Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (5 page)

My hands became an obstacle trapped between us. I slowly moved them up, my lips never leaving his mouth, until my heartbeat pressed madly against his. His hand reached the nape of my neck and yanked a fistful of hair.

“That’s supposed to help me think?”

My lips throbbed against his words.

His mouth moved to brush my throat. Slowly I opened my eyes and saw his incredible hair tease my chin. I plunged both hands into those thick strands of golden silk, pulling his head back up. I hungered to taste his mouth again.

Suddenly I felt my brain bounce around in my head as the plane tilted and slowed down, dipping toward the ocean below.

“I think we’re landing,” Gabe said, his voice thick against my mouth once again.

“Where are we?” I blinked, totally lost.

He laughed and pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes shifted to clear aquamarine, his hair remained an untamed mess. He looked sexier than ever.

“If this is what it’s like to be bewitched—”

“I’m not a witch, Gabe, why do you think—”

“Yeah? What was in that panino you gave me?”

“Nothing! If you feel like you’ve been bewitched, maybe it’s because you want to.” I was only half joking.

“It’s OK, plenty of antidotes in my outback supplies stash . . .”

“I’ve never heard that one before,” I laughed.

“I’ve never been kissed like that before.” His serious eyes caressed my mouth.

“Yes, you have,” I told him. “Perhaps you just don’t remember.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow. “What would make me forget?”

“Death.”

Seats in upright position; we were landing.

I
had instructions to keep my eyes open for a sign with my name on it, but Gabe saw Clark before I could even begin to look around for Dom, my driver. My eyes followed his and stumbled upon a sun-parched version of the man holding my hand.

Clark stood tall and solid, wearing a timeless smile matched by a faded denim shirt that looked just as old. Where Gabe’s eyes still reflected honesty, Clark’s wore an astute smart-ass look, framed by myriad laugh lines that appeared to deepen as we got closer to him. He looked at me as he would at something exotic on his plate, wondering if I were good to eat or if he should just ask for the check, go home, and fix a Vegemite sandwich.

I held his gaze.

Gabe briefly let go of my hand to shake his father’s.

“Hey, son! How was the flight?” Clark asked.

“Not bad, thanks. I slept most of the way.”

Clark’s eyebrows went up. Way up. “I’ll be stuffed! You
slept
?” He looked at me.

I grinned.

“Yes. I did. Clark, this is Porzia Amard. Porzia, this is my father, Clark Miller.”

Clark re-orchestrated his eyebrows, smiled, and extended his hand. “It’s indeed a pleasure to meet you, Miss Amard.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Miller. Please, call me Porzia.” I returned the firm handshake.

“Well then, splendid! I’m Clark.” He turned to look at Gabe, still holding my hand. “Is she the reason you slept?”

“Yes, she is,” Gabe mused. “She gave me a panino.”

“Ah! That explains it,” Clark conceded, bringing my hand to his lips, amusement in his voice. “I have no clue what he’s talking about,” he said, kissing my hand, “but if it cures his high-altitude insomnia then I’m all for it. Welcome to Oz, Porz
ia.”

Charming old devil,
I thought, taking my hand back. “Thank you.” I would leave him wondering about the panino mystery a while longer.

“What brings you all the way Down Under?” Clark asked as we walked to collect our luggage.

“Wine.”

“Excellent!” He took my left arm under his right and patted my hand. “We have heaps of beer as well.”

“Do you now?” I smiled, as I caught sight of a flustered man waving a sign with my name on it. I waved back at him. Gabe followed my gaze to a very relieved Dom.

“Miss Amard? I’m terribly sorry. Please forgive me. Traffic was horrible on the way over,” he panted, pumping my hand.

“Please, no reason to apologize. I’m glad you’ve made it here safe.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you. I’m parked right outside—will I be driving everybody back to the vineyard?”

“Oh no, we have our own car, thanks,” Clark answered. He let go of my arm to follow Gabe to the carousel as it started to move.

