of Scotland. But Cyrus thinks he’s part Labrador retriever and he’s part of our plan to connect with Josh. No one can resist him.

  … After all of my initial doubts over Vic’s fidelity, he’s proven he wants a permanent relationship, and I’m the one hesitating…the entire lifestyle of the rich and gorgeous is foreign to me. While the beautiful homes, lovely restaurants and designer clothes complemented by a boat load of money is nice, this way of life feels extravagant to my middle class upbringing. I’m uneasy with the fans clamoring for autographs, his extended time away; coupled with the lack of privacy…I find the whole thing a bit disconcerting. Even the simplest of outings require careful planning and a constant need to be on alert.

  I’m unnerved by the fact he carries a handgun when away from security and bodyguards. The price of fame puts you in the public eye, making you vulnerable to unsavory individuals. After our brush with the muggers on the beach that first night, he vowed he’d never be defenseless again. He and Ike have pistol permits and are excellent marksmen. He thinks I need a gun. Is he nuts?! I can barely walk straight let alone shoot a gun. I’d be menace to society.

  Luckily for us, we are content with simple dinners at home with friends or family. Long walks in the woods, overnight trail rides with the horses, or paddling the canoe on the lakes and streams bordering his ranch.

  Limbo, that old left over term from Catholic school days, describes my feelings…I’m between…my old life as wife, mother and teacher no longer seems to fit…yet it’s hard to move across the country, away from all that is familiar.

  I love him but can I step into the abyss of his waiting arms, trusting our love is enough. Transition…….life changes, ever shifting, never staying constant. It’s part of the journey. For me, this time in the mountains is a chance to rest, reconnect with the past, while moving forward to create a new future. And seriously, am I crazy? I’m in love with a hot guy who worships the ground I walk on, and just for kicks…….throw in a wealthy lifestyle. I chide myself…stop being cautious Ellen…take a leap of faith.

  Musing, I take a sip of coffee feeling the warmth infuse my body through the damp morning chill. I hug Vic’s flannel shirt closer, the smell of him lingers, my favorite perfume…….an earthy spicy scent evocative of man. Aside from the wool socks and his shirt, I’m basically naked. Another lifestyle change…I always wore clothes.

  Before first light, Vic greeted the seaplane pilot, reviewed the departure details, and then closed the door in the surprised pilot’s face to say his good-bye in private. Pinned against the wall, he kissed me, when he was done I looked myself over to make sure the few clothes I had on were still intact. The kiss sizzled all the way down to my toes. I thought my socks self-combusted.

  Nine months we’ve been together, well actually, it’s only four months, we were apart most of September through November, no sex during the recovery after my miscarriage, then in January I resumed my teaching job for a few weeks to tie up loose ends…….so it’s only been a few months. So, we’re still on our honeymoon, which explains the lust……I blow out a sigh and look heavenward. No doubt about it, I’m a slut, a selective slut. But I think, technically, to be a slut you have to be doing it with more than one guy…..so actually, I’m just addicted... And the lustful object of my addiction….. is six-three, has ebony hair, dark gorgeous eyes, broad shoulders, narrow waist, skin the color of cafe au latte, and his name…….Vicente. “Who could blame me, seriously, its hormones,” I say to the loons passing on the lake. “It’s not my fault. I have too many hormones….and way too little restraint.”

  With a start and a shake of my head, I realize the coffee in my mug has grown cold and the morning is slipping away. While my mind is lost in the glow of last night, the reality of today sends me into Old Forge, time to start learning the community. First stop, the hardware store in town to pick up a copy of the Old Forge Times. The local newspaper is a gem of information about happenings in the area, along with recipes, restaurant reviews and tips for the best fishing spots. Check out the want ads, maybe a job…I could be a tour guide, work in a gift shop, maybe a short order cook… okay, now that’s just ridiculous.

  Chapter 39 A Paddle Down the River Old Forge remained a sleepy mountain hamlet until an influx of snowmobiles in the winter coupled with summer money turned this quiet town into a tourist mecca. The shop lined streets boast gifts from whirly-gig lawn ornaments to costly hand-hewn Adirondack furniture. Bars, restaurants and taverns stand poised to meet the needs of the most finicky palate. Diners can find a burger and beer at the blue-sided Landmark

  overlooking the water to a posh meal from “The Inn at Three Corners” serving lobster ravioli with a wine bar. A traditional start to the day begins at Locke’s Diner on the outskirts of town, where a photo display of Adirondack wildlife is offered along with maple syrup on your stack of pancakes.

