Adirondack Audacity (21 page)

My favorite picture…..Vic sitting on a rock,
mountains in the foreground, wearing faded denim jeans
with a hole in the knee, a plaid shirt open over a chest of
rippling muscles, long black hair, dark eyes flecked with
amber lights, his slow easy smile filled with a love that
still sends tremors of desire through my body……….
Vic.

The alarm clock on my night stand rang at three
o’clock this morning. A trip to the west coast begins
early. Like 6 a.m. early. Followed by a layover in Chicago,
and I didn’t say no to the wine being offered….so…..by
late afternoon….I dozed….okay, slept like the dead.
Ahhh….the benefits to flying first class: wide leather
seats, fleece blankets, soft pillows combined with
complimentary champagne and a window seat worked
their magic…I may have lost my fear of flying.

“Travel much?” A tall man
in his forties with the
chiseled good looks of an athlete raises his wine glass in a
mock toast. “First class is the only way to fly. I wouldn’t
be caught dead back there in coach.” Annette’s hot
businessman from a few aisles away has slipped into the
seat beside to me.

“Umm, yes, I guess.” I stammer
, struggling to sit up,
caught off guard by his sudden attempt at conversation.
Smoothing my hair into place, I pray I haven’t drooled
down my chin while I slept.

“I’m Frank Norris
.” He extends his hand.
“Ellen O’Connor.” I accept the handshake from a
hand too well manicured and soft to have done manual
labor……of any sort……ever.
“Spending time in L.A.?” He asks.
“Actually, I’m visiting my daughter for a few weeks
before school starts.” I answer politely. “And you?”
“I’m in town for the next two weeks. I enjoy the
restaurants, theater, and try to catch a ballgame or two
between business meetings.”
“Sounds interesting,” I reply.
“My company is located outside of Minneapolis. I like
changing gears from the Midwest to the West coast, get
my fill of sun and fast paced California lifestyle.”
“This is my first trip to California, so everything will
be new and exciting.”
God,
How provincial can I sound?
“Perhaps you would consider joining me for dinner
some evening?” He cocks his head in askance; a wry
smile creases laugh lines into the corners of his eyes. I’m
thinking he’s had loads of success with that lazy grin in
his lifetime. “Meet me in town, and take a break from
your daughter,” he cajoles. “I’m on a first name basis
with the maître des of some of the best restaurants in
town. Think about it. Business travel gets lonely; I’d enjoy
the company of a lovely lady.”
Boy, this guy works fast. Lovely lady? I almost turn in
my seat looking for the lovely lady. It’s been a long time
since I flirted with a man, especially a stranger. I’ve
forgotten what it feels like…..actually……it’s kind of
nice. This guy has “player” written all over him…...but at
the same time he is tall, handsome, crew cut silver grey
hair with broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow
waist. Crisp white button down shirt, tie slightly askew,
suit coat casually tossed over the seat, this boy is the
poster boy for expensive, high end business attire. And
possibly the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Okay, I’m tempted.
No evidence of a wedding band, not even a tan line. I
cringe inwardly as I remember those pink condoms going
to waste in my purse. My girlfriends will kill me if I let
this opportunity pass. The question is,
is he condom worthy?
I can’t believe I just thought that, I feel my cheeks blush.
“Maybe,” I take a gulp of wine. I’m beginning to feel
lightheaded, and don’t know if it’s the wine on top of the
champagne or the charged atmosphere created by the
handsome man sitting across from me……or just sheer
panic. I lean back in my seat, smile, trying to appear
relaxed while sizing him up. What do they say, no time
like the present to get back on the horse? Or is it get back
in the saddle……..I’m not even sure how to find the
barn, which end of the horse to saddle, and as far as
taking that horse for a ride……let’s just say…….. it’s
been awhile. And my dating experience is well…limited.
Vic and Jack, the sum total of my love life……. and with
them, love just happened. No dating required.
…
But by the time the plane starts it’s decent into the
LAX airport, and a half hour of witty conversation later,
I’m holding Frank Norris’s business card, with
all
of his
contact numbers, promising to call him for dinner
sometime within the next week. As he handed me his
card, he held my hand longer than necessary, brushing his
thumb across my knuckles, looking deeply into my eyes,
his expression sincere as he whispers, “I’d like to see you
again, Ellen, soon, show you the sights of the town.”
“Oh,
okay,” I croak, voice caught in my throat.
Frank Norris may be a player………but he certainly
is a smooth and practiced one……..I know he is an
outrageous flirt……but for the first time in a long time I
feel that flutter of attraction, that slow delicious sensation
spreading outward like rippling waves from the lower
center of my body that says………..
oooh my, maybe…yes.
…
It was no small feat squeezing my feet back into the
four-inch stiletto heels. What was I thinking, nothing says
