Adirondack Audacity (7 page)

Returning to the barn after the
“wheelbarrow”
incident is out of the question, and besides, my ardor for
Scott has cooled. Extinguished….doused…smothered….
not a spark left. Nothing like landing in a pile of horseshit
to bring a girl to her senses.

I
’ve spent the last week pleading with Emi Jo to
switch with me so Vic and I don’t have the same day off.
Her sweet nature wants to say yes but her crush on Ben
says no. I offered Scott as bait, but she wrinkled her nose
and said horses stink. Apparently Ben takes her out in the
canoe and practices his latest love songs as they paddle
across the lake. She says it’s all very romantic. Fine
then…….

Upon consideration, spending my afternoon off in
the woods, beside a quiet, peaceful lake, reading,
sketching in my journal and swimming…sounds like a
good thing...I like it.

The day dawned with no wind, the blue sky overhead
broken only by the occasional puffy cloud scuttling across
the horizon like a slow lumbering turtle. Two miles down
the trail from camp a large rock juts into the lake, a
perfect spot for a leisurely afternoon. Spreading my beach
towel in a pool of sunshine, I stretch and breathe in the
fresh mountain air, peace at last. Opening my pack…I
wonder what to do first, swim, read my book, sketch, nap
or eat my lunch.

“Oh, no you don’t.” I
laugh, wagging a finger at him.
“That’s my lunch and I have no intention of sharing it
with you.” I put the lunch back into my pack, away from
his greedy little eyes. The chipmunk rubs his paws
together, wiping them over his mouth in a vain attempt
to make me feel guilty.

“I don’t care how much you beg,”
I admonish the
little critter. “It’s not good for you. You need to fend for
yourself. Now, shoo!” He chatters angrily at me, scooting
off into the woods.

Walking to the edge of a boulder that stretches into
the lake, I dive straight into the freezing water. The first
contact numbs my skin as I burst to the surface but it’s
wonderful and I feel painfully alive, charged with energy.
The swim washes away the heat and cares from the week;
my body relaxes floating on the water’s surface, watching
the clouds slowly dance across the sky.

Finally, the g
oosebumps on my arms signal it’s time
to return to shore. As I doze on the towel, the warming
rays of sun gently massage my skin into a state of relaxed
languor, interrupted by the quiet movement of something
creeping out onto the rock. The chipmunk.

“Back again, I see
. Hungry?” Sitting up I reach into
my pack for lunch, the little creature keenly watching my
every move. “Me too.” Placing a sandwich and apple on
the towel, the chipmunk rubs his paws together in
anticipation. “Fine then, just a nibble, don’t tell Burt on
me. Feeding wild animals is not a good idea. But your
eyes are killing me and it’s nice to have a friend.”

Pulling a corner off my sandwich; I hold it out to
him, quick as a flash he steals the piece and flees into the
woods. “Ouch!” He didn’t really bite me but his quick
attack on my sandwich startled me. Serves me right.

“Aggggh!”
I squeak in surprise. Who’s standing at
the edge of the woods……. but Vic.
Oh goodie
, just the
company I was hoping for….an arrogant asshole.
Terrific
.
There goes my peace and quiet.

“
Sorry,” he says, dropping down on the towel next to
me, uninvited, I might add. “Did he bite you?” He picks
up my hand examining my finger for injury.

“No
,” I say, snatching my hand back, but not before
I feel the glowing heat of his touch travel up my arm.
What the hell…..? “He just startled me when he grabbed
the sandwich.” I hasten to add.