A freezing winter wind hit us outside. I wrapped myself inside my jacket and shoved my hands deep inside my pockets where my fingers closed around a few more Baci chocolates. Benedetta must have slipped extra ones in there. I was about to say good-bye and follow Dom when Gabe took my arm and pulled me aside. Clark winked at me. Feigning nonchalance, he loaded bags into a top-of-the-line SUV parked a few car spaces behind Dom’s Jeep.

Gabe sieved his hands through my hair and held my head while he kissed me, keeping his eyes open. I know because I didn’t close mine either. I just looked at him. I kissed him back.

“I’m going to remember every moment spent with you until I see you again.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “Ring when you have a chance. If I don’t hear from you in about two hours, I’m calling
you
.” He smiled.

“OK.” I pulled my hands out of my pockets and gave him a chocolate. “Eat it on your way home,” I said and hugged him. The hell with freezing. I kissed him one more time, forgetting the cold, warming up under his touch. I closed my eyes and melted against his heat.

It took a lot of control for both of us to come out of it; his hair was all messed up again.
Did I do that? With my fingers?

Dom and Clark shook hands. It was time to go.

Clark dangled car keys in front of Gabe. “Would you like me to drive, son?” he asked with a smirk. He waved at me. “It’s London to a brick I’ll be seeing you again—”

I blew him a kiss, walked to the Jeep, and climbed into . . . the driver’s seat. A puzzled Dom held the opposite door open for me. Of course. They drive on the other side of the road. How silly of me to forget.

I was silent on the drive back to the winery. Having slept incredibly well in Gabe’s arms, I didn’t feel too tired even after such a long journey. But I needed a few moments to assess what had happened to me. To us.
Was
there even an ‘us’? A somber palette of winter monochromatic colors shrouded Adelaide. The trees were mostly bare, and above us pregnant clouds shifted slowly against a low ceiling, reminding me of drowsy elephants.

Dom quietly hummed along with the radio.

I thought of Gabe. I closed my eyes. I thought of Xavier. I opened my eyes. Maybe I should stop thinking of both . . .
but what would I do with my eyes then?

We left Adelaide behind to climb up the hills. The road was wet; it must have rained minutes earlier. Homes became sparse and the landscape waxed foreign to my Florida-accustomed eyes. I felt ages away from home. Winter crawled under my skin, frosting whatever trace of Florida sunshine I carried within. The clouds dropped much lower and loomed so closely over me I struggled with the urge to reach out and touch them.

I tried to remember what the weather had been like the day Xavier died. I frowned in effort to focus on the background instead of his lifeless body slumped at my feet. I recalled the castle courtyard paved in damp gray cobblestones. No rain that day but wetness still lingered around. It must have been the end of winter, still cold enough to make one long for spring as a distant mirage. Xavier would never enjoy warmth again.

I wondered what had happened before that day. What brought us to love each other so? I could make up so many ways. I had opened a theater door in the middle of a movie playing, taken a peek at the screen, and shut the door again. There seemed no beginning, no end. Just a few strategically placed images scattered on a black velvet background.

A majestic eagle split a seam amid the grayness of the low clouds. It made me think of Gabe. Now
he
felt real. His deep voice, thick with his Australian accent when he said my name, rippled along my skin raising my hair from head to toe. How easy it had been to just let him hold me. Sometimes it takes months to fall into such a safe trust zone. Sometimes it never happens. With Gabe it had been instantaneous.

Endless rows of knotty, bare vines announced our approach to Umeracha Winery. A solid two-story mansion with a wrap-around porch stood at the end of a long, curved, gravel-paved driveway. A couple of caramel-coated dogs barked and chased around the Jeep as it slowed.

“Welcome to Umeracha, Miss Amard,” Dom announced, bringing the car to a stop in front of the main entrance.

Beverly Jourdain’s freckles spilled abundantly across her perky nose as she greeted me at the door and fussed around me like a busy bee on a ripe blossom.

