Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (32 page)

The doorbell rang as I finished. I went to open the door and found Evalena standing there with a small bouquet of bright orange roses. She hugged me, saying, “I changed my mind about the wine on my way over here and got you these instead,” and handed me the fragrant bouquet.

I took the roses, smiling, and was about to close the door when I caught sight of Benedetta’s car pulling into the parking lot.

“Look, Benedetta is here.”

Evalena turned and leaned against the wall to take her sandals off. “Great! I finally get to meet her.”

Benedetta got out of her car carrying a long paper bag stuffed with a couple of baguettes. She wore her usual warm smile, a pair of baggy turquoise silk pants tied at her waist by a drawstring, a white ribbed tank, and a crown of sun-kissed locks that framed her delicate profile, exposing her exquisite neck and shoulders. She climbed the stairs and handed me the bread.

“Hi. I hope I’m not late.” Pushing her glasses up her nose, she stepped inside and tossed her flip-flops into the corner in one kick. She met Evalena’s inquisitive stare.

“Benedetta, this is Evalena. Evalena . . . Bene.”

They shook hands. I read Benedetta’s struggle in her strained features while Evalena silently took in my dear friend. She broke the silence first. “Nice to meet you, Benedetta. You have a beautiful name.”

“Thanks. Porzia might have told you it means ‘blessed’ in Italian.”

Evalena looked at me. “You did mention something after your recent trip to Georgia.”

I nodded, motioning them to follow me to the kitchen. “It’s almost ready. The pasta is boiling.”

Benedetta knelt to check inside the bag. I had forgotten Peridot was sleeping in the middle of the kitchen floor. “What do we have here?”

Evalena settled into a chair and looked at the bag curiously.

Sleepy and disoriented, Peridot crawled out. He looked at Benedetta, arched his back in a stretch, and then saw Evalena. Totally ignoring Bene, he walked straight under Evalena’s chair where he drew eights a couple of times until she scooped him up on her lap. He purred and we all laughed. I took a bottle of wine from the fridge, uncorked it, and filled glasses, feeling grateful for my icebreaker
micio
. I filled a carafe with fresh water and set it on the table, then got busy with the pasta and slicing the bread, allowing my two guests to make small talk and get acquainted.

With her soft embracing aura, it didn’t take Evalena anytime at all to make Benedetta comfortable. Her face relaxed, her shoulders dropped, and her locks shook with laughter at a funny comment Evalena made about cats’ faithfulness.

I drained the
trofie
and dressed them with pesto, mixing them swiftly until nicely coated, then added freshly grated
Parmigiano
in abundance. Mixing it all one more time I then transferred the pasta into a serving bowl, dusted it with extra cheese, and after taking the
Caprese
salad out of the fridge, refilled everybody’s glass and announced dinner.

Evalena left to wash her hands while Benedetta sat at the table with me. Her smile reassured me; she would be alright. I reached over and squeezed her hand, not sure if she needed the extra comfort or not. I was just glad to have them both there with me. Silently holding hands we waited for Evalena to come back, then reached for our glasses and toasted friendship, old and new.

“Heavens! Am I glad I brought you flowers instead! My wine choice would never have matched this!” Evalena puckered her lips and took another sip.

“It wasn’t my choice but a timely present from someone who knows how to enjoy every given day.” I followed her example.

“This looks delicious,” Evalena said as I filled her plate with a generous helping of
trofie al pesto
.

“Wait until you taste it! The stuff is addictive. I often wonder if she secretly mixes marijuana with the basil,” Benedetta joked, eagerly handing me her plate.

“I know a few people who could use such a secret ingredient—” Evalena winked, skillfully using her fork to capture the first bite.

“It’s illegal,” I shrugged.

“Like that would stop you,” Benedetta teased.

Evalena tasted the wine and gave us a piercing stare above the rim. “I read somewhere chocolate was close to being declared illegal as well when it was first imported to Europe from Columbus’s expeditions.”

Benedetta nodded in agreement. “It was the drink of royals, believed to have magical powers and therefore forbidden to the commoners. The Mayans used the beans as currency and as funereal offerings for fallen warriors and aristocrats.”

I looked at her. “You’ll never cease to impress me with your knowledge of arcane stuff.”

She smiled and took a sip of wine. “I just like to know about the stuff I eat, and chocolate is one of my favorites.”

I passed the
Caprese
salad around and asked Benedetta to help herself to extra juices to mop with bread.