  When mountain temperatures soar above the necessity of flann
el shirts and wool socks, the parking lot at the water slide park is filled to capacity with the happy shouts of water enthusiasts.

  A ride on the ski lift at McCauley Mountain presents a panoramic view of the surrounding mountains and lakes. If one is of the athletic persuasion, the area is rich in hiking/biking paths and canoe routes.

  I love the Adirondacks, all my favorite activities wrapped up in the largest state park in the country and where I found Vic. Yummmm……my favorite flavor of the mountains. That reminds me, I’m hungry. The question remains, do I want…pancakes….eggs… muffins… waffles…. or a cappuccino. I want them all.

  After a quick stop at the hardware store to pick up the newspaper, I stroll down the street, enjoying the preseason quiet. I left Cyrus at home, wanting to explore the village, without his exuberant approach to life, which includes, but not limited to, peeing on every street sign and sniffing any passing crotch. Male or female, he doesn’t care, he’s not discriminating. What he lacks in manners, he makes up for with enthusiasm.

  A charming coffee shop entices me inside with the smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns wafting out the screen door. I’ll be healthy tomorrow….how often does one get hot right out of the oven cinnamon rolls. In my house…never, unless they come out of a Pillsbury Dough Boy can.

  Ohhhh…ummmm….…and they taste divine . I squirm in my chair, boy, these are good ….I’m going to need a takeout box. Once every bit of gooey cinnamon goodness is licked off my fingers, I refill my coffee cup and begin perusing the Old Forge Times. Yes! Perfect! In the middle of the paper is an advertisement for Westland’s Canoe Outfitters offering a preseason coupon for 20% off the rental of a canoe or kayak.

  I think this will work……my heart begins pounding as excitement courses through me. I’m dying to meet Josh and his family. Armed with the coupon, I present myself at the store posing as an innocent bargain hunter wishing to learn more about local canoe routes and the purchase of a kayak or canoe.

  Looking down at my clothing, I note my choice of attire is appropriate for outdoor activity. Above average temperatures for mid-May compelled me to wear a pair of river sandals, a plaid shirt over a tank top and hiking capris. A messy ponytail peeks out the back of a baseball cap, and loose wisps of curls frame my face. A quick glance at my compact mirror shows the makeup basics in place, a swipe of lipstick and a touch of mascara and…I look as good……. well….. I tried.

  Taking a final sip of coffee, I wipe the few remaining crumbs off the table, resisting the urge to pop them in my mouth for one last taste. With the newspaper tucked under my arm, I head for the door, firmly resolved not to get a takeout box of cinnamon rolls. As I walk away, I repeat the mantra, om. My ass is big enough….om, my ass is big enough. See meditation helps……it comes in many forms.

  Westland ’s Canoe Rental follows the Moose River, about a mile from the town center. The ad in the paper feels like an omen. In addition to renting water equipment, Westland’s serves fresh donuts every morning in the summer months along with specialty coffee. In the evenings, the deck overlooking the river is a hangout for locals and tourists sampling regional beer from the local breweries.

  Nestled in a grove of willow trees, the rental shop is a small cabin constructed of local hemlock logs perched precariously on the river’s edge. Tuffs of green moss form a velvet carpet covering the roof. Small ferns and delicate spring wildflowers compete for sunlight in the tree-shaded yard. The brick path leading up to the main building is lined with bright yellow pots full of red geraniums and an eclectic collection of birdhouses.

  The porch railing and boundary fencing are crafted from twisted tree branches in traditional Adirondack styling. If not for the colorful canoes and kayaks dotting the lawn and poking out of storage sheds, the yard looks perfect for a hobbit community.

  I stop, enchanted by the scene, wondering why Jack and I never visited this canoe shop. Our equipment was purchased from outfitters further north and our trips were generally on the lakes and rivers closer to Raquette Lake. Pausing a moment to calm my racing heart, I hear the sound of childish laughter coming from behind the building. A little girl comes running around the corner giggling as her younger brother chases her with a butterfly net.

  “Zizzi, stop!” He calls out as his chubby legs furiously pump to keep up with his older sister. “You promised be ma flutter fly!”

  The little girl whirls around dancing in the sunbeams filtering though the half open leaves, and with a flute like laughter, she calls out to her brother. “Ansel, only the queen of the fairies can catch a butterfly. You know that, don’t you remember the story?” Just as the little boy closes in to make a swoop with the net, she twirls and disappears between the storage sheds.

  “Zizzi !” the little boy squeals in disappointment, swinging the net through the air in a vain attempt to catch her.

