Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (24 page)

“So how do you keep the feeling of sampling a dish vivid enough for you to write about later on?”

“That’s an excellent question, not easy to answer. I usually take notes as I eat. Especially if it’s a dish I’ve never had before. But honestly, my appreciation, exuberance, and enthusiasm for flavors seem to always find a way to permeate my words, soaking them until the essence of the dish I’m writing about is almost palpable.”

“And the wine?”

“The wine is a personal taste option. If you had to be professional about it, you’d end up serving a different bottle with each course. I know chefs that end up with a selection of seven or eight bottles per dinner.” I smiled at his raised eyebrows. “I prefer Italian and French wines just because of my background and my personal experience growing up surrounded by those particular grapes. Australian and California wines are great choices as well. Champagnes I use only on special occasions. New Zealand and South American wines are something I’ve yet to spend a lot of time discovering.”

“Do you believe they lose flavor with traveling?”

“It’s more than that.” I struggled to find a good explanation. “Many times you find that a wine just tastes better when it’s consumed in its native area, enjoyed with the local foods it was designed to complement. Even the air seems to make a difference sometimes.”

He nodded agreement, but his eyes clouded over. “Tell me about New Orleans.” He got up and began to clean up the table while I filled the sink with water for the dishes.

My heart skipped a bit but I found my love for the city unblemished by my past.

“New Orleans exudes a spice-infused essence, addictive and intoxicating. Her heart beats to its own rhythm. She’s a decadent cornucopia that never tires, just keeps on giving with a visceral soundtrack of rich blues, jazz, and Cajun-French ballads. The past rules, spilling into the present. Caribbean, French, African-American beliefs wind around your soul, dripping superstition into your heart like thick, warm honey.”

“You sound like a tourism ad for an intrepid thrill seeker.”

“Do I?” I laughed, piling dishes in the sink. “Then you’re gonna love it.”
Almost as much as I do,
I thought. I had truly missed the primeval energy of the place. “You’ll understand once we get there. It creeps under your skin.” I finished the dishes, cast him a coy look, and sprinkled him with soapy water. That, of course, started a water fight that ended up with both of us completely soaking wet on the kitchen floor, smelling strongly of Palmolive and kissing madly.

He swept me off my feet and carried me into the bedroom where the mattress welcomed our tangled bodies. He kept on devouring me with kisses, until kisses were no longer enough and skin became necessary. Caught in the momentum of rising heat we tore our clothes off. The speed it took him to light me on fire left me breathless, and I jerked my head away from his, gasping for air, for some sort of restraint, my entire body begging me to resume the kissing,
screaming and why the hell did I stop! Was I out of my mind? Oh, Madre mia, what is he doing to me? This is insane.

I fought to slow down, to grasp control, but the mere brush of his fingers against my skin sent shivers down my spine, webbing me back in. Through half-parted eyelids I caught sight of his mouth inching in on mine; it drove me wild with anticipation and melting pleasure rippled through me, took over, and dissolved reality.

The following morning I woke up aching pleasantly and stretched my sore limbs. I blinked, focusing on Gabe’s dark silhouette standing stark naked by the bedroom window, blocking daylight. I didn’t think he knew I was awake, so I took a moment to adjust my eyes to the light that exploded like an aura around his solid body and simply observed him.

From my angle, he looked taller than ever, more solid, especially the width of his shoulders, the strength of his back tapering at the waist, where it curved to his chiseled buttocks, thence to the sinewy muscled length of his legs.

“Buongiorno.”

He turned slowly. That was something I had noticed about him. When he turned, he did it unhurriedly . . . he moved his head, neck, and shoulders simultaneously.

“G’day, luv. Did you sleep well?” As he walked away from the window, sunrays fanned around him. The effect was stunning—Apollo of the Shadows.

“Yes, I did.” I stifled a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Not quite seven yet.” He sat on my side of the bed, pulled the sheets away to expose my bare breasts, and bent his head to kiss them. I relaxed against the pillows and raised a hand to comb through his hair.

His kisses held the gentle breeze this morning. He worshipped my breasts unhurriedly. I felt devotion, respect, and appreciation pouring through the heat of his lips as they explored my skin. My hand, trapped in the tangle of his luscious hair, slowed down, then stilled while he continued to kiss up my neck and finally reached my lips.

“You’re so unbelievably beautiful in the morning, Porzia.” His lips vibrated along mine.

“Merci.”

“I’m bloody afraid I’m going to wake up any time now and you’ll disappear like a mirage in the desert.”

“You’re afraid, Gabe?”

“Yes.” He rested his head on my chest.

“I’m real,” I reassured him and resumed combing through his hair. “Have you had many?”

