Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (30 page)

“Where are you?”

“We’ll be by Ayers Rock by nightfall, luv.”

Just where I had imagined him.

His voice became an irritating sequence of hiccups. “Gabe? I’m losing you—” Static spread into my earpiece like a devouring disease. Finally, his voice cleared just long enough for me to understand he would call back soon and not to worry. I told him I loved him and then silence, without even the annoying static.

Relief and anxiety churned like tangled sumo wrestlers in my stomach. I made a conscious effort to breathe slowly and relax. As much as I detest interrupted phone calls, I hate even more the idea of the phone having the power to control my feelings. I poured a glass of fresh water and drank it. I leaned against the counter and felt a bit better. I switched the water for a glass of wine and decided to take a bath to help me relax.

Surrounded by softly glowing candles, I soaked, sipping the chilled wine. I let my mind wander but steered it clear of troubling thoughts. And then, remembering Evalena’s words, I went deep within myself, searching. I found the steady pulse at the base of my neck and felt blood pump against my moist fingertips. I filled my heart with Gabe’s name and laced it up with intense love. I unleashed it in the instant between pulses. The still waters of the tub rippled gently and I smiled. I repeated the meditation several times, noticing how the instant between pulses stretched to accommodate all the love I felt for this man and how my heartbeat slowed down in unison with my deep breathing.

W
ishful thinking accompanied me outside Miami International Airport and dissolved in scorching sunlight. Shielding my eyes from the brightness with a hand, I spotted Oscar casually leaning against a shark-sleek black limousine. His eyes crinkled behind miniscule dark shades, much more fashionable than functional, as he smiled and kissed the air around my cheeks. He pulled away to arm’s length and twitched his nose in disapproval of my casual outfit. “What a sedate choice compared to New Orleans!”

“I have a change of clothes, Oscar,” I assured him, waving my bag under his nose. “You’re the only human I know who doesn’t get wrinkled when flying.”

He smiled and bowed as I got into the limousine. We sped off in the direction of the skyline.

“Do you have any idea why we’re here?” he inquired in amusement, flaring a long-fingered pianist’s hand at our surroundings.

“Not a clue,” I answered, distracted. I had never been in a limo before. I pushed a button and the glass between the driver and us rolled down. He glanced at me from his rearview mirror. I tried another button.

“Uh . . . Ma’am? What can I do for you?” the driver’s voice came through a speaker.

“Nothing! Thanks!” I said, finally managing to bring the glass up.

Oscar laughed, shaking his head. “You’re absolutely impossible.”

“I can’t imagine why she called both of us.” I opened the bar and saw it was loaded. I closed it and pushed another button. A TV flipped on with local news in Spanish. “Maybe she’s into cannibalism.” I smiled mischievously and switched the TV off.

“She would have to braise
me
for a long time.” He touched his chest lightly with impeccably manicured fingertips strongly contrasting his charcoal Armani shirt.

I flipped on another switch and the sunroof began to slide open. I closed it. “I have to change so you’re going to chance her alone.”

“Oh, I see—feed me to the shark alone and then, once she’s satiated, you waltz in. Sure she won’t bite your head off?”

One last untried button sent Oscar’s seat into rippling vibrations.

*

The magazine occupied the top four floors of a glass and steel skyscraper. It was my second time there and I couldn’t wait to admire the incredible view.

Security had buzzed Helen and we found her waiting by the elevator. Poised like an Asian orchid, she showed me where to change. Camille was in a meeting and it would be a while. I had plenty of time. I made a face at Oscar and walked to the ladies’ room. I had rolled the dress to keep it from wrinkling too much and was happy to see it had worked. I shook it a couple of times and put it on. I traded my sneakers for the thin-strapped sandals and looked at my toes, checking my pedicure. Great! Still holding. Humming softly with a mouthful of hairpins, I French braided my hair, securing it with an azure silk clasp and then applied light makeup. The dress brought out the deep tan I had acquired while Gabe visited. I looked sophisticated, professional, and not overdressed. I grabbed the silk shawl and folded it in my brown leather laptop case that in this instance would double as my purse.

Only minutes had elapsed when I emerged from the bathroom as if reborn. Helen smiled at me, offering me a seat and a cup of tea. I declined the seat and stood, catching up with her for a few minutes. I thanked her for the magazine copies she had sent of the Jourdains and asked what she thought of the article. She smiled and told me it was one of my best so far. Then, pausing for a moment, she said she thought in some of the pictures she had recognized Gabe Miller, the famous off-road racer. I told her she had been right and that the older gentleman was his father.

