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Adirondack Audacity

Page 35

by L. R. Smolarek


  “I’m sure it will come to me,” she says with a bright smile. “Now do you need any help or instruction with the kayak, especially if you are taking it out alone?”

  “I have the basic idea. I don’t plan on going too far, just to the bridge and back.” I point to the map on the wall. “I brought my binoculars and camera. Hopefully, I’ll see a few spring migrating birds.”

  Just by luck I had remembered to put my binoculars and camera equipment in the car trunk.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” she asks, swiping my credit card through the machine.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, we have decent coverage around town, so you can call if you have any trouble.” Claire reaches across the counter and hands me a business card. “Here is our number should you need assistance. We can’t afford to lose a customer this early in the season,” she jokes. “We usually wait until later in the summer before we let people wander off. And you look capable so I don’t think you’ll be our first.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I assure her. “I’m used to doing things on my own. My husband’s job takes him away for long periods of time, so I’ve become quite competent at taking care of myself.”

  “Well, you’re in good hands.” She picks up a lifejacket and paddle from a shelf behind the counter. “Josh, my husband is an EMT on the Search and Rescue squad in town. Actually, things have been slow around here. The boys on the squad are eager for a good man or lady hunt, gives them bragging rights over beer at the bar. And just think of the gossip you’d generate in town, the first in a long list of local summer legends.”

  Little do I realize how prophetic her joking banter will prove to be, a foretelling of things to come.

  “Thanks, but no.” I say with a laugh. “I have enough embarrassing stories to my credit already. I don’t need to add any more. Someday when I know you better, I’ll tell you about my high heel getting caught in the luggage conveyor belt at LAX airport. I think my picture still hangs on the bulletin board in the baggage handlers break room. The caption reads, “Dumb blonde stunt of the Year.”

  “I’ll buy your glass of wine to hear that one,” she smiles and calls over her shoulder to the children. “Hey, my little darlings, come help Mommy put this nice lady in the water.”

  …

  It’s a beautiful day to be on the river; and the only place to be in late spring, the dreaded black fly season. Those annoying creatures buzz your ears; fly up your nose, zoom behind your glasses and land in your mouth should you be foolish enough to open it. But for some reason they’re less aggressive on the water. Hiking in late spring is for the hardy or hapless, unless armed with bug netting, insect repellant and clothing built like a suit of armor.

  I haven’t been on the water since Jack died. The serenity of drifting with the current, the slow dip and pull of the paddle, works like a moving meditation, calming me. The warmth of the afternoon sun seeps into my bones, like a gentle massage.

  Water striders skate away from the kayak’s path and turtles reluctantly abandon their perch in the sun, sliding down slippery logs into the murky river. A male green frog vocalizes the sound of a plucked banjo string from the shallow banks. Old trees topple inward toward the stream as the undercurrent cuts their roots, causing them to lean ever inward and eventually fall. Beneath the water surface is an intricate spider web of roots and branches that stop and tug as boats float by. Tucked into a curtain of pine trees, small cottages populate the water’s edge, often only detectable by the docks jutting out into the river. Frayed edges of a rope swing beckon from an overhanging branch, lazily waiting for school to end and summer vacation to begin.

  A great blue heron gives a raucous call of alarm as he lifts his oversized wings, smoothly gliding downstream in search of quieter hunting grounds. With my binoculars, I spot yellow throated warblers flitting between the bushes of willow and mountain laurel calling out, “Wichita, Wichita”.

  Reaching an expanse of open marsh on the river, I stop to admire the view. With a sigh, I lay back, resting the paddle across the gunnels of the boat and drift, closing my eyes, enjoying this simple pleasure, allowing my thoughts to move with the current, freely, unimpeded, and simply living in the moment…...

  …

  With a start, I jerk awake, dazed and bewildered; the bow of the kayak rests against the riverbank. Pushing a willow branch out of my face, I look around. Oh noo……I must have dozed off, where am I?

  The sun is sinking in the western sky and the air has cooled off considerably. A glance at my watch confirms the time, almost five o’clock. Oh my God! I slept for fortyfive minutes….. and I still have to paddle back!

