Adirondack Audacity

All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or
by any means without the prior written permission of the
author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief
passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper,
magazine or journal.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

When I started this project, it was my intent to
portray the Adirondack Mountains as a central character
of this novel. The mountains with their grace, beauty and
majesty are a treasure to the people of New York State
and beyond. Many thanks are due to the dedicated
individuals whose perseverance has kept the mountains
“Forever Wild” and to those who live and work in the
Adirondacks trying to eke out a livelihood in harmony
with nature.

To my husband, who has not read a book of fiction
since high school yet brought his engineering attention to
detail and credibility to this work. To Ronnie Turchiarelli,
who designed the cover graphics, I couldn’t have done it
without you. And to set the record straight, I have a stepmother who in no way resembles Helen. Lena is my
shopping, gardening, and tea buddy. The character of
Helen is a product of my
very
vivid imagination. To my
daughter, Meggie, who has proved with determination
and hard work, obstacles can turn into accomplishments.
As a reading specialist, she became my editor.

To my proof readers: Susan Young, who lived and
worked in the Adirondacks and where a part of her heart
shall always reside. Janet Evans, dedicated teacher and
fellow Adirondack enthusiast. Linda Thomas, who
entered into the foray of romance novels after a
sabbatical of many years, welcome back and thanks. Rick
Hartman for a quick and timely review and a perspective
only a man can give. Gerry Zahariev, your spot on
critiques and humor keep me real. A disorganized true
blonde such as myself, who can’t remember her own
name on a daily basis needs a friend like Donna Gastle,
an organized feet on the ground lady with amazing
analytical skills. And last, but certainly not least, Sarah
Belotti Smolarek, our beautiful bella, who agreed to marry
my son and make him the happiest man in the world.
Sarah’s comment when she finished reading
Adirondack
Audacity
was.........I love it! And to future readers, I hope
you do too!

Okay, here’s the thing,
only copious quantities of
alcohol coupled with unconditional maternal love could
put me on a plane flying 30,000 feet above the Rocky
Mountains. The trip mandated by the fact my daughter
lives on the
other
side of the country…….I miss her and
it’s just too far to walk.

The mountains lie below with the heavens above, but
for me, I’m in purgatory. Updrafts from the peaks
combined with wind shear cause the plane to buck and
dip like a rodeo horse on steroids. I hate flying. It’s
fallout from my childhood. I’d be playing with Barbie
sitting all pretty in her pink Winnebago while my brothers
built model airplanes out of Legos, and proceed to bash
them into the wall, squealing with laughter as the plane
exploded into a million pieces. Barbie and I cringed in
horror as the little Lego people careened across the room,
and my imagination added flames, the whole
conflagration erupting into a fiery inferno. And that’s the
memory I choose to pull out as I wing my way across the
country.
Great.

M
y name is Ellen O’Connor, and I’m more of a-feeton-theground kind of girl……..my interests tend to lie in
the mundane adventures of life, hiking, gardening, or
idling away the afternoon with a good book. But I’m still
waiting for the pink Winnebago adventure to spice things
up. Sure seemed to work for Barbie.

As a birthday gift, my children upgraded my coach
ticket to first class in hopes better accommodations
would lessen my fear of flying. It didn’t……..first class
simply meant……better alcohol and more of it.

So one drink leads to two, two becomes three….and
three means I’m drunk. So why am I still white knuckling
the arm rest?
Because…..
I’m in a pressurized steel tube
streaking across the sky at warp speed, held aloft by the
grace of God serviced by fallible, bored and possibly high
on marijuana flight personnel. That’s why my stomach
clenches as the plane lurches downward dipping into an
air pocket, only to lift and fall again. The walls of the
cabin close in and my body tenses in rising panic.
Overhead the “fasten seat belt” sign flashes on asking
passengers to remain seated during the anticipated
turbulence ahead.
Seriously,
we need a sign to state the
obvious.

And the irony of it……..my husband was a pilot. Jack
would roll his eyes and chuckle over my foolish behavior.
Married to a pilot for over two decades; and here I
am….afraid of flying. Odd, isn’t it? Jack reveled in the
pitches and dips of the plane, the excitement of take-off,
and the thrill of landing in stormy weather.

Outside the window a dense blanket of cloud
stretches in all directions, exactly how heaven should
look. I wonder if Jack is out there, somewhere riding
around on a puffy cloud playing the harp. A rather
ludicrous thought if you knew Jack. Most likely he’d be
trying to con St. Peter into a game of poker, or peeking
under the angel’s wings to see if they have real breasts.