“Camille said it couldn’t possibly be,” Helen said with a twinkle of mischievousness in her almond-shaped eyes. “Are they friends of the Jourdains?”’

Oscar answered for me. “No, peach blossom. Porzia here is dating the fellow.”

I blushed and Helen’s eyes got so round that for a second she looked like Betty Boop. She regarded me with awe and a lingering skepticism, awaiting confirmation with her mouth slightly open. I nodded, smiling self-consciously. “I trust this is to remain between us.”

“But of course.” She recomposed herself. Then, as an afterthought, she looked up at me and smiled. “He won the Paris–Dakar.”

“Twice,” Oscar added succinctly.

Camille opened her office door, releasing a trail of somber editors and mournful graphic designers. She looked smart in a Chanel pantsuit with a price tag worth three of my assignments, and princess-cut diamond stud earrings. Her piercing gaze landed on us and she walked our way, her hands extended to shake ours simultaneously. She does not usually waste time with trivialities but seemed honestly pleased to see us. She told Helen to hold all her calls, led the way into her spacious office, and shut the door. We sat in comfortable leather armchairs facing a vertiginous view of the Miami skyline.

Camille glanced at her watch and corrugated her brow for a second before raising her cerulean eyes to us. “Reservation for lunch is for one o’clock sharp. With traffic these days we don’t have much time, and decisions are often better pondered after a nice meal.” She smiled at me as her vermilion-painted lips mouthed those last words. I felt like a child in front a carnivorous plant. Appalled, fascinated, terrified.

“I’ll get right to the point,” she stated, handing us large black leather folders. I took mine and rested my back against the fresh leather of the armchair. I opened the folder and glanced quickly at a magazine outline.

“
Scoop
!” Camille announced, snapping shut her thorn-studded petals. “I’m launching a new magazine. A quick glance at what’s happening in the underground gourmet and spirits circles. The antithesis of
A’ la Carte
’s grand presumption. A vibrant, eclectic guide to the rising stars, happening places, and hidden treasures that anonymously surround us.”

She paused to appreciate the effect of her words on us. Pleased with our enthralled expressions, she continued, looking at Oscar. “I’m offering you the driver’s seat: Editor in chief. Carte blanche on commanding the project and a five-year contract with a yearly bonus. I’d double what you’re currently making at
Gusto
and move you down here. All expenses paid.”

She turned to look at me. “You’d have your own monthly column and carte blanche as well, as far as who, what, where you’d like to feature. I would like at least four of these features to be our main ones throughout the year. Quarterly, that is, Porzia. You’d have monthly deadlines to keep up with, but you’d often have the choice to pick the photographer, the place, and the length of the piece, to be no more than three pages for your regular column and not to exceed five for the feature articles. And just like Oscar, all expenses paid. I’ll double what we currently pay you for the
A’ la Carte
articles as well.”

She paused for a second to leaf through some papers in her folder. “I wouldn’t ask you to move down here. I don’t see it as necessary. You’ve proven to be extremely professional. So far we’ve been able to communicate and exchange information smoothly with you living in Pensacola. Also, I wouldn’t require you to be ours exclusively. You’d be free to pursue your freelance career but, as a resident columnist, I’d ask you to sign a contract with
Scoop
nonetheless.”

She turned to Oscar once more. Engaged in a fast-paced tennis match with a woman who held the power to make us or break us with a sweep of her hand, so far we’d only been able to absorb her strikes without a chance to return them.

“Oscar, I’ve followed your rise to senior editor of
Gusto
and have always admired your ability to keep a fresh outlook in a business that easily becomes trite. Of you I’d require, of course, that you resign from your present position and give me the exclusive.”

With those final words she leaned back in her chair and smiled at us, sure, confident.

*

Game. Set. Match.

*

Camille’s table at Lumière overlooked a picturesque marina. I sat down admiring the soothing water in front of me and the gently lulling boats content to just float moored next to one another. I had been in Miami once before, for my first meeting with the same woman now seated in front of me and who was about to make one of my dreams come true. At the time, I was trying to make a name for myself in the business and—being the arrogant European that believed she could skip the painstaking climb up the ranks—I went straight to her: one of the biggest icons in the publishing business. I remembered how she had slashed my piece here and there with a bright red marker, her legs crossed and a Chanel-clad foot swinging as she read. “Not bad for someone who hasn’t even been weaned yet.”

Her interest in me had been slow but constant. At the rate of two articles a year, we’d now been collaborating since I graduated college. I admired and feared the woman, but I was also grateful for her trust in me. I had learned priceless lessons—sometimes painfully, sometimes just by silently observing. And now she offered me this career-changing opportunity on the proverbial silver platter.