“Mirages?” His voice spread through my entire body.

“Yes.”

“No, but you sure feel like one.” His eyes met mine.

“How do you know what a mirage feels like if you haven’t had any?” I asked softly, wandering into his deep blue.

“I didn’t say that, luv.” He closed his eyes and turned, resting his head back on my breasts.

I sensed he didn’t really want to talk about it anymore. I kept on running my hand through his hair and wondered if I considered him a mirage.
No, not that,
my aching limbs told me.

“I don’t think you’re a mirage, Gabe. But I’ve got a question for you.”

“Yeah?” I sensed a smile tingeing his passionate voice.

“Yeah.” I pulled him up until our mouths met. “What’s your favorite fairy tale?”

Abruptly, he jerked away from my lips. And for once he didn’t change the subject but was purely honest about it. “It’s not a happy one, luv. I don’t think you’re ready to hear about it.” In a flutter of long, blinking eyelashes, his eyes refocused and saw me.

I let go of my fear and tasted his.

“You don’t know how it ends . . .” I whispered, choking on surging bile.

He dropped his head and shook it.

I needed to get away. All I could think of was survival. I was about to fling myself out of bed, but he pulled me back and pinned me down. No matter the advantage, I wasn’t ever going to win with him. Then he surprised me and, scooping me into his arms, lifted himself up. “Let’s not ruin the day with sad stories, luv . . . let’s live the present.”

W
e shared the shower. He made me coffee. I buttered his toast and he fed me fruit salad. I did the dishes. He brought the luggage to the car. I filled Peridot’s bowls. He opened my car door and I drove out of the parking lot. Direction: New Orleans.

The glorious morning helped lift our spirits. Not a cloud diluted the azure sky, a perfect summer day for people to play hooky and hit the beaches. If everything went according to plan, we’d have time to stop somewhere along the coast and have a nice lunch.

“We’re going to pass welcome signs at every state border?” he asked.

I considered teasing him with local products as I had with Benedetta but thought better of it. “Yes.”

Garth Brooks sang at the top of his lungs about friends in low places, and Gabe whistled along with the radio almost all the way through Mississippi. My eyes swept the surrounding sights. The Deep South breathed heavily, echoing the ocean waves eternally crashing against the shore on our left. I slowed down, adjusting our pace, and cast a silent prayer out there.
Enough secrets for now—please let this be a magical getaway.
Ahead of us I imagined the Goddess of New Orleans spreading her arms wide open, ready to receive us. Beyond her sultry silhouette, wings fluttered briefly, clashing with my wish.

I maneuvered the car through the thick midday traffic. Salty moisture weighed heavily around us. My back, sticky with perspiration, was just about glued to the car seat.

“How about a drink?” Gabe asked as we left behind the busy center of Biloxi, with all its casinos, and headed toward Gulfport.

“Sounds good, but if you don’t mind waiting a little longer, Gerome told me about a place on the other side of Gulfport famous for its seafood salads and incredible lemonade.” I winked. “
Hard
lemonade.”

“Hard?”

“
Si
. With a ‘kick’,” I told him, quoting my mailman.

The thought of a nice refreshing drink in this hellish heat sounded heavenly. We found the place right off the highway in no time, and with no traffic at all. Just outside Pass Christian, a bright yellow sign steered us in the right direction, and with a swift turn—sharper than expected—we found ourselves in the crowded parking lot of Tante Louise’s Joint.

We parked beneath a scrawny oleander that I felt sorry for; breathing the highway fumes throughout its life, the poor thing didn’t stand a chance. I found myself caressing the knobby trunk while Gabe stepped out of the car and gave me an enigmatic look.

“Ready?” His eyes shifted from tree to me.

“Yes.” I reached to take his hand. We walked through the small parking lot hand in hand up to the restaurant’s screen door. A cacophony of loud music and laughter burst through the tattered netting as we pulled it aside and entered. A plump woman with skin the color of caramel, hourglassed in gingham, greeted us warmly. Her Rubenesque hips rolled like a galleon in a gale as she escorted us to the last free table. I followed, amused, as the dangerous swaying of her stern threatened to knock over several full tables. Despite the crammed space, it was refreshingly cool in the restaurant.

“Are you Louise?” I asked, sitting down.

“Yes, I am.” She smiled at me and winked at Gabe. He winked back.

“Gerome told me about you,” I said. “I’m Porzia.”

Her face broke into an enormous gap-toothed grin, and I found myself swept up and engulfed in folds of warm skin and gingham.

“You’re not on official business are you?” She dropped me to wave a plump, admonitory finger at me. “You should have given me a fair warning.”

I fell back on my chair. “Uh, uh—no,” I said in a tiny voice.

