Adirondack Audacity (14 page)

I clasp
Vic’s hand across the worn flannel, the sun
warms our bodies as we stretch out on the sleeping bag,
relishing the quiet mountain solitude. Summer on the
mountain is ending. The buses leave for home tomorrow.

“
Querida,
” Vic murmurs, rolling his body on top of
mine, his fingers spilling the sun bleached locks of my
hair onto the grass, creating lines of molten gold. Blue
eyes meet smoky dark eyes that glint with amber light; his
eyes are mesmerizing, almost hypnotic.

“Umm
,” I sigh in contentment, running my fingers
with a feather touch along the edge of his jaw pausing to
outline the shape of his finely chiseled lips. Tilting my
head deliberately, I give him the invitation to lean in and
take possession, complete and total surrender as desire
meets desire. I melt into him as his arms wrap around me,
drowning in the natural scent of him.

Stopping to lean back on his elbow, his eyes study my
face as his long fingers caress the hollow of my
collarbone stroking the swell of my breast, the heat of his
touch sends quivers of delight racing through my body.
How am I to live without him?

His lips move slowly and lingeringly from my mouth
to my earlobe. “
Caro, caro
,” he says, burying his face in my
neck while his hands rove up and down the length of my
body. Waves of pent-up passion begin to build, craving
fulfillment. We’ve not made love since the night Burt
discovered us in the boathouse. I can feel the stirring in
him as his hands move exploring every curve and hollow
through my thin cotton shirt and shorts.

“Did you bring
Burt’s “presents?” I manage to eke
out in a ragged breath as I struggle to overcome the dizzy
spiraling need growing in my gut. His hands still their
exploration as he gently brushes the hair back from my
face looking deeply in my eyes, “Elle, are you sure?”

“How do you say, make love to me in Spanish?” I
whisper, my voice trembling as I kiss the small
indentation in his chin. “Is it
Harcerle el amora
?”

“Close enough………close enough.” The low dusky
notes of his voice are the quiet melody of a distant
thunderstorm, echoing the slow reverberation in my
chest, as my heart beats the low bass notes,
thump, thump.
“Love me, Vic.” I repeat in a throaty whisper as I tease
the lobe of his ear with delicate nips of my teeth, lifting
his hair allowing it to slither through my fingers like fallen
black silk.

“Do you know how much I love you?”
he asks.
“As much as I love you back.”
“Forever and ever?”
“Always.” There is one person in this world for each

He kisses my hair, eyes and face and the pulse that
beats in the hollow of my neck as his mouth forges a
burning trail down to my breast. His fingers undoing the
buttons of my shirt…one by one. I feel his mouth teasing
my nipples until I groan, a strangely incoherent sound.
Slipping his hands to my waist he slides the lower half of
my clothes off, tossing them into a careless pile on the
grass.

My hands tug impatiently to pull the shirt away from
his body, slipping needy fingers under the smooth fabric
to knead the ridge of muscles along his ribs and
abdomen. With one quick move I shuck the shirt from
his body, hands roving slowly over his flat, muscled
stomach, I feel him suck in his breath and soon his jeans
join the growing pile of clothes.

The molding of body against body, as heat and desire
fuel flames of passion not to be denied. His hand is on
my breast as his movements quicken and my body moves
in response, matching his pace, pulsing and arching to
forgetfulness, fulfillment and back.

Lying there against him, his arms holding me close as
beads of perspiration glisten on satiated skin, evaporating
in the noon day sun. Turning over in his arms to face
him, I watch the sunlight create a halo effect on his jet
black hair, hair that tumbles over his forehead in careless
disarray. I kiss the roughened skin covering a scar on his
shoulder. Those vaqueros again. His hands run over my
body trying to memorize each line and angle, pausing to
kiss the mole on my inner arm, tracing the outline of a
birthmark on the lower edge of my butt, caressing the
scar on my knee from a bicycle fall when I was six. Using
eyes, hands and mouth, following every curve, we create a
remembrance to hold against the barren loss of the
future.