  Pulling my cramped legs back into the boat, I grab my fleece jacket and slip it over my head, grateful for the warmth. I need to get back to the shop before Claire fears I’ve fall overboard or stolen her boat.

  My return trip to the dock looks like something out of a cartoon, my arms a blur of paddling motion, the speed causing a small wake to form behind the boat. Smoke bellows out my ears because I’m so mad at myself. After a half an hour of frantic paddling, the dock is finally in sight. Maybe I can surreptitiously pull the kayak up on the landing area, wave good-bye and be on my way before anyone realizes the time. I’m sure Claire’s worried. I can’t believe I fell asleep. How stupid can I be?

  Ohhhhh….no! My mind frantically intones as I watch a tall figure come out of a storage shed and head down the path toward the dock. Who is it? As the shadowed silhouette comes into view I see the dark hair and angular jaw line. Josh!

  Shit, shit and double shit. I am not ready to meet him. Not like this. Some strange, forgetful woman…Oh God. Look at me, I’m a mess, clothes wrinkled, hair shoved in a hasty ponytail. What am I to say? Hey, I’m your mother and I’m nuts. For the fricking love of God. I can’t believe this is happening. That’s it. I’m coloring my hair tomorrow. It must be the blonde hair in close proximity to my brain, short circuits the nerve endings…or something. I’ll look fabulous as a brunette.

  Maybe I’ll paddle home. Forty-five minutes by car, four days by kayak. Not a problem. I’ll just yell out as I go by, thanks I’m good, practicing for the Ninety Mile Canoe Classic. Yep, that’s me, super-duper marathon canoe woman. Just put the extra charge on my credit card…….yeah, that sounds sane.

  What will I say to him? Think, think….don’t panic. This is only your long lost son, who you’ve not seen in…forever. No big deal.

  He is probably furious at me for worrying his wife and interrupting dinner. How could I be so careless?

  Ellen, don’t you dare panic……whatever you do……..don’t panic! Remember the less you say the better, don’t babble. Maybe if I tip the kayak over and drown………Ohhh, here he is!

  Josh comes striding down the dock with that black cat grace reserved for athletes and those blessed by the gods.

  And the panic leaves my body in a whoosh of air……look at him. Oh...oh…oh….he is so wonderful. Look, my son. Like a mother with a newborn baby, I’m instantly in love with him. Momentarily shaken, I keep one hand clasped to my chest, trying to hold my racing heart in place.

  His dark hair curls lazily along the nape of his collar. Gosh, he looks so much like Vic. While he’s pure Vic in essence, there is still a hint of me, shadowed around his eyes and mouth. He stops by the water’s edge with his hands on his hips and calls out in an amused voice, “Hey, kayak lady, we thought we lost you.” He laughs, crouching down to guide my boat up to the launch. His eyes are his father’s dark, dark eyes with lovely little flecks of gold. “Claire was only kidding when she said the emergency squad needed practice.”

  “I am so, so sorry.” I manage to gasp out. “Would you believe I fell asleep?” I can’t breathe. Oh God, I’m having a heart attack.

  “It, it….was such a beautiful day.” I eke out in a rush. “The sun lulled me to sleep.” No, not a heart attack, no shooting pain down my left arm; just pure panic. I continue on bravely. “Ummmm, I was drifting along wi
th my camera taking pictures….and the next thing I know, I woke up with the bow of the boat stuck in the river bank.”

  “Not a problem; happens to the best of us,” he says. The lines around his eyes crinkle slightly as he gives a dismissive shake of his head. “We’re just glad you’re back safe and sound. Claire was afraid something happened to you.”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m usually very responsible.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  So much for slipping quietly into his life. But oh, with a mother’s unconditional love, I’m enamored with him. There is an air of quiet confidence about him, and he obviously has patience with idiotic woman. Regaining my senses, I say, “I’m sure it must be past closing time and I’m interrupting your dinner.”

  “We tend to eat late around here . I come home and play outside with the kids before it gets dark. It gives Claire a chance to start dinner and have a few moments of peace.” A considerate husband. Someone raised him well. “They just went up to the house. Hand me your gear and we’ll get you up onto dry ground and headed home.” I hand him my backpack and place the camera gently on the dock.

