Adirondack Audacity (40 page)

“Oh, my God! I know who you are.” He exclaims in
excitement as we stand up, his hands on my elbows
holding me steady. His eyes meet mine. He knows who I
am!
Yes! Yes! Yes! My son recognizes me! Thank you,
God! There must be some vestige of mother child bond
linking us through the years. The invisible umbilical cord
of emotions is too strong to sever. Neither time, nor
space or distance can separate a mother’s love from her
son. He knows I’m his mother. Reunited at last!
“You’re that
naked
lady! The one Frank and Brian
helped out the other night.” He exclaims in the delight of
a child figuring out the last clue of a puzzle. “You’re that
poor frozen woman locked out of her house; aren’t you?”
What!
“Noooo!! I howl in despair. As the wail erupts from
my throat, I instinctively shove against his chest in horror
that he now knows me as the “naked lady!”
The nightmare continues……the shove at the
precarious edge of the dock…… coupled with the force
of the push…..sends him…….. propelling
backwards……...arms flailing……whirling like a
windmill ………..and in slow motion.
………..falling……falling…… backwards off the
dock……into the frigid…… snow fed water of the
Moose River….on a cold spring evening in May.
Splash…….Ooooh….. My…… God!!

“Elle,
buttercup, I can’t understand you. You have to
stop crying.”
“I know you’re upset. Are you sick? Are the kids
sick?”
“Ella, Ella, my mia bella, whatever it is, we’ll fix it
together.”
“No, calm down, take a deep breath and tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I’ll love you no matter what.”
"
What!!
”
"You what! You pushed him off the dock!”
“How the fuck did you push our son off the dock.”
“What were you thinking?"
“I know it’s not your fault.”
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Yes, that’s my head.”
“No, I’m not having a heart attack.”
“He recognized the dragonfly necklace?”
“The cops told the story around the local bar about
rescuing a naked lady wearing a dragonfly necklace.”
“And he put two and two together and came up with
you as the naked lady.”
“He’s okay, He’s not hurt?”
“What do you
mean
not exactly?”
“He cut his hand on a mussel shell.”
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Yes, that’s my head.”
“But because his wife was gone, you stayed, bandaged
his hand and made him dinner?”
“So everything is fine?”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so in the beginning?”
“No, I’m not mad.”
“I always mutter under my breath in Spanish.”
“No, not just when I’m angry!”
“That’s it. I’m coming home before the spirit of
Lucille Ball
channels your body or you end up on the most
wanted list in the post office.”
“Yes, of course, I still love you, always.”
Thunk, thunk, thunk.

The plane lands in Albany, a short drive through the
mountains and he’s home. And Esteban Diago came
home, looking good…….real good.

His skin buff, bronzed and glowing from days in
South Beach working on a promo shoot for the sequel to
FireBrand
. Cosmetologists skilled in skin therapy and
exercise physiologists turned him into a gleaming six-pack
package of manhood. Ohh, mama, he is fine. Makes me
wish I had spent a little more time buffing and toning
myself while he was away. Mind you, he doesn’t seem to
be…
umm
…complaining….
ooh nooo
….he’s not
complaining at….
all
…..oh, my goodness. As far as I’m
concerned any sequel that has him playing Sentar, warrior
king of the underworld works for me. There will be no
complaints...none…at
all!

After three days of total preoccupation with each
other, still heady under the sweet fumes of infatuation,
our love mellows to a place of calm. A place of comfort,
moving beyond the frantic groping of lust, that first seed
of attraction to a true love spreading roots, growing to
weather the storms of life to fulfillment. A fulfillment
forged by a commitment between two people. I’m
beginning to trust the idea of marriage and starting a new
life with him……...

The destination for our first outing is the Adirondack
Museum on Blue Mountain Lake. Paying homage to the
mountains and culture of the Adirondacks, this is my
favorite museum in the world and I’ve been to the
Louvre.

From a sailboat under a glass dome to a furnished
railroad car, floating antique dory boats to replica cabins
from the Great Camps, all set amid lush gardens
brimming with native plants and trees. The museum is
the sum total of the Adirondack experience.

Attired in hiking pants, a light weight khaki shirt and
a wide brim hat, Vic resembles Indiana Jones gone
Adirondack….one of my favorite disguises to detract
from his identity. Only it doesn’t seem to be working.
He’s attracting attention. What woman doesn’t have a
thing for Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones….and if she
doesn’t, check her pulse, she’s dead. With his hair pulled
back in a sleek ponytail, bronze skin, dark eyes shaded
with aviator glasses, he’s making Harrison Ford look like
Chewbacca. The Hollywood veneer is showing. Out of
the corner of my eye, I see the ladies giving him
appraising looks. It’s time to take pretty boy home.