“Good idea.” Evalena made a colorful pile of mozzarella and tomato on a slice of bread and bit into it.

It brings the Italian out in me when friends gather at my table and truly appreciate simple flavors. I just love it. I poured more wine, and amidst small talk, laughter, and teasing, we enjoyed dinner, reminiscing about earlier times, how we met, and how easily acquaintance had given way to the stronger emotion of friendship. I shared with Bene the tale of my first encounter with Evalena and how many of her herbal remedies rang bells and brought back memories of childhood. Bene nodded her agreement to this or that balmy plant or soothing salve. Ever since she’d embraced Wicca she’d been devouring herbal manuals and had pledged to a healthy and respectful appreciation of Mother Nature.

B
enedetta helped me clean up. I asked Evalena to take the peaches out of the fridge and bring them to the table where only the wine and glasses remained. I handed her fruit plates and knives. We sat back and I refilled our glasses. Then, using the dull side of the knife blade, I took a peach and began to loosen the skin, making it easier to peel. Benedetta and Evalena watched me in silence while I sliced my peach and dropped a juicy sliver into my wine glass with a splash.

“My father often ends his meals like this when peaches are in season,” I explained in answer to their puzzled looks.

“Getting his peach
drunk
?” Benedetta asked with one raised eyebrow.

“That’s right.”

“What have we got to lose?” Evalena mused, and dunked a slice of her own unpeeled peach in her glass.

“Bene, go ahead. It tastes great,” I encouraged.

“Can’t be worse than Delilah’s
aguardiente
.” She peeled her peach and dropped a small slice into her glass.

“Now what?” Evalena asked.

“You carefully pick it up with your knife and eat it.” I demonstrated how to proceed; they both followed my example, and the delighted look on their faces made me smile.

“See? I told you it was good.”

“Better than dessert,” Benedetta admitted, daintily nibbling at her slice.

Evalena wasn’t having much luck with her knife; she abandoned it and used her fingers. I thought of Camille: if she could see us now. I had the presumption to believe she would toss the knife to use her hands just like Evalena.

“I’ve never had a drunken peach before,” declared Benedetta as she tilted her glass to drain the last drops of sweetened wine.

“Me neither,” Evalena said. She paused for a moment and then looked straight at Benedetta.

I summoned a long breath. I knew what was to come and exhaled slowly as Evalena spoke. “Porzia has done a great job at making us feel relaxed and comfortable, but honey, I believe you have had questions since your accident that need to be answered.”

Benedetta looked back at her. A sharp edge sliced her blue eyes. “Yes. I do.”

I moved my chair back, away from the energy connection that was palpably forming, and gave them space. Evalena leaned forward in her chair. I noticed she didn’t cross her legs. She never does. She’s always grounded, with both feet on the floor.

“Emotional scars take longer to heal,” she told Benedetta.

Benedetta bowed her head and murmured, “Why do you say that?”

“Because often they’re not only scars, but portals for change. And you’re changing. Through these scars you’re empowering yourself. Along your journey you’re gathering strength, knowledge, magic. Events confirm your growth.”

Benedetta’s head snapped upward. She looked at Evalena, then at me, then back to Evalena, and finally nodded, bowing her head in agreement but also defeat.

“Sort of like Greek myths,” Evalena mused. “We’ve erased the nuances of the meaning of myth, reducing it to a dried pit of certainty—”

“All things considered, certainty of knowing gives us serenity. Knowledge, on the other hand, is a constant discovery . . . therefore always implying uncertainty,” Benedetta concluded for her. She’d raised her head and her eyes now shone with awe, respect, and gratitude.

Evalena nodded and asked me to light a white candle and some frankincense. I stood to do as requested. My hands shook as I lit the candle.
How did she know of Bene’s accident? And of Bene’s love of Greek myths?
She had tapped into the core of my dear friend and brought up to the surface her issue through the comfortable path of her love of mythology.

Evalena’s breathing rose and fell, steady, calm, while Benedetta’s body hummed with a light tremor. She took a deep breath and reached across the table to lay her hands in Evalena’s. “Is this the right choice—” My sweet fragile friend took another deep breath as if afraid to continue.

Evalena’s voice rose like intoxicating plumes from a boiling cauldron. “It’s an indispensable thread in the web of your dream-consciousness.”

Benedetta, paralyzed with awareness, barely nodded. I myself was afraid to blink, fearful of disturbing the current flowing between the two women in front of me. I held as still as possible.