  “Let me help you .” He offers; taking my hand in his, the kayak wobbles as I shift my weight to climb out, his fingers strong and warm as he pulls me up. Standing in the evening twilight with his hand in mine, I give him a polite smile for the assistance, but fear I’m staring at him like I’ve seen the coming of the next Messiah.

  “Thank you.” My wellspring of conversation dries up as my gaze drops to his hand. My son’s hand, I am standing here holding my son’s hand. A few scars stand out white against his bronze skin, giving his hand depth and character.

  Let go of his hand. Now! I admonish myself. Release your grip, before you look like the village idiot or an old lady on the make. Reluctantly, I let go of his hand and transfer my stare to his face.

  “So,” I say , rallying the few wits I have left, “Where do you store the kayaks at night?” And cringe at the inanity of the question.

  “We just prop them against the building or in a shed,” he says, waving a hand to the surrounding area. “Do you need any help?” I ask, realizing I’m grabbing at any excuse to prolong the conversation. Like this wellmuscled young man needs any help from the likes of me, to offer is an insult to his masculinity.

  “I’m good but thank you.” He gives me an amused grin as he effortlessly hoists the kayak onto his shoulders; his attention diverts to my camera lying on the ground next to my daypack. “Do you like photography?”

  “Actually, yes,” I answer , praying he doesn’t ask any in-depth camera questions. Photography is Vic’s forte, not mine. “My husband is the camera buff. I’m more of a shoot and go girl, strictly amateur. I wanted to take a few pictures so I could email them to him tonight. He’s in Miami on business. I thought he’d enjoy seeing the marsh and river.”

  “I’m sure he would.” Josh nods in agreement. “Say, if you’re interested in photography and kayaking, this Saturday, I’m running a clinic. We’re going to take an informal paddle down the river, stopping along the way to discuss aperture settings, lighting, and just general aspects of photography. Maybe you’d be interested in joining us? I think there’s still a few spots open. Check with Claire.”

  “Yes! That sounds wonderful, I’d love to come.” I reply, trying to contain my joy at the prospect of seeing him again.

  “Excellent, call Claire tomorrow and she’ll give you the details.” Josh says leading me up the path toward the parking lot. “And we will see you on Saturday.”

  I mentally chide myself to say good bye…..and no, don’t shake his hand again… just…go.

  “Yes, see you then.” I call out to him with a wave.

  Wait, wait….don’t start……no, don’t twirl around and dance with joy until I’m home….. alone…. in the woods…. by myself. If he sees me joyously cavorting around in the parking lot and finds out I’m his mother… he’ll fear insanity runs in the family.

  Chapter 40 The Fine Art of Skinny Dipping

  “Cleaning is the process of making something clean, either in a domestic or commercial environment.”

  Webster Dictionary I don’t cook, I clean. Cleaning is a legacy from my stepmother, Helen, the only common bond in our tortuous relationship. They didn’t call me Cinder-Ellen in high school for nothing. Helen’s idea of a prom dress was an apron paired with a toilet brush.

  Yet, surprisingly, I like to clean. Cleaning is therapeutic, when life knocks me off balance and the universe sends me into a whirl, I clean. A broom, a mop, a dust cloth slick with lemon oil, these tangible symbols of domestic stability give me a purpose, a reason to move forward, if you keep moving trouble can’t catch you. I tried jogging for stress relief, but after ten minutes of running, I’d collapse in a heap alongside the road begging for Para-medics and oxygen.

  But cleaning, a person starts early in the morning and can still be working by nightfall. Exhausted, replete, spent, you’ve made it through another day. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, so they say. My way of praying when Jack died……well, it was better than eating my way through grief.

  Not that I’m troubled or upset at the moment, just restless. With Vic gone and little to occupy my time until Saturday, I need a project. I thought of making a batch of muffins for Claire and the children to apologize for being late. Then I come to my senses……. I’ll stop at the bakery on my way into town on Saturday.

  Unfortunately for me, the Adirondack lodge was left in immaculate condition. Not a cobweb, not a dust bunny, not a slick on the windows, but…… the attic of the old boat house situated on the water’s edge proved to be a veritable treasure of collectibles, some less collectable than others.

