Adirondack Audacity (30 page)

“Sure, sure, today it’s Ellen, tomorrow its Tammy,
and so on and so on. It’s all over those disgusting tabloid
newspapers.” She says, waving her hands at him in
disgust. “When we set up this household, it was agreed
this property was for family. The Hollywood business
stays down there, in the land of Sodom and Gomorrah.
You would not be bringing it home to taint your
daughter. What will Miss Sophia say if she sees you with
this tart?”
At the word tart directed in my direction on the heels
of being called a floozy, I let out a squeal of indignation.
“Excuse me!”
“Bridget!” Vic reprimands her. “What the hell!”
“I didn’t hire on to run no playboy bunny house like
that, that, Hugh Iffler, Stiffer, oh, whatever that man
whore is called,”she says, turning on her heels, heading to
the kitchen in a huff. “If this is the way it’s going to be,
Hank and I will be leaving.” The faint whoosh of the
kitchen door swinging is the only sound left in the room.
Vic and I stare at each other in stunned silence.
“Is she always like that?” I whisper, casting a fearful
glance at the door, dreading a re-appearance of the
apparition that went flying through it.
“Good Lord, no! I think she’s lost her mind,” he
shakes his head in disbelief, raking a hand through his
tumbling mass of hair. “Let me see if I can straighten this
out.”
I follow Vic to the kitchen, pausing at the door as he
confronts Bridget who’s slamming cupboard doors with
as much vehemence as a barely five foot tall body can
muster. She throws a green pepper on the chopping
block and attacks it with vengeance.
“Bridget, please put down the knife and talk to me.”
Vic says in the same soothing voice he would use with a
spooked horse.
“And what do you want me to be a saying,” she
shakes the knife in his direction. “Oh, sure, come and
bring all the little whores and doxies home, Bridget will
cook and take care of us. We’re the beautiful people of
Hollywood. We can do what we want and who cares
about the consequences. So what if your soul burns in
hell!”
“What are you talking about? Where are these crazy
ideas coming from?” Vic takes a half step backward as
she points the knife menacingly in his direction. Then
with a determined look on his face, he places his hands
on his hips, leans over her slight form and demands,
“What the hell is going on here? Have you lost your mind
attacking Ellen like that!”
“Me!, It’s you that is losing his mind.” She drops the
knife with a clatter, yanking open a drawer, throwing five
tabloid newspapers on the center island. “Look at that, I
can’t even go to the grocery store to do my shopping
without that trash staring me in the face. I’m ashamed to
be working for a man of such loose morals.” She wipes a
tear from her eye and stifles a sob. “I thought you were a
good man, Mr. Vic. What’s happened to you?”
“Bridget, you know these rag sheets exaggerate the
truth.” He says with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.
“So you mean you were never with these women?”
She challenges.
“I’m sure….” his voice trails off as he studies the
contents of the photos. “Well, yeah I did date Nicole for
a couple of months, and Laura only lasted one night. Shit,
Vanessa was only a publicity stunt for the movie and
Kate was just plain fun. And this one is Ellen when she
fainted in my arms the other night. A good thing her face
was hidden.”
I’m in the tabloids……
I snatch the paper out
of his hands.
Good God, I can never step foot in the grocery store
again….what will the neighbors think?
“So you don’t deny it.”
Vic sits on a stool with a pensive look on his face.
“No, I guess I never stopped to think about how it
looked. The stardom went to my head. I was riding the