stupid like a pair of high heels to go dashing between
terminals and humping luggage ungodly distances over
uncertain terrain. I’m coveting the sensible white sneakers
on the lady standing next to me as we wait for our
luggage to be unloaded. In my vain attempt to appear
young and chic for my fashion designer daughter……I
may have done irreparable damage to my feet. How dare
I break my stiletto code of operation, I know better.
Never walk more than fifty feet, be dropped off at the
restaurant door, make an entrance, find a chair, sit and
assume the Kate Couric crossed-leg pose.
I spy my bag coming around the turnstile, easily
spotted by the colorful designer name tag Lani sent as a
birthday gift in anticipation of the trip. Balancing on
pencil-thin heels I make a grab for the sixty-pound
suitcase as it moves down the belt. Ouch, damn it, I
curse to myself, stomping my foot as the suitcase handle
slips from my grasp, careening off for another spin
around. Why didn’t I pack two smaller bags? Because
that’s what smart women do…
Okay, here comes the bag again. I stand in place,
planting my heels for balance and make a grab for the
suitcase.
Shit,
it hardly budges. And there it goes again. I
venture forth giving chase on heels that have turned into
wobbly stilts of tortured hell. This is turning into a
comedy routine and now I’ve broken a nail. I scan the
terminal in hopes of seeing Frank Norris……knight in
shining armor…….ummm, no such luck.
Realizing I’m on my own, I set down my purse, push
up my sleeves, concentrate on the bag making its way
toward me and taking a deep breath, grab and pull. I
swear the thing is stuck. So this time instead of letting
go, I plant a foot on the conveyor belt for leverage and
yank. The next thing I know I’m hopping on one foot
alongside the carousal, tugging and heaving…… to no
avail. I decide to abandon the failed attempt, when to my
horror………the thin heel of my shoe is wedged in a
crack of the conveyer belt and bent at such an angle so I
can’t get it out.
Oh, my God,
I’m hopping….and
hopping…and hopping…I can’t get it out….
shit, shit,
shit.
I’m going to lose my balance and fall, dragged along
by a luggage carousel! What to do…..but swing the other
leg up and on. As the motorcycle commercial says,
“Let’s ride.” I’m now on the conveyor belt straddling my
suitcase like a monkey to the amazed stares of the other
passengers.
Help,
I mouth mutely while people step back,
confused by the apparition rotating in front of them. I
furiously work at the heel of my shoe to extract it from
the vise like grip of the belt. Not budging. Glancing
ahead shows I’m heading toward the plastic curtain into
the unloading dock from the planes. Look out!.....I’m
going through, baby.
I duck my head in anticipation of the small space
and see behind me, not more than twenty feet away the
horrified face of Frank Norris. His mouth agape, no
sympathy or compassion for a fellow traveler, actually,
disgust is written all over his face. He snaps his jaw shut,
turns on his heel and flees the scene.
There goes that date.
As I flap through the plastic curtain, Frank’s look of
horror is mirrored by the baggage handlers. They stop,
caught in the middle of swinging bags from a luggage cart
onto the belt and stare with wide eyed shock. Apparently
a woman winging along on a baggage carousel is not an
everyday occurrence. Go figure…….finally finding my
voice, I shout, “Help me! Turn this damn thing
off!
” One
of the handlers comes to life and streaks to the stop
switch, just as I’m about to go back through the curtain
and take an encore tour of the lobby.
“Hey, lady, what the fuck do you think you are
doing?” A stocky dark haired man demands.
“What the hell do you think I’m doing? Going for a
joy ride!” My eyes shoot lightning bolts at him. “My shoe
is stuck, I can’t get it out.” I hear a collective whoop of
laughter erupt from the workers.
“No shit?” One of them asks wiping the tears from
his face.
“Seriously, help me get it out!” I demand realizing my
short shirt has ridden up my thighs, giving the
“gentlemen” an ample view of my legs and a possible
sampling of my Victoria Secret underwear. Coral
pink…..with the matching bra…..of course….they were
on sale, I couldn’t resist.
…
Twenty minutes later, I exit the baggage claim area
with damaged pride, a badly mangled shoe and a suitcase
that goes
wibble, wobble
down the concourse. Authorized
personnel only……..yeah, right….not if you’re KlutzEllen.
A glance at the clock on the wall tells me the plane
arrived early. Thank God, Lani didn’t witness my
joy ride.
Checking my cell phone for messages, I see the business
card from Frank Norris peering up from the bottom of
my purse. So much for that possibility, I take the card out
and tear it into tiny pieces and watch it flutter like
discarded confetti into the trash bin. The box of pink
condoms seems to wink up at me with mocking
glee…..better luck next time, loser.
And then I see her, Lani, striding confidently down
the concourse, her father’s smudged coal black hair
falling in tumbling curls that cascade down her back. Her
sapphire blue eyes twinkle with mischief as she calls out,
“Ellie Jane!”