Grabbing his hand I steer him in the direction of the
museum bookstore, to the disappointed faces of the
women lingering too close for comfort. What is it up
here? Is it the mountain air, the long winter nights, the
overabundance of pine trees, too many lakes and rivers, a
surplus of flannel and denim? Is the scent of balsam in
the spring an aphrodisiac causing woman to stalk and
grab the nearest male?

“What?” He questions me i
n innocence, ignorant of
the attention flowing in his direction.
“We’re done.”
“But the tour isn’t over.”
“It is for you. The ladies were getting too close.”
“You just want to shop.” He accuses, holding open
the door to the gift shop.
“Brains and brawn, every woman’s dream
combination.” I quip, ducking under his arm through the
doorway.
The museum store is a virtual treasure of books,
jewelry, gifts and home decorating items geared to the
Adirondack mountain theme. Walls covered with prints
of Adirondack landscape, shelves stacked with blankets,
pottery, food, and coffee mugs crafted in enough designs
to have a different one for every day of the week.
“Of course, I want to shop. Woman are genetically
programmed to shop, it’s in our DNA. While the men
were off hunting, the women gathered in the fields and
forest. Shopping is simply the modern day woman’s form
of gathering.” I reply impishly. “Instead of fields, we
gather in stores.”
“Oh, boy, this could be trouble.” He teases as he
looks around at the wall displays and tables covered with
retail goods. “I’m not getting out of here anytime soon,
am I?”
“I won’t take long. I just want to check and see if they
have any new additions for my Adirondack book
collection. You wander around a bit. Hey, they have a hat
section; maybe you can buy yourself a new
chapeau.
” I
prompt. “Something a little less Indy and a lot more old
man of the mountain.”
“I like the one I have, thank you very much.” He
says, meandering over to inspect a photographic print,
tugging his hat lower.
Perusing the books on the shelf I take down a title I
don’t recognize,
Myths, Mysteries and Weird Phenomena of the
Adirondacks.
Placing the book on top of a glass display
case, I thumb through the pages with interest, until my
hand halts by its own accord and a tremor of fear courses
through my body.
Oh
, this can’t be possible. It can’t be
the same one.
I stare in disbelief at the picture of a glittering pin.
The brooch. That stupid evil brooch the crazy hermit
insisted Vic and I accept. I thought it was a piece of
costume jewelry or a cheap imitation. It can’t be the same
one……..or
could
it?
The brooch gleams up from the picture, sparkling in a
rainbow of colors, shimmering and glittering, pulling the
unsuspecting into a web of unfulfilled promises,
deception and despair. I read the text with growing
horror, the same story the hermit recanted to Vic and I so
many years ago about the Freeport family. But the hermit
failed to mention the brooch was cursed. The brooch that
so unwittingly fell into my possession……was the same
one. It can’t be the same brooch. But it is…...
The passage of the text states William George
Freeport, a wealthy lumber baron of the late 1800’s had
commissioned the brooch for his wife, throwing a lavish
dinner party in his Adirondack home to show off the
piece of jewelry. But it was one of the last parties William
George Freeport hosted, from that point in history the
family was plagued with great tragedy, houses burning
down, mysterious deaths, fortunes lost……and suicide.
Just to name a few. The brooch was lost, sold or simply
thrown away…to this day no one knows it’s
whereabouts, but the author of the book claims the
object was cursed and the reason for the families
downfall.
Breaking out in a cold sweat, the room starts to spin,
I feel faint and dizzy. The little boy at camp who almost
drowned the day we came down the mountain with the
brooch. I remember the brooch pinned to the inside of
my jacket the day Vic and I run away so many years ago.
Young, desperate and very pregnant, I innocently placed
the pin on the inside of my jacket thinking it might be
valuable.
Then later, forgotten for years, I found the brooch in
my jewelry box and wore it on an anniversary date with
Jack, the next morning I miscarried our first child.
Without consciously thinking about it, I thrust the
brooch out of my life, wrapped in faded velvet covering,
hidden in the dark recesses of my jewelry box.
Not a suspicious person by nature, I didn’t fully grasp
the connection of evil, until Jack suggested I wear it to a
function at the country club in honor of his brother. I
had completely forgotten about it, and I was fussing as
women are wont to do, that my simple black dress
needed something. Jack remembered the brooch for
some reason. Being in a hurry, I didn’t think, just pinned
it to my dress and it looked perfect.
Giddy on the champagne served to toast his brother,
we made mad love that night, and he died of a heart
attack. Returning from the hospital, alone and bereft, I
found the crumpled black dress on the floor, tossed in
haste to satisfy our lust. And the jewels glittered and
mocked me. It scared the bejeezus out of me.
This time I made the connection, the brooch was evil,