“Scars will flaw your skin only if you choose to view them as flaws. Change will occur and you’ll never be the same if you choose to embrace it. But just like the ever-shifting sky, change is never permanent. Permanence resides rather in the fact of change,” Evalena stated.

Evalena’s words catapulted me back to Australia, behind Umeracha on the threshold of an enchanted forest when I first thought those exact words. I realized how far I had come in my own mystical journey.

I no longer stood on the threshold of my nightmares. I was
in
the water, feeling it shift into quicksand, and only I held the power to rise, to awaken.
Did I want the power? Yes, of course I did. I was about to need it . . .

Benedetta’s voice reached me from afar, interrupting my thoughts. “I know,” she said in a tiny voice.

I spiraled back into my kitchen.

“Apparently we’re causing a chain reaction.” Evalena cast me an inquisitive look. “Are you well, dear?”

“Not quite,” I murmured. “Perhaps I ought to leave you two alone. I feel I’m being pulled in.” In a daze, I pushed my chair back and stood, ready to walk out.

Benedetta grabbed my wrist and squeezed. “I can’t do this without you here.”

I struggled to focus and met her pleading eyes. My entire being shook uncontrollably.

“I believe we’ve had plenty for one evening.” Evalena sounded exhausted. “It’s extremely tiring for me to summon such energies.”

Her own exhaustion shrouded me as well, like constrictive ivy suffocating a tree.

“Benedetta, if you wish to continue, here’s my card.” She handed Bene a lilac business card and then got up with effort. I helped her, supporting her elbow, and asked if she needed to lie down. I knew
I
could sleep for a week.

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine with fresh air on my drive back.” She inhaled slowly. Her unfocused eyes gave the feeling she was looking within, but I was sure her sight actually cast outward, toward tomorrow’s horizons. Exhaling, she regained contact with her surroundings. “Thanks for a lovely dinner, Porzia. This is to be continued.”

“Do you dream?” Benedetta asked her.

“Of course I do. But, if you mean do I have premonitory dreams, I have to admit not as often as one would think. It seems that whatever connection I have works best when I am awake. I often have nightmares, but that’s only because I’m a bit slow at perceiving hints, so in my dream state whatever issue I am struggling with recurs to get my attention. And what better way to motivate than with fear?”

“So you have pretty scary nightmares?” I asked her.

“The kind one never forgets.” She looked at me. “Don’t you?”

I thought about it for a few seconds. “I do. But not often, and I seldom remember them once I’m awake. But even if I don’t recall what frightened me in the nightmare, once I finally awaken from it I’m paralyzed with fear.” I shook my head at my own weakness. “I have been so afraid that I wouldn’t get up to go to the bathroom until I could shake the bad feelings. Sometimes I’d hold it until daylight.” I tilted my head toward the dark window behind Benedetta and shifted my gaze to address her. “Do you have bad dreams?”

Benedetta smirked. “I seem to have it all scrambled. I have bad dreams when my reality is peachy. Like, if everything is going well, then I dream of something catastrophic happening to disrupt the balance. When my reality sucks I sleep like a baby.”

“A shrink would have a blast with you, sweetie,” Evalena smiled.

“So I was told after the accident.”

We escorted her to the door where she slipped her sandals on and reminded me to smudge with sage before she left us.

Benedetta left shortly after.

I cleaned up the kitchen, lit some sacred sage, and walked around letting the sweet smoke cleanse the atmosphere as I straightened up. By the time I was done my clock read way past midnight.

I got ready for bed wondering if Gabe might still call, but I knew he was better at calculating the time difference than I was and was sure he wouldn’t call this late.

My bedroom faces in the direction of the Sound, so I pulled the blinds down but left the window open to welcome the fresh breezes then hopped into bed, switched the nightstand light off, and fell asleep with my fingers crossed against nightmares.

*

The phone rang, piercing through the buttery thickness of my sleep. I opened one eye and noticed the bright daylight outside.

“Hello?” I managed groggily. I shook my head, glanced at the alarm clock—not as late as I thought—and spoke again. “Hellooo?”
Maybe Gabe from out there somewhere?

Finally, a formal British voice replied, “Good morning, Miss Amard. How are you?”

“Splendid,” I responded, stifling a yawn.

“
Grape Expectations
here, Miss Amard. We were wondering if you had received our information. And if isn’t too much pressure, if you’d agree to a tentative deadline for the end of October at the latest? It would force you to leave in a few days.”