We had met over a year earlier in Barossa when I came to write an extensive article about the Australian wine scene for
In Vino Veritas
. They had been there to receive a prize for their Cabernet. I remembered Frank, her husband, as a somber bear of a man, not nearly as gregarious as his wife. Beverly and Frank had three sons: Luke and Ronnald took after Frank, but Nicolas, the youngest one, had Beverly’s sparkle twinkling from his eyes beneath an untamed mane of auburn hair.

The main house smelled of lemon-scented wood polish. Votive candles napped on a rustic sideboard. Resigned sepia family photographs dozed on the dark wood walls.

I walked with feet of felt to my room on the second floor. Down below, a naked garden slept through winter. I found it hard to make out what kind of tree those stark branches belonged to, even harder to imagine eventual buds on such knobby limbs. Impossible to imagine magic blooming in my barren life as well, I grimaced. Least of all true love.

I reached inside my pockets where I found a lonesome Baci chocolate and the dice key chain I had bought at the Pensacola airport. I unclasped the dice off the key chain and rolled. Two. How sad. Irrationally I had hoped for an immediate answer to all my problems. I unwrapped the chocolate and read the quote as I chewed the delicious morsel: “This being is free from servile bonds of hope to rise or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though no lands, and having nothing, yet hath all”.
Interesting.

A spacious bathroom hid behind an alcove screen. A large tub and plush towels beckoned me to run a bath. It was too early to go straight to bed, and I wanted to call Gabe.
After the bath,
I thought . . .
and then, sleep.

I sat on the edge of the tub and turned the water on. In a small basket a scrumptious selection of herbal bath gels captured my attention, and I poured an entire lavender bottle into the steaming waters. I quickly undressed and sank into the bubbly, scented water and closed my eyes. Too tired to even think, my mind drifted and my limbs relaxed, absorbing the heat until the water finally cooled down.

I felt much better afterwards
.
I was wrapping my hair in a towel when the phone rang.

“Porzia, I have a . . . uh . . . Gabe? . . . on the line. Shall I put him through?” Beverly’s voice asked politely.

“Yes, thank you.” Excited, I sat on the tall bed and noticed my naked feet could not reach the rug. My toes had shriveled in the bath down to the look of semi-comatose raisins. How attractive.

“Porzia.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Hello.”

“Hey, you got there alroight?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful up here. I even saw an eagle on the way up.”

“You did?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes.”

He switched the subject. “Hey, you didn’t tell me the chocolate had a quote hidden in its wrap.”

“What did it say?”

“‘Leap and the net will open. The key to change is to let go of fear’.”

“I believe that may be meant for me.” I smiled and repeated the one I had found.

“If that’s about me it’s not accurate,” he commented inscrutably and switched the subject again. “Do they have you drunk yet?”

“Why yes, of course. Dom had me going as soon as we left the airport.”

I heard him chuckle. “You must be exhausted. I just wanted to wish you goodnight.”

I tried not to yawn but wasn’t able to hide it. Yes, I was tired. “You must be tired yourself.” I let myself fall back on the bed.

“Well, yeah, but I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll let you go.”

“Ok, I’ll call you tomorrow.” My eyelids won the fight and shut. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Summoning my last reserve of will, I rang Beverly downstairs and told her not to worry about supper for me, that I would see them for breakfast. She offered to have a tray brought up, but as I was almost asleep, I told her it wasn’t necessary.

With my wet hair wrapped in a towel, I fell asleep on top of the covers. I woke up sometime during the night to slip under the blankets and pull the damp towel off my head.

I
slept like a baby for the rest of the night and woke up at the sound of heavy rain tapping against the window. The room hummed, warm and cozy. My eyes lazily followed rivulets of rain weaving erratic patterns along the glass pane. I didn’t want to get up. I could have spent the rest of my morning under the blankets, snoozing off and on. I wondered about breakfast in bed but decided against it. After a quick search through my luggage for clothes, I wrapped my still-damp hair in a low bun and went looking for coffee. I followed the sound of laughter and the scent of strong coffee to the dining hall, where I found the gathered family enjoying a buffet worthy of Pantagruel. The rustic table almost bent under such abundance. Three baskets of wheat, rye, and sunflower seed country breads exchanged hands over a soundtrack of chatter, laughter, and silverware clatter.