“Great!” With a huge smile she told us she would be right back with a pitcher. I tilted my head to better follow her hips, like over-inflated balloons raising the back of her skirt several inches higher than the front, where it draped past her knees.

Gabe leaned back in his chair, reached for a worn-out, plasticized menu wedged between the ketchup and mustard, and looked at me. “What are you going to have, luv?”

I grabbed a menu as well and took a quick glance. “I think we should ask Louise.”

“OK with me.”

She came back with a full-figured pitcher filled to the brim with thick lime-green lemonade and two frosted glasses.

“Here you are.” She set the glasses and pitcher down on the table. “Y’all wanna be careful about brain freeze.” She smiled, touching her third eye with a chubby finger. “I’ll be right back with your food.” With a whoosh of hips smacking against chairs, she made it clear we were at her mercy.

I shrugged. “I guess she’ll take care of us.”

Gabe carefully poured the lemonade. “Is this going to get you pissed?”

I reached for one of the glasses. “You mean drunk?”

“Yes.”

“Probably.” I touched his glass with mine. “
Cin cin,
” I said and tasted the lemonade.
Mmmh . . . icy . . . bitter.
My eyes cringed and my stomach contracted. Thick, most definitely thick, and absolutely loaded. I loved it. I took another sip, careful not to ruin the effect with brain freeze, and felt a buzz creeping up already.
Uh-oh!

“It’s a straight shot from here to New Orleans, anyway,” I offered. “You could drive the rest of the way.”

“I didn’t see you taking many curves up to this point.” He shot me a quick grin.

“We really didn’t, huh?” My nostrils twitched in anticipation of something delicious approaching our table. Louise juggled two heaping trays and plates on her arms and didn’t quite make it; one of the trays slipped out of her grip. I caught it in time with relief; my reflexes were still working.

“Thanks, hon. I’ll be back with bread.” She gave us the plates and handed Gabe a serving spoon she magically manifested from the folds of her apron.

On the first tray tottered an abundant serving of grilled garlic tiger prawns. I inhaled the inviting aroma of garlic and my mouth melted. On the second tray, Louise had brought us a baby green bean salad with cucumbers, peeled strips of yellow and red bell peppers, mango, and wedges of aged cheddar. The bright colors glistened with olive oil.

“This looks incredible,” I said, holding my plate up for Gabe to fill.

“Wait until you taste it,” Louise said. She handed me a basket of fragrant French bread, sliced lengthwise, and a jar of thick honey. “The honey we make ourselves: Lemon-Verbena. It marries well with the bitterness of the lemonade.” She smiled and winked at Gabe again. With an auspicious “Enjoy your meal and holler for refills,” she left us to our food.

We dug in. I took a bite of the salad and told myself I needed to buy Gerome a gift. I tasted a prawn and the gift got bigger. I took a sip of lemonade and forgot all about what I was thinking and stared at Gabe who was quietly peeling prawns. His nimble fingers glistened with buttery juices while his head swayed in rhythm to Elvis’s voice oozing out of an ancient jukebox; he seemed enthralled by the atmosphere.

“
Très bon, n’est pas?
” I asked him, lapsing into French, but never got an answer. Louise’s laughter reached us from where she sat at a nearby table filled with patrons who looked like they knew her well. Relaxed people enjoying the excellent food occupied the remaining tables. The lemonade must have been the drink of choice, for there were pitchers of it everywhere. I wondered if everybody would get as drunk as me.

“Yes. It’s pretty good feed,” Gabe finally replied. He drizzled rich honey on one of the peeled prawns. “Would you like a bite?” His fingers extended the juicy morsel.

I leaned across the table, reaching for it with an open mouth, brushing his fingertips with my wet lips as I took it, and caught his eyes shifting to that darker shade I recognized. I smiled at him and pulled my lips away from his fingers. “Thanks,” I said, resting my back against my chair. Slowly, I chewed the heavenly bite.

“I think we should dance,” he announced, taking a sip of his drink. He pushed his chair back and stood, offering me a hand that I took with the first notes of Van Morrison stroking my ears. I found myself in his arms, barely swaying to the music, oblivious to anything else but his solid body pressed against mine. Tante Louise’s walls faded; the tables, chairs, and the laughter of the patrons receded from my awareness. At the small of my back, the heat radiating from Gabe’s left hand worked magic, and the gentle pressure of his right fingers at the back of my neck transported me into a timeless cloud of unconditional safety and warm love.

It seemed like an eternity elapsed.

Finally, when the music ceased, he walked me back to the table. I sat and blushed when he kissed my hand. I closed my eyes to bask in the moment. Gabe took his seat and asked me if I wanted more prawns. I nodded lightly and with effort opened my eyes.