“
Does Burt know you are out here feeding the
wildlife?” he teases.
“No, and you’re not going to tell him.” I retort.
“Shouldn’t you be at the stables rescuing damsels in
distress from manure piles?”
“Na, did that already, gets boring. See one damsel in
a manure pile, they all look the same after a while.” He
smiles, leaning back against the rock.
“You’re not staying are you?” I make a shooing
motion with my hand. “I was looking forward to some
peace and quiet. The constant laughter and chuckling
from this week are not welcome here. Now go.”
“Sorry about that,” he says. “You have to admit, it
was pretty funny. Truce? No more laughing.” He holds
out his little finger for a pinky swear.
“How can I trust you?” I wave my hand dismissively
at him. “I let my guard down and next thing I know you
throw me in the lake or you’re off tattling to Burt.”
“I swear and I’m a man of my word,” he says. Against
my better judgment, I hook my finger with his; and as our
eyes meet, something inside of me melts.
shit
…. His arms
are muscled and brown from the sun, he takes my breath
away. I can’t take my eyes off the patch of smooth skin
showing through his open shirt collar.
Damn it…….
Still holding my finger, he says, “I’m sorry to disturb
you. I wanted to finish this sketch of the lake and didn’t
see you until I was on the rock.” He lets go of my
finger….. and I feel bereft. “I’ll be less of a bother than
that chipmunk. I won’t even mooch your lunch. I
brought my own.” He holds up his pack as proof.
“Umm,” Sitting cross legged, I pull small pieces off
my sandwich and chew slowly, ducking my head to hide
the blush creeping across my cheeks. My heart whispers,
he likes you.
My mind screams,
I don’t like him
.
He takes his sketch book and begins moving his
pencil over a blank sheet of paper with quick sure
strokes. I watch, fascinated by the fine articulation of
muscle on his arm and shoulders.
Brushing away the stray crumbs, I stretch out on the
towel, head propped up on my hand, aware he’s watching
me. His gaze appreciative of the new blue checkered
bikini, not one of those shapeless bathing suits we’re
forced to wear in gym class. I saved my allowance for a
month to buy it, without Helen’s approval. She said it was
not modest for a girl my age, and she sure wouldn’t
approve of me stretched out in front of Vic Rienz. He
was the type of boy mothers warn their daughters about:
sensual, magnetic and dangerous. He’s forbidden fruit.
“Can I ask you something?” I question.
“Sure, what do you want to know?”
“How old are you? Morris said you were the youngest
counselor. I find that hard to believe. You seem older,
maybe not more mature, but older.”
He shrugs his shoulders in a nonchalant way. “I’ll be
seventeen in the fall.”
“Oh…so why did you take a lifeguard position when
you seem to love art and photography?”
His eyes slide over to me, amused. “Well, Miss
Twenty Questions, I like to swim.” His hand makes quick
slashes on the paper, occasionally glancing up. “And for
me, my art is private. I rarely show my work to anyone.”
“I can understand that, I keep a journal of nature
sketches and whatever strikes my fancy on a particular
day. My work isn’t very good, and I live in horror one of
my brothers will find it and publish excerpts in the local
school paper.” I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. “So
that’s the only reason you took the lifeguarding
position?”
“Oh,” he raises his head from his drawing, a quirk to
his mouth, a tightening of his lips. “I got in trouble at
school this year. My father thought a summer in the
Adirondacks would be a fitting punishment.”
“Bad trouble?”
“Bad enough. My father used it as an excuse to keep
me away from our ranch. When he heard Morris had a
lifeguard position at camp, he signed me up……so here I
am.”
“Can you tell me about your life on the ranch?”
Curiosity propels the question out of my mouth. “Do you
have horses, brothers, sisters…..or come from a lair of
dark demons?” I see him stiffen, knowing I’ve treaded on
deep and murky waters. Everyone at camp babbles on
and on about their parents, brothers and sisters, what
Uncle Fred and Cousin Steven will be doing this summer.
On and on to the point you want to blow your ears off.
Vic and I contribute very little about our families,
apparently like me, there’s very little he wants to share.
“Well……..” He says with pensive look on his face,
dark eyes probe deeply into mine, weighing how much to
trust me. “Okay,” he says slowly. “But someday, I’d like
to hear your story. One would think a long-legged stork
dropped you from the sky, and you grew up in the
swamp raised by river otters or something.”
“I’m not a big talker.” I look at my hands, nervously
averting my gaze. I become suddenly embarrassed and
blush for the second time today under his steady scrutiny.
I came to the mountains to escape my home life. It’s not
that bad, I know kids are abused and have all kinds of
awful stuff happen to them. I just have Helen, a modern
rendition of Cruella DiVille. This summer I vowed to
erase her from my thoughts, not only a summer vacation,
but a Helen vacation. And I’m not going back, not yet.
He notices the rising anxiety on my face, not wanting
to push; he leans over and gently puts his finger on my
lips. “Don’t, I understand. I’m actually a patient guy.” I
nod against the pressure of his finger on my lips, and
wonder how his lips would feel there.
He puts the sketch book down, throws the crust of
his sandwich to the chipmunk, and gazes out over the
lake before he speaks. Without looking at me he begins,
“My full name is Vicente Esteban Menendez Rienz. My
family is from Mexico, going back many generations, a bit
of ruling dynasty in the local area. They own many
businesses; foremost is the Rienz Rancho, a huge cattle
ranch.” He hesitates, thinking before he continues, “The
Rancho has many buildings and family houses where my
aunts and uncles and cousins live. I spent my summers
riding with the
vaqueros,
that’s Spanish for cowboys.” I sit
quietly, fascinated by the story of his life. As he talks, I
prop my head on my elbows and listen.
“My cousins and I prefer hanging out in the bunk
house rather than the main complex with our families.
You see, my father is a stubborn bullhead and so are his
brothers. It’s rare they agree upon anything.” He taps the