  “Oh my God . My grandchildren.” I whisper. My heart swells with joy. I have grandchildren, they’re real. They run, jump, play and laugh. What a miracle of life. It takes all my willpower to resist the urge to pull these beautiful children into my embrace.

  Okay, I can do this. Forget the shaking legs and sweaty palms. Breathe, Ellen, breathe, step in and trust the future. Slow…… and easy.

  Entering the cabin that houses the store, I see two large screen doors opening onto a balcony overlooking the river. The wooden floors are worn and smooth, burnished from years of wear. The walls above the wainscoting are draped with T-shirts depicting scenes of canoeing in the mountains. An assortment of hats, maps and water sport equipment fill the tables and racks throughout the room. An old canoe propped in the corner is put to use as a shelf and a moose head hangs above the doorway. A map of the major canoe routes in Old Forge covers a wall behind the counter. Seated on a high stool munching an apple sits Claire, Josh’s wife. I recognize her immediately from the photographs Richard Harsonge sent us.

  I see how Josh fell in love with he r…… her hair. We call it mermaid hair. Tumbling locks of glorious auburn, cascading in soft ringlets down her back. Tall and lanky, she looks like a mother earth child. She needs no makeup; her complexion is flawless, one wonders if a piece of candy, drop of alcohol or red meat ever touched her lips. The rewards of a good life……..the way I eat, I should look a hundred.

  Claire is beautiful in an understated way, her clothing a mixture of eclectic peasant with a nod to the outdoors. She looks like she stepped out of Robert Redford’s Sundance catalog. Twisted rope and metal bracelets embellish her arms and artsy earrings dangle from her ears. A long chain with a pendant hangs between her breasts over a peasant blouse embroidered with tatting and beading. On the floor, the children with ruddy red cheeks from playing outside are engrossed in emptying a toy box, oblivious to my entrance.

  “Hi,” Claire says in a casual friendly voice. “Welcome to Westland’s. Can I help you find something?”

  “Yes.” I say, my voice tremulous with nerves. I hold up the newspaper. “I was hoping to take advantage of your preseason discount.”

  “Absolutely,” she puts down her apple and picks up an invoice form. “What were you looking to rent, a canoe or kayak?”

  “It’s such a beautiful day. I thought I might take a small kayak out on the river for a quick paddle.” I tilt my head as if asking permission.

  “That sounds like a lovely idea. It’s is a gorgeous day for a paddle.” She comments pushing a rental form towards me, holding out a pen. “Fill out the information and I’ll just need to make a copy of your driver’s license and we will have you on the river in no time.”

  A squeal and crash come from the corner where the children are playing. “Izzy and Ansel!” She admonishes looking over at the children. Ansel with his jacket half over his head, trips over the blocks on the floor, and crashes in a giggling, wiggling heap.

  “Ansel, not again,” Claire looks fondly at the little boy as she untangles him from his jacket. “I don’t know how he does it,” she laughs. “He’s always tripping and falling over hi
mself. It’s just one scrape after another.” She leans closer to me and whispers, “Sometimes, he’s such a klutz.”

  Oh, dear God, the child inherited Klutz-Ellen, only he’s Klutz-Ansel. I look at Ansel with empathy and bite my lower lip to quell the laughter threatening to erupt; Klutz-Ellen is an inherited trait. The poor thing. Claire turns back to me apologizing, “I swear they get wilder as the day goes on. Thank goodness, Daddy will be home soon to wrestle some of that energy out of them.”

  “Oh, please, don’t make them stop.” I smile, hugging my arms; only sheer will prevents me from dropping to the floor and entering into the squirming, giggling foray. “I’m enjoying their laughter. My children are grown and I miss the company of young ones.”

  “No grandchildren?” she asks politely. “Not that you look old enough to be a grandmother.” She adds hastily.

  Already I love her; she thinks I look young… I’m a sucker for flattery.

  “No, not yet,” I answer, a note of hesitation in my voice. How am I ever going to explain to her, that her husband is my son and those are my grandchildren.

  “You look familiar,” she says, looking earnestly at me. I freeze, praying she doesn’t recognize any resemblance between me and Josh. It’s too early.

  “I’ve just moved into town for the season.” I explain in a rush, “My husband and I rented a house north of Old Forge. Maybe you saw me at the store or church.” The husband part… just a little fib.

  “Maybe,” she says with a pensive look on her face. “It’s early in the season so generally it’s only the locals, so any new face sticks out. But something about you seems so familiar, I just can’t place it.”

  “Oh, shit, I think to myself. Just act cool. “Funny how things like that happen, usually it’s just a coincidence.” I say in a nonchalant tone of voice.