Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) Read online

  Humor sparkled in Evalena’s eyes as well, but her voice remained serious. “How did you feel when you were with him? Unless terrestrial matters will obfuscate your senses, you’ll know him when you meet again, just as you recognize your own face in the mirror every morning. Consider also that there is an enormous chance he won’t know about all this and will be puzzled by the fact that he’ll be extremely attracted to you.” She smiled. “If he’s anything like Rex, he’ll think it’s just strong sexual chemistry. I suspected it, but he didn’t know about our bond through the centuries until he finally consented to regress. And we had been dating a while by then.”

  “On a more material note,” I hesitated, anticipating the answer in fear, “how come, despite having left the windows open, my place was spared by the hurricane?”

  Evalena winked, “Nothing material about it—why are you surprised?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Engulfed in a daze, I barely held the steering wheel. My car just about drove itself back home.

  A lump plunged up and down my throat like an oversized buoy, making it impossible to swallow. From the safety of my car, I swept the sky in a glance, hoping to find familiar surroundings, only to crash against the surprising remains of a sunset-stricken, darkening sky across the bridge. It had taken a little over an hour for the regression. It’s going to take a lot longer to sort it out and digest it, I thought.

  I didn’t have such luxury. I had to be on a plane to South Australia the following afternoon for one of my gourmet assignments.

  I faced un accidenti di viaggio—a bitch of a journey—when the only thing I wanted was to lock the bright Florida sunshine out of my front door and use the shaded coolness inside to help me think. I needed days. Weeks. Another hurricane would have helped; weren’t they in season?

  What the hell possessed me to initiate my quest with a past life regression anyway? Truth be told, it was Evalena and her disarming ability to reach within me and caress my soul.

  Upon my return from Joséphine’s funeral I had called her, disregarding the fact she doesn’t particularly care for lengthy phone conversations. Reaching out to her with all my might, I asked for guidance. Her response encouraged me to think in ways I’d never even dreamed about.

  “Every journey of self-discovery begins with unburying our past and coming to terms with our humanity, as fragile as we might discover it to be. I believe a past life regression may be the ideal first step in your sensitive case. It may reveal why your grandmother asked you to embrace her legacy. At present, it’s as if your lost soul, wandering through darkened night skies, has landed on the roof of a fast-speeding train about to be swallowed by an even darker tunnel. You’re holding on for dear life to a thin metal ledge and, being so utterly devoted to this enormous task, you ignore the rest of the train, which has so much to show you: the lengthy past behind you and the undisclosed future ahead. But more importantly, why are these the most auspicious times for such events to unfold?”

  When put to me in these terms, my curiosity was certainly piqued. I absolutely can’t refuse a challenge, and so I bit.

  *

  Joséphine and Evalena pulling the tug o’ war rope . . . I smiled and lifted one arm to observe the thin bluish veins marbling my wrist—a powerful magic lineage.

  There are women and then there are liquid women.

  Liquid women are ageless, mystical, Atlantis-worthy creatures with skin like impalpable water. Their diluted features shift as light dances on mermaid profiles to re-adjust quietly after a smile. Their skin is smooth, like a lake surface after a pebble sinks.

  When they cry, their eyelids flutter and tremble in wonderment, speckled by shy lashes; their moist rims well with a salty tear. Breaths quiver in anticipation when such a gem finally surrenders down the silkiness of a pearly cheek. Their bodies sway following ancient rhythms of silent waves, birthing endless surging and receding tides.

  Grand-mère was one of such women. I suspected Evalena to be another, and without a doubt, my mother is a liquid woman. I never thought I would see the day I’d fall in her footprints. For a child walking behind her on the Tuscan seashore, it was an impossible game. Frothy waves kept beating me to it.

  When life becomes mere survival, one begins to question matters, ask more of relationships, and, ultimately, find elusive fulfillment.

  *

  I parked beneath my balcony and noticed Peridot’s face peeking through the sheer blue curtains. I climbed upstairs, almost tripped on my own hurry, managed to balance myself before miserably falling, and opened the door slowly, holding back my curious cat. Once inside, I threw my keys on the dining table, and for the second time in a day, I slumped, exhausted, on a sofa. I just needed to think for a few minutes.