Nicolas noticed me first. With a flamboyant “G’day,” he stood, bowed, and offered the chair next to his.

“Thank you and good morning,” I greeted everybody, accepting the seat.

Frank sat at the head of the table opposite Beverly and nodded at me. Ronnald and Luke smiled as they simultaneously handed me serving platters of fluffy scrambled eggs laced with chives and wild mushrooms, grilled lamb chops with mint sauce, roasted new potatoes with rosemary and sage, and the breadbaskets.

Nicolas poured me a cup of steaming coffee, pushed away the Vegemite jar, and almost miraculously handed me cream and sugar.

Beverly quietly nurtured a steaming tea mug, her arms propped on her chair armrests, her rust-colored cashmere sweater only a shade darker than her cheerful freckles. “I trust you slept well, my dear?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes, I slept great, thank you,” I replied, helping myself to some of the eggs and spearing a lamb chop with the serving fork.

“How was your trip?” Frank asked, waving an empty mug under Nicolas’s nose. Biting into an oversized, generously buttered slice of rye bread, the cheerful kid promptly refilled it for his father with both hands.

“Long, but I was able to sleep for quite a while. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, we have a long day ahead of us. If you’ll excuse us, Porzia—I reckon if you need anything, Beverly will be able to assist you. Also, you’re welcome to join us down in the cellar for a private sampling later on, if you’d like.” He stood as I nodded, taking his mug with him. The boys followed, saying good-bye. Nicolas winked and grabbed one last lamb chop on his way out.

Beverly watched them leave in pensive silence.

I tasted the food. The eggs were excellent. It might not seem like such a difficulty but to make good scrambled eggs actually takes a measure of skill. It took me ages to finally manage a decent outcome and Benedetta still makes better ones, although that’s all she can cook. One can’t hurry the cooking or over-beat the eggs. I know several chefs who actually separate the yolks from the egg whites. They then beat the whites into soft peaks and fold in the yolks after slightly whisking them with some whole milk, salt, and freshly ground white pepper. The result is a heavenly explosion of lightness in the mouth.

The sunflower seed bread tasted great with the fantastic eggs. It stood on its own with no need for butter. I had just about wiped my plate clean before I even reached for my mug to sip some coffee. Yes! Strong and sweet.

Beverly poured herself more tea, added milk, and stirred in some sugar. “It’s indeed a pleasure to see you again, Porzia,” she said, raising her cup to her lips where it steamed up her galaxy of freckles. “You’ve been making quite a name for yourself in the gourmet world and international wine circles. I have been following your articles, and I know it was quite a challenge to book you for this event, but I wouldn’t want anybody else to have the exclusive coverage of the presentation. We’re delighted to have Desmond Tanier as the photographer. You probably remember him from Barossa. He’ll be arriving later tonight.
Driving
from Melbourne, he is.” Beverly chuckled at her own last remark.

Desmond Tanier looks like the ear Van Gogh cut off.

He established his own recognition during the Vietnam War, risking his life taking pictures of things nobody back home wanted to know about. His work earned him several prizes. He took to drinking, though and shifted his skills to make a living taking pictures of his favorite subject: alcohol. He’s a legend, if not just because people can’t seem to figure out if he’s dead or still alive. I had worked with him on several previous occasions, and I do believe he is alive; seldom sober, but alive.

“How did you manage to book him?” Helen had graciously warned me of his potential presence. I knew how irreverent and outrageous he could be.

“He gave Frank his business card back in Barossa, told him anybody who wins a prize for excellent wine has earned a special place in his heart. So I called him up and told him about the Shiraz and that you’d be writing the article. He seemed quite fond of you.” Beverly’s bright green eyes sparkled just short of twinkling.

I looked at her and caught the light beaming from the window rearranging the freckles on her nose.