“I can’t stand the thought of leaving you
,” he reaches
out running his hand down the length of my hair.
I nod as tears well up in my eyes. I brush them away
with the back of my hand.
“I don’t know how, but we’ll find a way to be
together. I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel the
way you do. I’m in love with you, Elle. That first night
when I saw you trip down the steps of that bus, falling
into the driver’s arms. I just knew I would love you.”
“I love you, Vicente Rienz.” I tease, “But I have to
admit, it took me a little longer to warm up to you.”
“Yeah,” he says, running his thumb over my
knuckles. “I was a pain in the ass when I first came here.
I was so pissed off at my father, forcing me to take this
job, and now it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.
Between finding you, Ben, Emi and the others, being in
the mountains, I don’t want it to end.”
I nod, reaching up to tuck that gorgeous black hair
behind his ear. “I know;; I feel the same way. I dread the
thought of being apart from you.”
“We’ll think of something, I can hop a bus or hitch
hike.” Tilting my chin up with a gentle touch of his hand,
our eyes lock. “I’m afraid you’ll go home and find
someone else.”
Not bloody likely.
My prospects at home are dull,
boring and
very
limited. Frankly, the captain of the
football team hasn’t exactly been knocking down my
door. And once you’ve tasted dark, deep Spanish
chocolate, the captain of the football team is……..rather
mundane.
“Not much chance of that happening.” I
squeeze his hand.
“You are so beautiful;; I can’t imagine every guy in
school not wanting to be with you.”
Really.….
he needs
his vision checked when he gets home.
I venture, “Maybe we could be exclusive, you know,
how everyone exchanges rings and promises to be true to
each other.”
“I don’t have a ring to give you.” He turns his hands
over, indicating the ring less state of them.
Okay, sometimes I have great ideas and sometimes I
get caught up in the enthusiasm of the moment, swept
away by the emotion, beguiled by the romanticism of a
gesture or a symbol….and sometimes that idea is
really
bad. This is one of those times. While Vic’s thinking of a
ring to symbolize our commitment to each other, I pull
from the recesses of my memory, a story I read years ago.
The image is still fresh in my mind.
“Ummmm, I read this book,” I begin tentatively. “A
story about a pioneer girl growing up in the 1870’s and
her friendship with a young Cherokee brave. My favorite
part of the story is when they make a friendship pact.
They cut the palms of their hands and hold the wounds
together, symbolizing the blood bond between them, a
vow that bridges the differences between family and
culture. The story ends years later when he spares her
husband and family from a raiding war party.” At the
time I thought it was so romantic……and Vic reminds
me of a Cherokee brave, tall, dark and handsome. In my
mind I can picture him riding across the plains, bareback
on a painted pony rescuing me, tossing me on the back of
his horse. And somehow I think I would look cute in a
poke bonnet………..and gingham. Very
Little House on the
Prairie.
“I like it,” he chuckles, squeezing my hand saying,
half serious and half in jest, “We’ll make a vow, a sacred
pact, sealed with our own blood.” Reaching into his pack
he brings out the small pocket knife he carries with him
all the time. The blade glitters silver in the sun. My
stomach clenches, maybe this wasn’t a good idea;; I just
remembered, I don’t like blood…..or sharp objects.
“Really?” I look at him with trepidation.
“It’s kind of a Native American sacred custom. We
cut each other’s palm then hold our hands together,
mingling our blood, the ultimate bond.” But before I
protest he whips out the blade and makes a quick slash
across the palm of his hand. Jeweled drops of ruby red
blood seep out, forming a small crimson line.
Sweet Jesus,
does nothing faze him?
I hide my hand behind my back, I’ve
changed my mind.
“Elle, give me your hand, it doesn’t hurt much, just a
quick sting.” He reaches out, and turns my hand over
gently so the soft palm lies open.
Oh boy
…
With a quick sure stroke he runs the blade over my
hand, a slash of red springs to the surface, vivid against
the white of my palm, a quick sting of pain. The pain
fades quickly as my gaze shifts from the wound to his
eyes. Sparks of light explode from his eyes as he hold his
hand up, I place the open wound against his, our fingers
intertwined, the warmth of his blood mingles with mine,
creating a bond more consummate than most marriages.
Holding hands together, our lips meet, warm, soft
and deep. His lips don’t just brush or nibble, they absorb
my entire being, leaving me dizzy and breathless. A
shimmering heat wave starts in my toes, rising as he pulls
me into his lap, draping my limbs over his while that
wonderful mouth continues to move over mine causing a
tremor to travel down my spine.
“Relax, Elle,” he commands, a slightly amused look