  Peridot climbed on the cushions and rubbed his soft chin on my feet. He blinked his light green eyes, inviting rougher play, wanting to bite my toes. “Come here, micio,” I called. He meowed and settled on my lap.

  So I had a couple of cruel husbands. A war. But I know I can fly now. I thought of this and smiled, resigned. What to do with these newly discovered powers? Pretend I never cracked the door open? Slam it back shut and move on? Appealing. Hmm . . . extremely appealing.

  I had been Japanese. No wonder I appreciated their cuisine, customs, and culture so much. Still, I don’t look Asian today. My hair is layered, past shoulder length, the color of chestnuts. I wear it curly if I let it dry naturally or straight if I take the time to blow it dry. My eyes are aqua green, bright and catlike, not almond and angled. I have a curvy figure so I’m no willowy Asian beauty anymore, nor a delicate, pale French flower. I’m more like a Mediterranean sunset, as somebody once described me.

  Xavier. What a name, I thought.

  I repeated it quietly. “Xavier.”

  “Xavier.”

  “Xavier.” The harsh impact of the X ignited sparks at the back of my throat, the rest quickly released in a whispered rush of breath.

  I recalled the strength of his hands cupping my face. The smoothness of his chest came alive in my vivid memory, and I found myself swept backwards, pressing my cheek against his heartbeat. And his eyes . . . such rich eyes, eyes of dark chocolate speckled with gold; eyes warm and profound, with flames lingering behind long black lashes. I remembered how that single candle magically lit the entire cabin, how the dark brown of his pupils had turned into pools of dark blood. I remembered . . .

  Xavier.

  My pulse quickened with the vivid memory of his chiseled profile and high cheekbones, the smoothness of his skin and fullness of his mouth parting when I pulled his thick, dark hair to kiss his throat.

  Xavier. Where are you now? I thought of his strong hands and how safe I felt in his embrace. After Steve, I’d promised myself to never again place my life in any man’s hands, but Xavier’s hands felt damn right. Those private places ached as I thought of him.

  The realization that I had once loved so unconditionally hit me suddenly. A rush of tangled emotions surged through me.

  Do I believe in it again? Do I wait for it to happen? What does he look like in this life? How lonely have I been in all my wrong choices? How can I even believe it could happen again? I have no guarantees. How can I even begin to believe in it?

  I felt stupid and gullible, manipulated—and then, with appalling clarity, I realized that these were not emotions but fears, fears hindering my wayward path.

  Xavier.

  How does one divest of fears? I asked. But his name kept on beating in my head, like steady drums echoing in my heart. It lulled me gently until no more doubts swirled inside me; just Xavier and my longing.

  A few tired tears ran down my cheeks. My eyes closed heavy with sleep, and I drifted into Morpheus’s embrace.

  *

  After a restless night on the sofa, I woke up late to a gloomy, rainy morning, still groggy from yesterday’s events. Wishing I could
sleep longer, I stumbled into the bedroom and began to fumble with luggage. I still had to pack, check my travel itinerary, and assemble my phone contacts. If only I could freeze time and think; instead, I barely had time to hurry through a quick shower and jump on a plane.

  August in Florida meant winter in Australia. I should be used to packing by now, with all the traveling behind me. But each location is different. Each occasion is unique, requiring different casual outfits or formal ensembles.

  I threw in my old faithful jeans, my periwinkle cashmere sweater and the chocolate suede trousers, along with two pairs of boots, one black and dressier than my other choice of the brown aged-leather boots I usually wear with jeans. And then? I looked around . . . Ah! Of course, I could not forget my favorite gypsy blouse. I always travel with it. I absolutely love the way the sleeves bloom at my elbows and how the lacey black flowers graze my navel. What else? I scanned my closet for the ankle-length, claret velvet dress I planned to wear to the presentation with the black boots and smiled when my hands brushed the luxurious fabric. I always feel like a goddess when I wear it. A pair of black thigh-highs went in next, the length of my dress compensating for the low, feminine stockings beneath. What more? I thought about the Australian climate and added a couple more sweaters to wear with the jeans. I picked out more lingerie, socks, and an insulated goose down jacket that I dropped on the oversized peach chair by the window, until I saw Peridot jump on the jacket in purring nap mode, ready to settle and knead with his huge clawed paws. I moved the jacket.