pencil against his sketchpad in a staccato rhythm.
“Because my father went to college in the United States
he handles the business end of the ranch and exports
products to the U.S. In addition, he negotiates business
deals for other wealthy families in Mexico. We have an
apartment in New York City which he uses as his
international base and where I went to high school. And
until I screwed up last semester, I was allowed to spend
my summers in Mexico. And for further punishment, my
father insists I finish high school in Mexico this year.”
Vic pauses, looking at me. “Am I boring you?”
I shake my head hastily. “No, not at all. Mexico.
Wow.” God, my life is
so
lame and boring.
“Okay, I gave you a chance to save your ears.” he
continues, “I grew up fast and learned to be tough.” He
pauses. “I have three older brothers. Carlos and Juan
finished school and work for the family in Mexico.
Manuel is studying at the University of Southern
California.”
“Your mom lives with you in Mexico?”
“My mother,” he sighs and shakes his head, “No.”
He pauses looking over the lake then back at me, his eyes
haunted. “My mother lives in New York City, which is
why I wanted to go to school there. Best of both worlds.
She grew up in Chicago; her family money is from the
meat packing industry. She became a vegetarian in her
teens and then married my father, whose family raises
cattle for a living.” He gives a sarcastic chuckle. “How
ironic is that? Between her family and mine, she didn’t
have a chance.”
“How did they meet?” I’m intrigued by the story.
“My parents met in New York City. She studied art at
N.Y.U. He was in town for business and they met over
cocktails at a bar. I never understood how the two of
them got together, talk about opposites attracting. She is
blonde, elegant, and sentimental. My father is a
workaholic with a quick temper. I asked her once how
they came to marry. She said it was love at first sight.
They married and moved to Mexico before they even
knew each other. She never fit in with my dark Spanish
aunts; my uncles felt my father married beneath him
because she was not of Spanish blood. She felt isolated
on the ranch and after my little sister died of leukemia a
few years ago, she gave up and started drinking.” Vic
pauses, tugging his lower lip between his teeth.
I lay a hand on his arm, “Don’t say anymore, I
understand.” The loss of my mother still haunts me.
“No, I like to remember how she was before my
sister died,” he says, letting out a ragged breath. “She was
different back then, laughing, and very talented. Her
paintings were exquisite; with practice and the right
environment, I think she would have been an
accomplished artist. But the drinking went from sporadic
to a daily habit. She’s not the same woman. Now her
talent swirls around ice cubes in a glass of vodka.”
Vic drums his fingers on the sketch book. “My father
refuses to divorce her. He is old school Catholic, it would
create a scandal. Instead, he keeps a mistress in Mexico.”
He cut his eyes to me, regretting his words. “I’m
sorry; I shouldn’t be telling you that,” he apologizes.
Really,
I try to keep the shock from registering on my
face, I’ve never heard of anyone having a mistress. I blink
my eyes several times to focus on his words. I’m not sure
I even know what a mistress is.
I nod. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Elle,” he admonishes me.
“I don’t want anyone’s pity. It’s no big deal. If anything,
I’m stronger because of it.” He scrunches his shoulders
forming an armor to ward off my empathy.
“Vic, I don’t feel pity for you,” I say, angry he
misinterpreted my meaning. “I’m sorry because I can
relate to your story.”
“Enough of the past,” he shakes his head ruefully,
looking out over the lake with a wistful expression on his
face. “God, it’s beautiful here. Don’t you wish we never
had to leave? I can imagine building a little cabin in that
clearing over there, like that old hermit Burt was telling us
about the other night. Living off the land, hunting and
fishing, never have to worry about anyone else.”
“Sounds tempting,” I agree. “But I’m not sure how
long I would survive without hot water, cheese doodles
and Twinkies, basic necessities in life. A girl has needs,
you know.” I roll over onto my stomach, trying to keep
my tan lines even.
Vic wags his baby finger at me, teasing, “Pinky swear
on that and I’ll provide the Twinkies and cheese
doodles.”
“There has been enough pinky swearing for one day.”
I reach for his sketchbook. “Let me see that picture of
yours, we can decide where the cabin is going.”
He chuckles; handing over the book, and to my
astonishment, there is no mountain lake scene, but a
perfect likeness of me stares up from the page.
“Oh,” I’m taken aback, surprised. “What happened to
the lake?”
“I like this scenery better,” he tilts the corner of
book, studying the picture, “You’re very beautiful, Ellen.
You just don’t know it yet.”
“Beautiful, me?” His eyes darken, and I get the
feeling he wants to be the one to show me……..
He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet. How
natural and easy his palm feels against mine, like I’ve held
his hand often, that familiar. His eyes dilate deep and
dark, the corners of his mouth soften into the hint of a
smile. Against my better judgment, but as natural as
breathing, blinking and sleeping, I reach up to touch his
face and run my hand through his hair. He leans his
cheek into my hand and pulls me against him. “Elle,” his
voice is soft and seductive. His hands move up my back
to the nape of my neck. He bends and kisses me gently,
waiting for my response and I melt against him.
Wrapping me in his arms, he holds me close for a few
moments. He kisses my forehead, and to my great
disappointment, releases me.
ohhhh…..….I was right…
deep, dark chocolate with lots of warm caramel….
And I realize cowboys, horses, and Twinkies are for
little girls…big girls want deep, dark chocolate eyes, black
hair kissed gold by the sun, teeth white as shaved curls of
coconut against skin the color of vanilla-coffee cream,
and the smell…… exotic, like a roasted spice from the
rainforest….
He smiles, his eyes wide and serious, and the
atmosphere between us changes, the animosity vanishes,
replaced with something new, something so much better.
He nods in the direction of camp. “We’d better go;
Morris will kill us if we’re late for dinner.”