tide of Hollywood good times, thinking it won’t last
forever, so why not enjoy it now.”
“Mr. Vic,” Bridget shakes her head. “This is not you.
You’ve never been a womanizer. I can count on one
hand the number of woman you dated over the years, but
after this last movie, this celebrity business has gone to
your head. You have a teenage daughter to think about.”
“You’re right. I never thought about Hanna seeing
these trumped up newspapers, peddling their lies and
exaggerations. It’s mostly publicity for the movie.” Vic
says holding up the latest tabloid. “But you have to listen
to me, Ellen is different.”
“Why? Because she fainted in your arms?!”
“Well, yes, she fainted from shock. She thought I was
dead. You’ve seen her before. Wait a second.” Vic gets
up off the stool, and pulls me further into the room.
“Elle, come here, I have to revive Bridget’s memory.”
“Why in the world would I remember this woman?”
Bridget replies indigently.
“You’ll see. Elle, come here.”
Peering cautiously around the corner with the tabloid
crushed against my chest like armor, I see Bridget holding
a knife pointed in my direction. For safety I duck under
the protective cover of Vic’s arm.
“Bridget, look at Elle closely,” he turns me in his
arms towards her. “Think of my studio.”
“
Ohhhhhhhhh,
my stars,” she looks at me in mounting
horror. “It’s the Daisy girl, the one hanging in the….”
She makes the sign of the cross on her chest. “Saints
preserve me. I’ve called the love of your life, a whore!”
She looks at Vic and accuses, “You said she was dead.”
“She was, no! Our parents lied to us.” He says
defensively. “My father even went so far as to buy a
gravestone and engrave Elle and the baby’s names on it.”
“Oh, Lord,” Bridget says, bringing her hands up to
her face in disbelief. “What happened to the babe?”
“They signed our baby away for adoption at birth.” I
say; a bitter edge to my voice. Vic’s arms tighten around
me, understanding my pain.
“Oh, you poor darlings,” Bridget reaches out
touching my arm in sympathy. “And now you have gone
and found each other after all this time. It’s like a
miracle.” She sniffs, pulling a handkerchief from her
apron pocket, blowing her nose with a
honk.
“By the
mercy of the good Lord, how did you meet?”
“At the movie premiere, Ellen’s daughter was a
costume designer on the film and invited her mother as
her guest. I saw Elle and thought I’d lost my mind. But
then I saw the locket I’d given her so many years ago and
I knew it was her.”
“So you have a daughter?” Bridget asks suspiciously.
“Are ye married?”
“I have a daughter and a son. My husband died of a
heart attack almost two years ago.” The memories of my
life with Jack seem a world away.
“So you are both free……to be together at last.”
Bridget claps her hands in happiness for us. “It’s like
something out of a fairy tale or one of them
Hallmark
movies.”
Holding up an arm in mock defense, Vic says, “It was
a fairy tale until we walked through the door and ran into
an Irish hellcat.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she says, a chagrined look on
her face. “Hank accuses me of getting too worked up
about things. But you can see why I had my concerns.”
“I understand, but Elle is different.” Vic says with
authority. “So, no more doxy talk.” With a hoot of
laugher, he shakes his head and asks, “What the hell is a
doxy? Is that some old Irish term or did you just make
that up?”
“Just you never mind, I’m so sorry, Miss Ellen,”
Bridget says, contritely. “I didn’t mean to hurt your
feelings. To apologize I’m going to make you a lovely
dinner and retire to my quarters until late tomorrow
morning, leaving the house to the two of you, so you can
be reacquainting yourselves.”