  I prepared a couple of panini and some extra things to munch on and took a quick shower. Once dressed and ready to go, I filled my beauty case with toiletries, makeup, and my amber-scented oils.

  The doorbell rang as I shut the suitcase. I hoped it would be Benedetta, my best friend, occasional pet and house sitter, and ad hoc chauffeur. I walked to the front door thinking I’d have to remind her to water the herbs in the windowsills, especially the oregano. It makes the difference between a mediocre marinara sauce and a want-to-wipe-the-plate-clean, tangy success!

  *

  I was grateful for the ride until we were on the highway, and I panicked in her car thinking we’d never make it to the airport alive. During a mere thirty-minute drive, I swallowed my heart several times. She was driving like a maniac while simultaneously pressing me with questions. Skilled chick, I had to give her that. I, on the other hand, am incapable of multitasking, even when I’m cooking.

  “So, when will you get back?” Benedetta asked, keeping her eyes on the road.

  “Next Saturday, if all goes well and I have no delays.”

  “Ok, ring me if anything changes or e-mail me the new flight details. I’ll pick you up as planned if I don’t hear from you.” She barreled around a van, passing on the right, and zipped back into the fast lane.

  Somebody honked at us.

  “Benedetta! You cut him off!”

  “Eh?” She jerked her head to look at me, taking her bright blue eyes off the road as we approached the airport exit.

  We missed it.

  “Hard to see the signs when it’s raining.” She blamed the weather.

  We drove up to the next exit and turned around. She laughed about missing the exit all the way to the check-in. I ended up grinning as well. I couldn’t help it.

  “I’ll see you in a week,” I said, hugging her.

  “Be good, Porzia. Watch out for dingoes, bugs, and whatever else they eat down there.” She winked. “Bring me back a rugby player.”

  “Take care of yourself. And don’t let Peridot drink out of the toilet. He thinks he’s a dog.”

  “What’s wrong with drinking out of the toilet?” she asked, a portrait of innocence.

  “Please go away.”

  Struggling to keep a straight face, the airline clerk took my suitcase. I finished the check-in formalities and went looking for coffee. I found it, along with a key chain dangling two shiny dice that I bought on a whim.

  Pensacola–Houston–Los Angeles–Melbourne–Adelaide; I hoped for all my connections to be on time and not full.

  Just shoot me now, I thought as we boarded. If I could have flown as I had in my past life regression, then I’d probably be halfway over there already. Not only can I not multitask, I also have no patience. Resignedly, I settled into my seat and flipped through my notes, silently thanking Helen, my magazine liaison at A’ la Carte, for being exquisitely efficient once again and for booking my flights in business class.

  Frank and Beverly Jourdain, the owners of Umeracha Winery, had requested me especially to cover an intimate release of their new Shiraz. They had made headlines in the past with their Cabernet, and I felt confident they would do so again with the sophisticated Shiraz. Frank made wine with his heart. Good things come from passion such as his. Bless Beverly to be the business brains behind the enterprise, or Frank probably would not have survived in the trade long enough to produce such exquisite corking.

  Their winery was located some miles outside of Adelaide, on the outskirts of a small town called Gumeracha; from the Aboriginal word Umeracha, meaning “good water hole.” Frank used the word to name the winery in 1961 out of respect for the Aboriginal people of Kaurna, the first inhabitants of the region. He’s that sort of man. They have been successful ever since.

  I can’t wait to get there! I thought as I crept from airplane to airplane and finally plunged into my next-to-last seat in LA I suppressed a pang of frustration sprouting in my stomach. The thought of facing another twelve hours straight on this leg of the flight made me queasy. I closed my eyes and gently rubbed the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger for a few seconds, wondering what movie selection they would offer.

  A soft jingle of keys interrupted my short-lived meditation. Feeling a tad better, I opened my eyes, glanced over at the passenger by the window, and almost broke my neck with whiplash.