I shot out of the sheets and sat up straight. “Yes, good morning!” My brain wheels clicked into survival mode and my professional gears shifted in smoothly. Well, somewhat smoothly. I pulled the sheet up over my bare breasts and asked to whom I was speaking with.

The distinguished voice chuckled and then left me speechless. “Gilroy Wyvill, Miss Amard. At your service.”

I opened my mouth, and then shut it; opened it again, stuttered silently, and closed it. After taking a deep breath I finally managed to tell my former professor that it was a pleasure to talk to him again.

“It has been quite some time indeed, Miss Amard. I have enjoyed your career’s progress, and I must admit I have been looking forward to the day our paths would cross again.”

“This is quite a surprise, Professor. How are you, sir?” I said, still shocked.

“I’m faring well, thank you. I have been contributing to this magazine for quite some time now, Miss Amard, and truly enjoy it. I’m retired from the academic world, and I do this now as a favor to an old friend. We were discussing innovative ideas at a recent meeting and I thought of you. Merely mentioning your name along with a couple of your recent publications stirred the editors’ interest. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, Professor! I’m thrilled!”

“And how have you been?”

“I’ve been doing well. I’m pleased that you remembered me. I’m working steadily and slowly building a solid reputation. I honestly enjoy what I am doing. I don’t want it to merely turn into a job. It has to be a pleasure first, then a living. And yes, I have received the itinerary.”

“Interesting perspective, Miss Amard. Please feel free to browse through my suggestions, but if you have any original ideas don’t hesitate to add your personal touch. Also, you need to contact a photography agency in Portland where one of our professional freelancers will join you.”

I wasn’t familiar with the name he mentioned and silently hoped this person would be friendly and not too overbearing. I hate to be stuck for days with someone too clingy. I told him I planned on about four days at the most, and he thought that agreeable.

“The phone number you have, Miss Amard, is the only one I have available here at the magazine. I do promise to be available if the need arises.”

“Thanks. I’ll call only if I have questions. If not, I’ll get in touch once I get back from Oregon.”

“Sounds good. Have a great trip.”

“Thanks, Professor.”

“You’re welcome.”

I took a deep breath.
Professor Gilroy Wyvill.
I couldn’t believe it! Originally from Great Britain, he holds the qualification of Master of Wine, the British certificate which is globally recognized as the toughest set of written and tasting exams of all. Most years fewer than a dozen applicants pass, and fewer than 250 people have been awarded the qualification. He taught an elite group of extremely grateful students a splendid summer class on the history of European grapes in America. He had enthusiasm, knowledge, and incredible respect for the first wine pioneers of the new continent. Needless to say, his classes were always booked solid. Students from as far as Japan and South Africa came to attend his excellent courses.

Although I could have daydreamed for hours, I finally kicked the sheets aside and got up to face the busy workday ahead of me. I showered and made coffee. Carrying a steaming cup of espresso to my desk, I turned on my computer and got started. I worked on my piece about Chez le Chat, and it didn’t take me too long to feel satisfied. Draining the remaining drops of coffee, I sent it off to Oscar and then faxed it, too, holding his assistant hostage on the phone until she confirmed receiving my pages.

I made flight arrangements with my trusted travel agency and also asked for a rental car. I told them not to worry about sleeping accommodations. For some reason, I wanted to wait until I got to Oregon and then decide where to sleep. Despite the short notice I felt excited at the thought of leaving in a couple of days. I got up to make something to eat and break the news to Peridot. He took it better than expected. The fact that I had filled his bowl with fresh tuna helped a great deal.

I made a quick salad and got back on the Internet to find out more about the Willamette Valley. I must admit, just because I write about wine doesn’t make me an immediate expert on every wine producing region out there. I wasn’t very familiar with this one and found myself fascinated as usual, engrossed in learning about one of the most promising new wine-growing areas in the country. The area came alive with winemakers, soil, and descriptions of ocean breezes breaching the Coast Range to the west, the Cascade Mountains to the east, and the Willamette Valley nestled in between. A valley that, thanks to Oregon’s northern latitude, benefits from long hours of summer sunshine adequate to fully ripen its vineyards’ grapes. The addition of the occasional marine breezes rifting through the Coast Range barrier helps to temper the climate, causing the ripening process for wine grapes to be gradual, encouraging complex fruit flavors, deep aromas, and just the right amount of acidity and subtle nuances. All of this combines to allow Oregon wineries to compete well on the world stage.