“How’d y’all like it?” Louise asked us, placing a bowl of fresh seedless watermelon chunks on the table.

“Excellent,” we choired.

“Great! Try the watermelon, we grow it ourselves.” She smiled. “Tell Gerome that he needs to come and visit more often. We haven’t seen him in over a year.”

“I sure will . . . along with the many thanks I owe him for telling me about your place.”

She bent over to give me another bear hug and blessed me with enough good wishes to wipe half of my purgatory sentence off my record.

Soon it was time to leave. I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room and came out shortly to see Gabe talking quietly with Louise by the main counter. She nodded when he folded a piece of paper into his wallet.

“It would really mean a lot, Louise,” I heard Gabe say as I approached them.

Louise smiled. “Consider it done.” She caught sight of me walking up and went quiet.

Gabe turned from her to look at me. “Ready, luv?”

“Yes, but I think you’d better drive.”

“That’s some powerful stuff, young lady,” Louise said.

We exchanged good-byes and I gave Gabe the car keys. We left the coolness of the restaurant and walked into the brothy day outside. It felt like diving into a pot of chicken stock.

Set on the sinewy curves of the silver-watered Mississippi, New Orleans appeared on the horizon. Gabe drove silently, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the slow rhythm of blues songs that droned from the radio. We glided into the French Quarter—the goddess’ core.

At Le Moulin we checked into a luxurious room overlooking a typical courtyard the city is so renowned for. The bed was king-size, and the bathroom had a marble tub the size of the Colosseo. A mossy fountain gurgled three stories below, reaching our ears like throaty laughter. I loved it.

Gabe seemed to be pleased with it as well. He stretched out on the bed and bounced a couple of times to test the mattress. Satisfied, he adjusted a quilted pillow behind his head and grinned at me. “What would you like to do, luv?” He crossed his arms behind his head, flexing biceps that stretched the short sleeves of his T-shirt.

I’d like to lick and bite your arms right there where the muscle flexes and follow that disappearing vein with the tip of my tongue . . .

“Besides that, Porzia.” He must have read my mind from my lustful expression.

“Wash the road off my body and go for a walk before sunset?”

“OK.”

“I need to touch base with Oscar and see if we can find you something to wear for tonight. Then come back and get ready for dinner. But first . . .” I headed for the bathroom with my beauty case. I shut the door behind me and took my time washing my face, combing my hair, putting on some extra mascara, and making a face or two at the mirror. I stepped out, giving Gabe a chance to freshen up. Opening my luggage I looked for a fresh sundress to wear for the walk. I had brought a yellow, calf-length silk one with an empire waist that I knew would keep me fresh even in such soupy heat. I matched it with cork wedges and a pale yellow hair band. I sat on the bed and rang Oscar to tell him we’d made it and asked if he could suggest a tailor that could help us fit Gabe for the evening. He said he would just need Gabe’s measurements and he would have someone send a suit to the hotel. I thanked my twitty friend and chatted with him a little longer until Gabe walked out of the bathroom, then handed him the phone so they could discuss the fitting details.

Gabe changed as well and traded his white T-shirt for a black one and baggy denim shorts with loads of pockets. He looked comfortable and at ease. Holding hands we walked down the three flights of stairs to the courtyard and out into the streets of the French quarter. We skirted the main district, taking the outer streets to make our way toward the Mississippi River. We meandered hand in hand, stopping here to admire Mardi Gras masks in a window display, and there to watch a mime tease passers-by, and later to listen to a sax player outside Saint Louis Cathedral. We made it to the Mississippi River bank and walked though the park, all the way to the aquarium. At the levee we admired the riverboats gently hugging the bank down below.

We crossed the street and walked into the French Quarter where a party brewed; a crowd was gathering to celebrate the night away. Music blasted out of the bars and restaurants. Lights were coming on. The air cooled down as the day gave in to night.

Strolling back toward the hotel, we passed a small boutique window where a stunning dress beckoned me. I stopped to look at it. A crimson shade darker than blood, it was cut like a nightgown with thin spaghetti straps, a plunging V neckline, and a long narrow skirt.
It must have a slit in the back to permit walking,
I thought as I moved to the side of the window to peek at the back of the dress.
Oh!
There was no back! The straps looped back onto the sides of the dress under the arms like a professional swimmer’s bathing suit, leaving the entire back open. It was breathtaking.

“Wow!” I tried to whistle and failed.

“They’re open, Porzia. Go try it on—” Gabe opened the boutique door and stepped aside to allow me to walk in first. A French-knotted, sophisticated blonde greeted us.

“Welcome! How may I help you?”