“He’s fond of me because I owe him a bottle of Scotch,” I clarified, laying my linen napkin on the table.

Beverly’s eyebrows shot up, questioning.

“I lost a bet. I owe him a bottle but haven’t seen him since. He just wants me to pay my debt.” I smoothed out the napkin creases with my fingers.

“Indeed. And how’s that charming young man who accompanied you at Barossa? What was his name? Steve, I believe?”

“Last I heard he was on his way to California for a sous-chef internship somewhere in Napa. We’re no longer together,” I shared, with a lot less pain than I had expected to feel. How surprising. What relief.

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to pry or bring up painful memories for you, sweetie,” she said, concerned. Her hand reached out to mine over the napkin.

“No need to apologize,” I told her. “It’s been long enough, and I’m over it.” I tried to smile but failed.

“Has it been that long already since we met at Barossa?”

“Over a year.” I thought of all the water that had passed under my daily bridges, carrying the debris of memories and events out to sea.

*

I had met Steve at Seville Quarter, a local hangout in downtown Pensacola, during a spring break from my journalism program up in New York.

I wasn’t looking for love. I wasn’t looking for anything but some time off for life and relaxation. I guess that is always when love finds you: when you’re not looking. When all your energies, or what is left of them, are focused on just going your merry way.

I remember it had rained earlier and the New Orleans-style courtyard was still damp, smelling sweetly of night jasmine. Citronella lanterns kept the mosquitoes at bay. I could hear my hair begging for mercy, struggling as the humid air turned my curls into a frizzy mop. Perseus would have chopped my head off instead of Medusa’s had he seen me that night.

Steve had just moved from England on an exchange program to train as a pastry chef at Chez Jacques in New Orleans. Chez Jacques is the only French pastry school worth attending in this country, according to
Monsieur Jacques
himself,
naturellement
! He was visiting some friends in Florida when I met him, using them as guinea pigs for his culinary experiments. They were gaining weight by the minute.

I loved his British aplomb. I loved how that night he never commented on my messy hair, how it took him forever to ask me to dance, how candidly he told me he was trying to find things to say because he didn’t want the evening to come to an end. It all attracted me.

I fell in love with Steve
and
the Florida Emerald Coast.

After culinary and sommelier schools, and my first serious assignment to the Chianti region for
Bacchus Grapeyard
magazine, I moved down to Pensacola. Steve and I became inseparable, sometimes driving the three hours between us just to have an evening together.

He brought me Peridot one stormy evening. That night we shared
choux
filled with Chantilly cream covered in chocolate ganache. We made love outside under a starry velvet blanket, and I toyed with the idea of marriage.

That was eons ago and things changed.

He never asked me to marry him. My assignments took me all over the world, and he started resenting my success. He dove headfirst into his job, trying to prove he was just as good at what he did as I was. In the process, he won several national prizes for Chez Jacques, but his successes were never enough and by then he was addicted to the challenge of working harder and harder. Pretty soon the uniform shrank a couple of sizes too small, the jealousy mounted, and he hit the wall. He quit. He had never hinted at his dissatisfaction, but when he moved in with me, things took a turn for the worse.

I still loved him at that point. Hell, I loved him for months after we broke up. But he didn’t want my help. He slumped into depression and blamed it on everything but himself.

It was right after we got back from Barossa. That trip is the last good memory I have of us together.

He couldn’t stop drinking —I even caught him throwing empty bottles of whiskey into the neighbor’s trash one evening—and he blamed me. His envy of my blossoming career and my hard work left such a bitter aftertaste, I could not help him. My words fell like deaf stones into the waters of his drunken stupor. He chose to keep on drinking; no matter how much pain he caused us. But there was nothing I had done to bring this on. He was battling his own private demons.

My help rejected, my love useless, I slipped into co-dependency. I hated myself. I loved him. I hated myself for loving him.

And then it happened. I caught him cheating and told him to leave. We had been together for over five years. He never forgave me.

I was heartbroken.

Ask Evalena. She was there and caught the tail end of the comet.