on his face, lightly running his fingertips over my mouth.
“Oh,” I exhale in surprise, realizing I forgot to
breathe. I hasten to comply, much to my awaking
pleasure, his tongue gently probes, traces and dances in
duet with mine. I feel him tremble against my own shiver
of response. My hands tangle in his hair, fisted while I
nibble one corner of his mouth, then the other, my
breath exhaling like a torn sob. His hand roves the length
of my body, igniting shots of white heat.
Later still drowsy in the aftermath of love, watching
the clouds scuttle overhead, “Elle?” he murmurs against
my ear.
“Umm?” I answer with a sleepy reply.
“You smell like the forest.”
“What?” I look at him as if he has lost his mind.
“The forest, pine trees, ferns and moss. I think all
that time you and Burt spend in the woods has seeped
into your skin.”
“How can moss smell, sounds like I need a shower.”
“No, you smell clean and fresh, like opening the
windows after a summer rain.”
“You’re silly.” I’m distracted by his hands that have
strayed from tickling to concentrating on more intimate
areas. “Stop, stop, stop, let me catch my breath, you
brute!” I holler in mock protest.
“Fine, fine, you’re nothing but a woodland temptress
disguised under that sweet innocent face.” He rolls onto
his back resting his head on his hands, squinting up at the
sun. “Oh, I almost forgot, guess what I have in here?”
Vic sits up holding his pack over my head with a teasing
come-and-get-it wag. “Mac gave us a going away
present.”
Oh, boy, I think to myself, anything from Kat and
Mac is bound to be illegal.
Sure enough, Vic unzips his pack and takes out a
small baggie with a marijuana joint in it.
“What do you think,” he says shrugging. “Should
we?”
As I lay here gloriously naked with nothing between
me and the sky but bare skin…… is this really a good
time to ask if I want to be prudent? Seems a little late for
conservative thinking. “It’s a shame to waste a perfectly
good joint.” I answer with a sweet innocent look on my
face. “Light it up, baby!”
“Yes, Miss Bossy Pants,” he shakes his finger at me
as if admonishing a precocious child. “Or rather Miss
Bossy without her pants.”
“Yes, sir,” I respond, giving him a mock salute.
Vic takes out a small packet of matches advertising a
restaurant in New York City and lights the joint. He
inhales and passes it to me on delicate fingertips.
Lying in his arms, the heady sweet smell of pot,
combined with the warmth of afternoon sun, causes my
body to melt on a tide of relaxed euphoria.
“Elle, pose for me.” Vic asks in a lazy voice holding
up his camera with a quizzical look on his face.
“What?’ I rouse from my languor to look at him.
“I want your picture in the black- eyed Susans.”
“In the daisies? But I’m naked.”
“Nude, it’s art.”
Drunk on the sun, high from the joint, inhibitions
cast aside under the loving reverence coming from his
eyes, I ask tentatively, “Can I wear my hat?” As if the hat
somehow makes it less nude.
“Sure,” he replies, changing the lens on his camera,
turning the dials, checking for light and focus.
The camera in the hands of a skilled photographer
can open doors into a person’s soul as angles and shafts
of light pierce though hidden veneers, little revealed
secrets exposed onto film, images held frozen in time,
captured, then bared to witness. Vic has the gift of
understanding light and color, blending the shadows to a
whole, drawing the eye to an image of balance and
pleasure. We play hide and seek with the camera between
the stalks of black-eyed Susans. His eyes making love to
me through the shutter,
click, click
as I bask in the glow of
his affection. Flowers placed strategically with careful
posing preclude the pictures from being lewd, art graced
by golden flowers dancing in the breeze. The
photographs capturing innocence on the brink of
womanhood, tasting the first fruits of adulthood while
still cloaked in the quintessence of youth.
As the sun sets in the western horizon, we swim in
the icy cold current that feeds the lake from an
underground spring, the cold shocking us back to reality.
With a towel snitched from the camp laundry, we buff off
chilled skin roughened by goose bumps, the dry air of late
summer holds the hint of autumn. We dress each other
slowly from the pile of clothes left in a careless heap.
Loving hands smooth down shirts, buttons slip through
holes… a kiss left with tender care as a collar is folded
into place. Taking a last cigarette from the crushed pack,
Vic smiles, “That’s it, summer’s done.” He crumples the
wrapper into a tight ball, and with the whisper of a
match, the cigarette glows. We share that last cigarette,
slowly exhaling, staining the night air with rings of smoke.
Holding our scarred hands together, we sit watching the
sunset turn the sky pink, grey and vermillion and fade to
twilight as the stars appear on the horizon’s edge. Morris
will be furious…..we’ve missed dinner and have no
excuse, because summer is gone…..and only the abyss of
winter lies ahead.