the hermit’s story ringing in my ears. A week after Jack’s
burial, I drove into the mountains. Digging deep into the
rocky soil, scraping my hands raw, heaving sobs of grief, I
buried the brooch. I covered it for all time, forgotten, to
harm no more. Or so I thought….
“I knew it!” I cry out, jabbing a finger at the picture
of the brooch in the book. “I knew that thing was evil.”
At my outburst everyone in the store stops and stares
at me. Vic shoots me a look of concern, rushing over to
see the source of my distress.
“Elle?” His hand runs lightly down my back and I
instinctively move closer to him, seeking his protective
embrace. “What’s wrong?”
“Look, look, do you remember this?” I say,
smoothing the pages of the book flat, gesturing with my
finger to the picture of the brooch.
Leaning over, he studies the picture but no look of
comprehension crosses his face. Shrugging his shoulders,
he asks, “Should I?”
“Yes, don’t you remember the day….” And I launch
into the story about the wild man who scared us half to
death and insisted we take the brooch back to camp.
Vic looks at the picture more closely. “I guess? I
forgot about that ugly thing, are you sure this is the same
brooch?”
As I start to answer him, I sense the presence of
someone moving closer, staring, and eavesdropping on
our conservation. I glance up; feeling uneasy and see a
very large man, one of the employees working behind the
counter feigning a disinterested posture. But I know he’s
edged closer, pretending to rearrange the jewelry in the
display case. I know……he’s listening. I lower my voice
to a whisper, “Yes, I would recognize it anywhere and
according to the book that ugly thing is worth a quarter
of a million dollars!”
“Get out of here. You don’t still have it, do you?” Vic
asks in an incredulous voice not the least bit hushed.
“
Shhhhh…..”
I notice the large man’s head snap up, as
he leans in even closer, pretending to straighten his tie in
the mirror on the counter next to us. There is something
vaguely familiar about him, his size, the dark mane of hair
pulled back into a braid that reaches down the middle of
his back. His one hand has a jagged scar running up his
wrist disappearing under his shirt sleeve. I have this
feeling, I’m missing something, some piece of a puzzle, a
sinking feeling in my gut……but I just can’t place it.
“I’m sorry, but I just have to ask,” interrupts a slightly
overweight middle aged woman with hair too black to be
real. Only her hairdresser, a bottle of Miss Clairol and a
long line of Italian ancestors could produce hair that
shade of black. Teased into a bouffant style and held in
place with a long scarf, she looks like a gypsy fortune
teller. “I will never forgive myself if I don’t ask, but you
look so much like Esteban Diego. I mean, who would
expect to find a movie star in the Adirondack museum,
but really, you look just like him. You are him, aren’t you?
My girlfriends will be
soo
jealous. Please sign my museum
guidebook.”
I stare at her incredulously….
sign
your museum
guidebook? My mind screams……I’m thinking of placing
the guidebook somewhere where the sun don’t shine,
lady….your girlfriends won’t be so jealous then..….
Go
away
!
“You know, I had someone ask me that last month.”
Vic answers smoothly. “Who is this guy, did you say he
was some baseball player?” He shrugs. “I don’t think I
could even spell his name? What was it again?”
“Oh, come on, really? Your girlfriend must know
who he is, that hot Latino actor who plays Sentar in the
movie,
FireBrand
.” She insists in a wheedling voice.
I frown. Girlfriend,
girlfriend
?…. how does she know
I’m not his wife…hey, he’s asked me……..lots of
times….maybe I better start saying yes……..I need a
wedding ring with a
big
rock to keep away his horde of
circling female vultures.
“Vic, darling, let’s take this book. It’s getting late and
we need to head home.” I cajole him, knowing he feels
bad lying about his identity, but before you know it, there
would be a swarm of autograph hunters. Rude or not, I
want out of here. “We have plans for dinner, so if you’ll
please excuse us.” I nod to her, pulling him toward the
exit.
Liar, liar, pants on fire
…..
again. Boy
, when I finally get
in that confessional, the priest better have a lunch, a six
pack of beer, and a blanket…it’s going to be a long day.
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking the woman’s guidebook,
signing his name. “This is the best I can do.”
“Vic Rienz,” she scowls at the piece of paper.
“Thanks for nothing.” She stalks off in a snit throwing
the pamphlet into the nearest trash bin.
“Little does she know,” he shakes his head. “She had
the real thing; a true fan would know my family name.”
This is his way of separating the sincere fan from the
autograph hunters.
“Come on, hot stuff; let’s get you out of here.” I
mutter under my breath.
In my haste to leave the museum, I fail to notice the
large dark man from the gift shop running across the
parking lot, and slide into a grey van with darkened
windows. The van merges onto Route 28, and stays a few
car lengths behind us, surreptitiously following, but not
too close. But close enough to make the turn onto the
deserted road, stopping short of our driveway, watching
and waiting. Who has the stalker now?