Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) Read online

  “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.

  CHAPTER 6

  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.

  CHAPTER 7

  I spent the day exploring the winery, escorted by an extremely informative and most courteous Dom. I shrugged off some of the painful memories and plunged my thoughts into musty-scented cellars full of aging wooden barrels and decanters ready to be sampled.

  It was mid-afternoon when I remembered Frank’s invitation to an informal tasting.

  I hurried to the cellar’s entrance in the main kitchen where the scent of the tarragon beef stew we had enjoyed for lunch still lingered. By the pantry I found the door I was looking for, opened it, and took the stairs down. The temperature dropped by at least fifteen degrees as I stepped onto the bare brick floor. Naked light bulbs hung from the raw-stoned ceiling, casting shadows in alcoves where dusty wine bottles rested; each alcove was numbered, named, and dated with plaques. I glanced at some Grand Reserve bottles dating back to the 1960s.

  Frank and the boys had gathered around an ancient rustic table where opened bottles of Shiraz stood at attention like obedient soldiers. Frank had a couple of half-filled decanters in front of him and was pouring thick purple wine into Riedel glasses.

  Greeting me, they shifted around the table to make room. I mumbled an apology for being late and bumped into Nicolas on my left. He winked at me. I cracked a grin and then turned serious as Frank cast a sidelong glance at us.

  The wines that benefit from decanting are usually the robust reds, such as the most mature red Bordeaux, Italian Barolos, and, occasionally, Australian and California reds. Shiraz (known in France as Syrah) also responds well to decanting. Decanting, in addition to filtering out sediment, aerates the wine, allowing it to breathe or, as they say, ‘open up,’ which enhances the flavor.

  The Shiraz grape appears to be named after a city in Persia (Shiraz) where the grape variety probably originated. It was brought into Southern France by a returning crusader, Guy De’ Sterimberg. He became a hermit and developed a vineyard on a steep hill where he lived in the Rhone River Valley. It became known as Hermitage. This is the sort of story I fell asleep to as a child. The occasional princess tale intruded once in a while but my mother always had an uncanny ability to lace true history with fantasy at our bedside and those stories I truly enjoyed. As I pursued my sommelier studies, all grown up, I mused every time I discovered and validated real tidbits of history she’d so skillfully woven between her vivid imagination and immeasurable knowledge. Only later was I able to figure out and distinguish that she was the creative part while my father and Joséphine had provided the historical facts.

  The Shiraz grape produces a tannic, purple wine with a peppery flavor that was originally used to bring strength to Grenache wines in the Southern Rhone and with Bordeaux and Burgundy, until it was legally excluded from this last role by “appellation contrôlée” rules. It has become extremely important in Australia, producing rich, spicy, intense reds, but it also does well in blends with Cabernet Sauvignon.

  We followed a simple wine-tasting ritual. Frank handed each of us a glass filled to one third of its capacity and, with a general “à votre santé,” raised his glass to toast ours.

  Color, smell, and then taste are the essentials to look for when sampling a new wine for the first time. Held against the light, Frank’s Shiraz revealed a deep purple, almost inky color.

  We sipped in silence.

  The nose evoked intense, rich blackberry aromas. The flavor on the palate showed mouth-filling fruit, massive structure, and a long, sweet finish. It coated my throat like a velvet caress, glazed my stomach with warmth, and shot straight up to my head.

  Have I mentioned that I’m a sensible drinker?

  A plate of paper-thin sliced salame and hearty bread appeared as if by magic on the table. Nicolas passed it around while Frank refilled us, a satisfied smile lingering on his face.

  I looked at Frank and cleared my throat. “I believe there is no need for me to mention how excellent a product you have here. I know by experience that the producer is his own biggest critic, and if I’m not mistaken, you’re having a hard time hiding that grin of yours.” I must have been getting drunk at the speed of light to use such a tone with him. Faintly appalled at my gaffe, I begged, “Pardon my hauteur.”

  A loud racket coming from the stairs made us all turn at once.

  “Bloody hell! You’ve been as busy as cats burying shit! I can’t believe you’ve hit the turps without me!” Desmond Tanier’s voice boomed like a cannonball, ricocheting against the dark stone walls. Beverly followed at a safe distance, her flustered freckles blanching with chagrin.

  Tanier spotted me. “Porzia! Dear lass! How long have you been going at it? You seem a bit flushed.” He hugged me, then abruptly pushed me to arm’s distance and eyed me critically. “Have you gained weight since last I saw you? Having romantic troubles as usual?” Desmond Tanier would never win awards for manners; we all knew that by now.

  “Desmond! Mon petit fleur, did you just get in?” I asked, smiling sweetly. I threw French at him in a futile attempt to trigger Vietnam flashbacks in his mind. It didn’t seem to shackle him at all.
/>   “Yes, indeed! Just drove up the coast from Melbourne. I reckon I beat my own previous record, but I’m as dry as a nun’s wrinkle.” He snatched the glass Frank was handing him.

  Beverly got hold of a bottle and looked like she had all intentions of drinking straight from it. Who could blame her? Heaven knows what had happened upstairs before they actually made it down to the cellar.

  Desmond quickly sniffed his glass. With a sharp motion of his wrist he swirled the dark wine once around the smooth crystal, grunted satisfaction, and gulped the contents. Briefly, he closed his eyes. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he declared, “Excellent!” He raised the empty glass up to Beverly who promptly refilled it from her precious bottle. Frank and the boys shared an idiotic, amused look that reminded me they were definitely related.

  Dom appeared, legs first, and announced dinner to be served in less than an hour.

  As I followed everybody upstairs, I realized the thought of Gabe had been humming in the back of my mind the entire day. I couldn’t wait to talk to him again. I climbed the steps two at a time.

  The sun had set and dusk spread twinkling stars one by one on a violet velvet stretch of sky. A gentle winter breeze fluttered softly along . . . or maybe it was just my head buzzing. I made it to my room and dialed Gabe’s home number from the back of his business card and sat on the edge of the bed. The anticipation of speaking to him again rose with every ring. I tried to imagine him on the other end, wondered what he was wearing, who he had thought could be calling him . . .

  He answered, catching me by surprise, and just hearing his simple hello made my heart jump.

  “Hello, Mr. Miller, my name is Porzia Amard. You don’t know me, but I heard all about your extensive antidote collection, and I was wondering if you had anything that would cure acute light-drinker syndrome?” I used my most scholarly tone. I should have pinched my nose. Oh well, too late.

  “Hey, I’ve been thinking about you.”