I cringe with embarrassment over her perversion of
my proper name, Ellen Jane and call back in retort,
“Fiona!” her hated middle name after Jack’s
grandmother.
Lani was christened Delany Fiona O’Connor. When
she was three weeks old, Jack’s ancient grandmother,
Fiona, bent with age, picked up the diminutive baby. Her
gnarled hands, swollen knuckles of arthritic pain from
working on the coast of Ireland held the baby aloft and
pronounced, “This child has a will and spirit of her own,
she won’t be tamed. Be careful how you treat her, a heavy
hand will destroy you both.” Grandma Fi was held in awe
within the O’Connor family for her throw back to the old
Celtic ways and beliefs. She’s what they called a Black
Catholic; she played both sides of the spiritual fence
attending daily mass while at the same time retaining a
few pagan traditions.
Grandma Fiona was right, while small of stature, Lani
possessed a strong spirit. Jack and I learned harsh words
and punishment only reaped more misbehavior and
discovered that left to her own discretion she usually
made the right choices. As parents we learned to pick our
battles with her, and wage war only when necessary.
Truth be told, Lani is the best of Jack and me. She has
Jack’s love of a good time, tempered by my practical,
conservative nature. And I suspect the strong will is a
holdover from Grandma Fi.
My cramped toes along with two broken fingernails
are soon forgotten as I enfold Lani’s five-four frame into
my arms. I breathe in the scent of vanilla laced with a hint
of jasmine. Lani.
At first glance, she appears like the girl next door. But
her almond shaped blue eyes stand out in stark contrast
to the tumbling curls of black hair. She designs her own
clothing and her appearance always garners a second
look. At an early age she had a knack for combining
colors and texture. That talent landed her a prestigious
job as a design assistant to one of the most influential
costume designers in Hollywood, right out of college.
“Ellie Jane, you’re suffocating me.” She laughs in
mock fear, yet shows no signs of loosening her embrace.
“Darling, let me look at you. You are some kind of
gorgeous, as your father would say.” Standing back, I
admire how healthy and fit she looks, her lean body
brushed a golden bronze by the California sun.
“It’s so good to see you.” I hug her again and whisper
in her ear. “Don’t ask me about my flight until we’ve had
a glass of wine.”
“Oh no,” She giggles. “Klutz-Ellen?
“Let’s say Klutz-Ellen is alive and well in California.
Shall we move away from the scene of the crime? You
won’t believe what I’ve done this time.”
“Anything to do with your shoe?” She points an
accusing finger at my foot.
“Casualty of battle.”
“Must have been a hell of a fight, cuz that poor shoe
looks like it deserves a proper burial.”
“With honors.”
“Mom, this is my Jason.” Lani proudly takes the hand
of a tall young man whose been standing off to the side.
“Jason this is my mother, Ellen O’Connor, and if you’re
real nice, you can call her, Ellie Jane.”
“Jason, it’s a pleasure to meet you, and call me Ellen.”
I stretch out my arms to hug him. “One person calling
me, Ellie Jane in the world is enough. Lani’s roommates
in college were convinced I was born and raised
somewhere in rural Tennessee. Please…just call me
Ellen.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. O’Connor.” Returning
my hug, he chuckles and says, “Lani has told me so much
about you, I can see now every word was true.”
Good God,
what has she told him?
He has the long, thoughtful face of a
scholar with brown eyes that hide behind the dark rim of
his glasses. Honey brown hair is streaked California
blonde and he has the body of a surfer. His manner is
respectful with the easy going demeanor of his
Midwestern upbringing. Sliding an arm around Lani’s
waist, I sense a comfortable ease between them, a
blending of personalities, friends turned lovers.
Slipping her arm through mine, Lani asks, “How is
Trey?”
“Your brother is fine, in fact, better than fine. He has
the house to himself, a stocked refrigerator and all of his
friends are home with two weeks to celebrate before they
leave for college.” Rolling my eyes, I continue, “I pray I
find nothing worse than a pile of dirty laundry and a sink
full of dishes when I return. I threatened him. If our
home looks like a frat house gone wild after a holiday
weekend, I’ll visit him at college armed with naked baby
pictures, home canning, and decorate his dorm room
with Grandma Fi’s hand crocheted dollies.” I blow out a
deep sigh. “I’m not optimistic, remember last time I left
him? I found beer cans in the gutters and bottle caps in
my flower beds for a year.”
“I hope you’re hungry?” Lani says changing the
subject before I can lament any further on the exploits of
my son. “I’ve booked us a table at this fab little restaurant
on the beach; it overlooks the ocean and has the best
seafood around. We can catch up while enjoying the
scenery.” Still holding Lani’s hand, Jason grabs the handle
of my suitcase and stops after a few steps, “What
happened to this wheel?” He bends down with a puzzled
look on his face, inspecting my suitcase, trying to find out
what’s causing it to go