…
In a dark sky with no city lights, the stars vie only
with the half-moon casting dappled shadows throughout

the woods. Strands of white lights wrapped around the
branches of a large oak tree twinkle and wink like so
many small woodland fairies flirting amongst the leaves.
The pool glows like an aquamarine gem illuminated by
the underwater lights. The magnificent dinner Bridget
prepared, reduced to a scattering of crumbs littering the
table.

Swaying gently back and forth on the patio swing, we
sip our coffee in companionable silence. A plate with the
remains of a chocolate torte rests on the table next to a
French press coffee pot. Firelight flickers from a pit built
out of rough hued rocks that complements the natural
design of the pool area. Feeling content and half-asleep,
we sway back and forth on the swing.

“I can’t
eat another bite.” I moan, desperately
wanting to unsnap the top button of my jeans, only
vanity prevents me from doing so…….and fear of what
will pop out.

“I’m stuffed.” He twirls a piece of my hair around his
finger.
“Bridget may have a temper, but she sure can cook.
And as far as I’m concerned she can call me a doxy all
she wants as long as I don’t have to go near the kitchen.”
He chuckles and kisses the top of my head as I lament,
“The pots and pans are much safer in her capable hands.”
“That’s fine with me.” His hand caresses my leg. “I
can’t afford to eat like this every day; I’ll have to run five
miles tomorrow morning to work off this meal.”
He cocks his head looking at me. “Do you run?”
Run….
Do I run?!
….
is he nuts? I haven’t run
since……oh, boy, a long time. I played volleyball in high
school because I didn’t have to run. I hike, bike, and
paddle because
no
running is involved. “Look at us,” I
squeak, hoping to divert him from the idea of a morning
jog. “No family, students, movie people, paparazzi. Just
sitting here, swinging along sipping our coffee.”
“I could stay like this for a very long time.” The look
in his eyes sends my heart careening into the wall of my
chest.
“Oh, you’d get bored with me.” My voice husky,
slightly breathless; secretly hoping he vows he can’t live a
day without me.
“I don’t think so,” He sighs and smiles, reflexively
drawing me closer. “Never, I feel so comfortable with
you, like we never parted.”
“Yes,” I agree slowly, “But our lives are so different.
All that Hollywood glamour, huge houses, drivers with
limos and paparazzi, it’s overwhelming. I feel out of
place. It’s a world I don’t know or understand.”
“It’s just me, Elle. None of that matters. It’s the
trappings of the industry.”
“But it’s your life.”
“Yes, but with proper security measures, you can
protect your family.”
“It’s a different lifestyle. All those beautiful woman
throwing themselves at you, I can’t bear the thought of
sharing you with anyone. I’m greedy, I want all of you.
Will one woman be enough?” And I can’t help but think,
a woman who is twice as old as his recent dates, and
double the cellulite.
“Elle, I’m not going anywhere. Wild horses couldn’t
drag me away.”
“Sophia?”
“There was passion in the beginning. I mistook
passion for love. And honestly, at the time, she was good
for my career. We drifted apart and I admit to cheating
on her. Hanna keeps us connected. We have occasional
family dinners, sometimes even vacations with Hanna.
We replaced passion with mutual respect and friendship.”
“You cheated on her and she forgave you?”
“I wouldn’t call divorce forgiveness. Her fury at me
made tabloid headlines. A case of wounded pride, how
dare anyone cheat on the fabulous Sophia, even though
she was sleeping with her leading man. She was just
more discreet.”
“Vic, I don’t know if I can live with someone not
committed to me. I have no more tolerance for affairs.
I’ve lived that life and I’m done with it.”
“Elle, I’m not Jack.”
“No, but you’re
Esteban Diago,
Mr. Hot Stuff, sex on a
stick, every woman’s fantasy.”
“Not every woman, polls say only about thirty
percent.”
“Not funny!”
“You’re right, but seriously, I’m not Jack. Give me
time and I’ll prove it to you.” He refills our glasses with a
pinot noir from the Sonoma area of California. He stares
pensively at the stars overhead, swirling the liquid in the
glass before giving me a half smile over the rim. “I’m in
no position to talk, I’m not an angel,” he says. “But I’m
tired of being lonely.” His intense gaze darkens suddenly
and he blinks. “Sharing is not an option for me, I’m done
wandering.” Taking my hand, he holds it over his heart; I
flex my fingers slightly, feeling the warmth of his skin
beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. “I love you, Elle;;
please, stay with me.”
I desperately want to believe him and trust that he
wants a lasting relationship…..but I have doubts, his
track record with women suggests otherwise. For now,
it’s just easier to be in the moment, as I slowly undo the
buttons of his shirt, tricky with one hand, better to
concentrate on the fun of being with him. The great sex,
just having him in my life again and not dwell on the
future, it’s too soon………my heart needs
time……..because to love and possibly lose him
again……..would shatter me into pieces, beyond repair.

“Leave the
breakfast dishes, Bridget will take care of
them.” Vic grabs my arm heading me toward the kitchen
door. We had spent the morning sleeping in on a
luxuriously soft king size bed followed by a sumptuous
breakfast feast, which I somehow managed to cook…
only because Bridget left behind detailed instructions.

“I have something I want to show you.”
He insists. I
look at the countertop and table, in my attempt to cook
breakfast; I demolished the immaculate kitchen,
completely. Dirty pots and pans, a bowl with pancake
batter spilling down the side, toast crumbs and coffee
grounds litter the countertops. Is he
nuts
? Bridget will
have an Irish coronary if she sees this mess, and she’ll
know I can’t cook for beans. The breakfast was edible, in
fact, delicious; but the entire process of preparing the
meal was tortuous ……and the poor kitchen bears the
scars of that pain.

“I can’t leave a dirty kitchen.” I stop, digging my
heels in to prevent his forward motion. “I wouldn’t feel
right expecting Bridget to clean up after us. That’s not
fair.”

“It’s her job
,” he says, pulling me toward the door.
“And if you touch those dishes, both our heads will roll.
Trust me on this.”