A waiter laid a linen napkin on my lap and startled me back in time to accept the menu.

She offered a dream come true. Subconsciously I began to make plans: locations, ideas, and the photographers—maybe Desmond would be interested. My business mind was spinning, high on adrenaline. But my heart told me to slow down. She said she would be fine if I stayed in Pensacola.
Could I run my column from Australia?
I shook my head. As my mother often said, I needed to wait until the wave had receded before stepping on shore. Gabe and I were sailing on full winds, but we hadn’t really sat down and seriously discussed where we were going with this sweeping love. One of us would eventually have to move. And taking a realistic look at both of our careers, I was the one with less to lose
.

Would I move to Australia if he asked me tomorrow?
With Oscar’s soothing voice in the background and Camille’s slow steady tone, I closed my eyes and sought silence in my heart;
Yes
, my heart answered as Camille’s hand lightly touched my arm. “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course.” I opened my eyes and smiled.

“Tired?”

I shook my head. “No. Inebriated.”

Oscar laughed and Camille looked at me. “That’s why I believe you two would do such a great job.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because we get easily intoxicated?”

“It’s the freshness. How you approach situations, events, perhaps even hardship and struggle.” Her diamonds refracted brightness as she turned her head to Oscar. “She gets inebriated by a business proposal.”

“I, as well,” Oscar answered candidly.

“Oh, come on, Camille!” I said, finding my old self. “Of course this is exhilarating. It’s not like you’re offering peanuts here; we’re talking about an excellent proposal. It’s absolutely flattering that you thought of me with so many other talents in the field. I mean, if word got out, they’d be stampeding all over each other to get to you first. Who wouldn’t want to be part of such a project? Especially with your name as a backbone. And you sought
us
out.”

“Such colorful verbalization.” She batted her eyelashes at Oscar. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“She compared your name to a backbone,” he mused.

“A first, I must say.”

I ignored their teasing and studied her for a moment. “What would be
your
position in all this?”

“I’m the financial asset required to develop such a project.”

“Where’s the catch?” Oscar asked for both of us.

Camille laughed lightly at the implications as if enjoying an array of colorful butterflies fluttering around her face as potential food. “Oscar, I just asked you to take an incredible leap of faith. Turn your life around and believe in this.” She spread her arms in a theatrical, sweeping gesture. “The catch—as in all things that begin in abstract form—is that perhaps once concretized, it won’t be successful.” She wasn’t smiling when she added, “Not all caterpillars turn into butterflies.”

The sommelier approached our table and greeted Camille by name. She introduced us to the tall, balding man, and I found myself shaking a hand that felt more like an overcooked noodle. Oscar looked at me in amusement and gave the fellow a pumping handshake that almost made him lose his balance. Camille listened politely to the man’s wine-pairing suggestions for a couple of minutes, then silenced him with a swift gesture of her hand and asked about a specific bottle of Pinot Gris in a way that made the sommelier walk away from the table believing the wine had been his choice. That’s what I meant when I said I could learn by just silently observing her.

“Everything here is tasty, but I do recommend the eggplant, the lamb, the tuna carpaccio, and the goat cheese salad,” Camille told us.

I read the description of the eggplant she mentioned, and my mouth began to water: roasted, thin slices to wrap asparagus, mushrooms, and, incredibly, scallops. The lamb was skewered and accompanied by fresh mango chutney. The goat cheese salad had walnuts, endive, and a honey dressing that made me think of dessert more than a side dish. I went for the eggplant, Camille ordered the carpaccio, and Oscar opted for a conch ceviche in lime, cilantro, and jalapeño sauce.

The sommelier came back and ceremoniously poured Camille a glass of wine to taste. She approved and motioned for him to fill our glasses as well. We had just moments to toast before a waiter appeared to take our orders. He brought us a basket of fragrant bread, olives, and a tin of herbed butter. The perfectly chilled wine tasted lush and ripe, and I found myself on familiar ground, sipping slowly to better savor it. I read the label and memorized the name; a label from Oregon I had never heard of. I wondered what else the vineyard made.

“This is excellent,” Oscar remarked, sipping from his own glass.

“I agree,” Camille said. “It’s a small vineyard I literally stumbled upon while having car troubles over a decade ago in the Willamette Valley. They were gracious enough to accommodate my party for the night. The morning after, they called us a tow truck and sent us off with a couple of cases of their wine. I have never forgotten their kindness, especially since they had no clue about who we were. Their hospitality was genuine and heartfelt.” She smiled, taking a sip from her glass. “And they make excellent wine.”