Its been almost two years, and I still
can’t reconcile
myself to his death. He was too young to die. And I’m
too young to be a widow. I think widows are supposted
to be old ladies with glasses hanging off chains, tunic
tops, gray hair and sensible shoes…..?

Personally, I prefer blue jeans paired with a cozy
flannel shirt, and somewhere along the way, I’ve
developed a passion for red dresses…….. and stiletto
heels. I’m currently coveting a pair of Manolo Blahnik’s,
only thing holding me back is….. money.

Jack was forty-nine years old, in the prime of his life.
He ate well, jogged two miles a day and with his easygoing Irish temperament, the pressures of life never
overwhelmed him. At the merest hint of a problem, he’d
say with an exaggerated Irish brogue, “Darling, don’t ye
be worrying, things have a way of working themselves
out. Who knows, we could be dead tomorrow, so enjoy
today.” And with those words of wisdom he’d kiss the
top of my head and be off…………..leaving
me
to deal
with the crisis at hand. That was my happy-go-lucky
husband, shrugging away the cares of the world, secure in
the knowledge his good looks and charm would extricate
him out of any dilemma life sent his way.

And it usually did, a golden boy, classically handsome,
and confident of his place in the world. Jack was blessed
with good looks, athletic prowess and charisma, a lethal
combination in a man who recognized his talents at an
early age and spent a lifetime honing his skills. He was a
Kennedy without the curse, until that day in early
December, when his body lay lifeless on top of mine. The
spark, the grace, the wit, the sum that had been him was
simply gone, like an eternal spirit summoned back to the
nether world by the gods who clearly missed him.

One minute
he’s laughing and joking, making love to
me, the next moment seized by a gripping pain in his
chest, he falls dead on top of me. And it was just like him
to leave me the way he did. In the middle of sex, he has
the big O, I don’t, and then I’m left behind, butt naked
underneath him. I imagine him up in heaven lounging on
a cloud, chuckling “Oh, darling, just leaving you with a
little bit of love,” waving his wings at me, “If I have to
go, I might as well go happy.” With little thought of how
I was going to extricate myself from under his lifeless
body. I’m sure the people who work on emergency
squads have seen just about everything. Jack would have
loved the fact when the ParaMeds arrived; I was bare-ass
naked desperately performing CPR on him. I can still
hear one of the guy’s comments, “He must be dead,
because no man with any spark of life left in him could
lay there with her bouncing up and down on him like
that.”
Very professional.
And they took their sweet time
handing me my robe. And again I hear Jack……“Ahh, let
the boys have a little fun.” He turned the brogue on and
off when it suited his needs. He was a charming devil of a
man.

He treated me like a queen……a queen who took
care of the duties of the king while the king went his
merry way. He never questioned our family finances or
discipline decisions for the children, and still chased me
around the bedroom to the point I had to change in the
closet if I wanted peace.

And Jack gave me the family I desperately needed, a
large extended Irish family with brothers, sisters, aunties,
uncles and parents who loved me like their own. All and
all it was a fair trade-off; many women envied my
marriage. I married the catch. The catch or the “but” in
our relationship was………well, frankly, Jack was a bit of
a…….shit. He had a weakness…. for women, all
women….. any size…… any shape……..any age. I
learned to look away from the lipstick smudge on the
collar, a stray hair clinging to his jacket, and the
occasional late nights without explanation. I was number
one in his heart, but other women lurked in the shadows
of our bedroom. He was a player, it was who he was, and
he needed the constant validation of his manhood.

Tears and arguments to no avail; it was this way, or
no way. That was Jack……take it or leave it. Life is a
series of compromises.

The fasten seat belt sign blinks off; and I exhale a sigh
of relief. About time, my wineglass is empty and my buzz
is wearing off. Where is that flight attendant? Brought on
by the altitude and too much alcohol, my mind continues
to reminisce, I remember the day I met Jack. I was a
senior at the University of Syracuse, studying elementary
education, and receiving quite a tutorial in the realities of
life from my eleven-year old inner city students. Jack was
stationed at the Air National Guard base just outside of
the city. He had graduated from Embry-Riddle College
with a degree in aviation and enlisted in the Air National
Guard to gain experience for his commercial pilot’s
license. He exuded boyish appeal in a man’s body,
wearing sloppy oxford shirts and slim khakis, a clean-cut
boy in an era of longhaired hippies.