  I called the owners and they were delighted to let me “straighten up”. Apparently over the years, what the family didn’t want in the main lodge, ended up stashed in the boat house. Old sports equipment, lawn furniture, gardening tools, lifejackets covered in mildew, and cardboard boxes full of outdated clothing. Bursting at the seams and starting to smell. Untouched for years, the boathouse was the dream of every fanatic cleaner.

  … Standing on the dock after a long day of cleaning, I stretch and tentatively flex my aching back while surveying my progress. Not bad for a day’s work, I’d applaud my efforts but my arms ache too much. Scattered across the lawn are three piles; one goes to the garbage dump, one to the fire pit and one box of articles still usable.

  Pulling the dusty bandana off my head, I study the boathouse edifice. While one can’t help being impressed by the grandeur of the great camps sitting like crown jewels at the edge of a mountain lake, I’ve secretly coveted the tiny boathouses clinging to the shore. Designed to match the main lodge, the boathouse acted as a garage for boats, while the second story serves as a guesthouse for visitors. Many great camps require a boat or water taxi, being accessible only by water. Seen from afar, the boathouse with the camp’s signature flag flying, announces the family is in residence.

  Walking around the building, I imagine it painted a deep brown with red trim, window boxes spilling over with bright crimson geraniums and Adirondack chairs dotting the overhanging porch. The leaded glass windows, washed and open, with curtains billowing in the summer breeze. Climbing the steps, I envision the upstairs room decked out in vivid reds, greens and orange, colors symbolic of the Adirondack Great Camps. Casting a wistful glance out the window at the lake, I realize how hot, tired and dirty I feel from hours of crawling through cobwebs, musty lifejackets, rotten wood, and a conglomeration of dirt and unidentifiable smells. Though the temperature is dropping, I long for a quick dip in the velvet cool of the lake, to sink below the surface and feel the cleansing waters wash away the grime.

  Wiping the sweat from my brow with the corner of Vic’s old shirt, I think, why not? All I need is a towel;; since there is no one around for miles, why bother with a bathing suit. It’s just me, Cyrus and the deer. So before the sun sets any further and I lose my nerve, I sprint to the house. D
ropping my dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, I grab a towel and lock Cyrus in the kitchen. Otherwise, he’ll follow me into the water and I’ll have a wet smelly dog in my bed. Poor substitute for Vic.

  I dive off the dock into water the color of black ink, slicing through like an otter on a hunt. Surfacing, I float on my back, watching the last rays of sun sink below the hedge of pines rimming the mountain range. My initial euphoria over the invigorating cool water is quickly replaced by a slow body-numbing chill. Scooting up the ladder of the dock, I hastily wrap a towel around me, and dash across the lawn to the house, questioning the wisdom of skinny-dipping in May. Am I stupid? I know how cold the water can be, even at the height of summer, anything more than a brief swim is for the hardy.

  Leaving a trail of wet footprints across the deck, I yank on the handle of the sliding glass door and almost pull my shoulder joint out of its socket. The door’s stuck. I yank again. Still stuck. Pull harder. Oh, my God, it’s locked.

  What, no! I used that door only minutes ago, how can it be locked? Did the latch accidentally fall into the locked position, did Cyrus lock it? ehhhhh………….the security code! The owners programmed the security system to lock the doors at 7 p.m. The wife’s father has Alzheimer’s and tended to wander at sundown. Vic and I left it in place, using the keypad to let ourselves in, only he punched in the code and apparently I paid no attention. Bloody hell, where is the code!! Inside the house on a little piece of paper, stuck to the refrigerator, is the entry code. Behind the locked door.

  I hear Cyrus barking in the kitchen. Okay, don’t panic; one of the windows or doors must be open. I always leave a window open. After a quick survey of the ground floor entrances to the house, I panic. All of them are locked. Shit, shit, shit, and double shit! Temperatures are predicted to be in the forties tonight. Resting my head against the door jam, I imagine the newspaper headlines, middle aged blonde woman found dead, outside her palatial mountain home, naked and frozen, cause of death: stupidity combined with pre-season skinny dipping.

 

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