  His fingers casually toyed with a feather on a key chain. But that wasn’t what caught my breath.

  It was his hair. A sudden need to run my hands through it rushed through me. I knew it would feel like golden silk. Cut short on the side, the dark blond hair exposed his right ear and a thin strip of sun-kissed, golden skin. I followed the skin path down to where the hair faded into pale sunshine, shaved at the nape of a tanned neck.

  I crossed my legs. I shifted my eyes higher to the top of his head where lighter and darker strands gelled into soft spikes, daring me to reach over and . . . pull.

  Holding my breath, I waited for him to turn so I could see his face. He seemed lost in thought, gazing out the window while his fingers still jingled the keys.

  I exhaled and looked away. Does everybody react like this to a perfect stranger?

  Naw! Full moon in a few days, I heard Evalena’s voice say.

  That must be why I felt so sensitive. I glanced over at him again only to be interrupted by a flight attendant’s light tap on my shoulder and an offer of a small airline bag.

  “Thanks, mate.” Stretching a perfect arm only inches above my head, the perfect stranger reached over to grab his goodie bag.

  Australian. Great voice, incredible hair . . . OK, Porzia, turn and see if the rest is just as breathtaking.

  Veins ran along the perfect arm now raised to hide his face from my view. Carelessly, his right hand combed the thick, golden hair back, just as I’d thought of doing moments earlier. A black, short sleeve T-shirt stretched tightly where his bicep flexed with the raking movement of his hand.

  Back and forth . . . back and forth . . . hypnotic. A light spiced scent reached me and I swallowed and shook my head, dislodging chunks of a quickset concrete stupor that rattled between my ears.

  The plane was backed free of the gate and rolled out on the taxiway where it paused after a turn.

  “Would you mind holding my hand?”

  I looked at him, astonished.
r />   “I hate takeoffs.” He crooked a smile apologetically, extending his right hand.

  The plane surged forward, gaining speed and thunder. The roaring engines buzzed loudly in my ears as I stared at the darkest, bluest eyes I had ever seen.

  My hand reached out to his.

  Loads of humor spilled from behind his dark lashes, and he engulfed my hand in a firm handshake.

  “Gabe Miller,” he said, stretching his grin. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Porzia.” That’s all I could manage.

  My hand disappeared inside his firm hold. This man is not afraid of his strength—or takeoffs, I thought in the flash of time it takes to blink. My awareness struggled upwards from deep down a bottomless pit full of . . . leashed sexual frustrations? Where was my voice?

  “Porzia Amard,” I croaked. “Nice to meet you too. You had me there for a moment.” I smiled and slowly pulled my hand back, ignoring the agonizing supplications of my entire body.

  “Yeah, that was the idea.” He grinned back.

  Great mouth, I thought, noticing the chipped corner of his right upper incisor. It added something lethal to his smile.

  He shifted back in his seat and stretched his legs in front of him. “Might as well make the best of being trapped up here.”

  What the hell was wrong with me? I didn’t know what kind of ‘best’ he had in mind, but mine was not going to be G-rated. I gripped the seat arms and sank my nails in.

  Shocked with myself, I seriously questioned my sanity. For heaven’s sake! I never react to strangers like this. Merda! Absolutely ludicrous behavior! I never talk to strangers . . . unless I need to. That’s part of why I write about food for a living. I am either alone writing or my mouth is full.

  I have only a small circle of what I consider good friends. A couple of them live overseas and that suits me just fine. Benedetta is my only local close friend. Although born and raised in Mobile, and her knowledge of Italian limited to a few curses, her family is originally from Castiglione della Pescaia, about two hours south from where I grew up in Toscana. She spent every summer of her childhood there until age eight, when her parents split up. Her mother stayed in Italy; her father left for the United States. He raised Benedetta with his new wife, American-style. Still, we have in common the same childhood summer memories of juicy figs and salame, sun-ripened blackberry-stained mouths, and the occasional jellyfish encounter while snorkeling in the Mar Tirreno. We met in college, stunned at our similar pasts, spent months sharing stories, and slowly bonded like two goldfish in piranha-infested waters.