Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (8 page)

I
usually don’t spend much time getting ready. Benedetta teases, tells me I get ready like a man. She says I shop like a man too. I walk into a store as if equipped with radar, go directly to what I need, and get out. Same deal when I get ready. I am intimidated at the thought of applying much makeup. Foundation always ends up streaking and staining my clothes, and lipstick is a rarity with my lifestyle of tasting and constant eating, so I usually never need more than ten minutes. Not tonight. Gabe was going to be there, and I was going to take my time; the final result should be well worth the extra labor.

First sign of falling for someone: taking extra time to get ready.
I washed and styled my hair until it shone in a thick, luscious cascade over the dark claret velvet of my dress.

For makeup, I dusted a faint blush onto my cheeks and applied a subtle eyeliner under my eyes before brushing on a couple of coats of mascara. Why do we feminine creatures part our lips in a perfect O, worthy of Giotto’s free hand, while applying mascara? I closed my mouth, too impatient to wait around for the universe to answer the mystery, and slicked on a finishing touch of a light, nude lip gloss. I took a step back and eyed my reflection in the full-length mirror, frowning. Then I broke into a rainbow. Queen of Wands or not, it was time to tango.

Although the presentation guest list was limited to family, some close friends, Desmond, and of course
la sottoscritta
, Beverly had kindly accommodated my request to include Gabe and his father for the evening, assuring me it would be a delight.

As I glided downstairs, I heard soft notes of music rise like dainty butterflies in the darkness surrounding me.

I realized I was early. Countless candles and strategically placed oil lamps trembled in the elegant but silent dining hall I thought empty at first glance—but poised regally on a deep pillow in front of the glowing fireplace, Neige watched me curiously. The blazing orange fire danced in his eyes. I felt awe as I approached him, exposed under his unfaltering stare. Purring, he stretched his front paws, arched his back, and met my hand with his nose so that I could pet him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head. I scratched behind his ears. The fire had warmed his coat. I sat on a low stool next to him, thinking about how different his fur was from Peridot’s back home. I ran my fingers through his long, fluffy coat, hypnotized by his loud purring. Telepathically I asked him why he had jumped on the cards.

He kept on purring, totally ignoring my silent question.

Joséphine Amard, my paternal grandmother, had been a rebel to family traditions, breaking with a long chain of wanderers, nomadic travelers, and gypsy freedom believers. At the age of sixteen, during one of many family pilgrimages, she fell in love with a Christian farmer and winemaker and settled in Provence. She continued to use herbs from her garden to cure naturally and cook with but left all that she considered pagan charlatanism behind, including tarot cards, dream interpretation, and most importantly, her divination powers.

Until the day she died.

Apparently, along with her pragmatism, I had inherited her last-minute reclaimed clairvoyance as well. Wondering if just inheriting it made it tangible, I cast a futile attempt at connecting with Gabe but failed miserably. Although I imagined a feeble flutter of wings, I met only inscrutable darkness. I shook my head.

I didn’t believe.

Neige had flipped on his back, exposing his tummy to my nails. I smiled and kept on scratching. Forget telepathic communication; cats will be cats no matter where in the world you connect with one.

Nicolas found me like that when he entered the room juggling several bottles of wine in his arms. He looked older than his seventeen years, all dressed up for the evening. Even his unruly hair was combed back and smartly styled with some gel. He smiled at me, fumbled the wine onto the table, and began to inspect several decanters one by one against the candlelight. “That’s interesting,” he said, throwing his chin in Neige’s direction. “He’s not a friendly cat. He usually doesn’t let anybody but
Grand-mère
pet him.”

“It seems our young friend has a special touch, Nicolas,” responded Madame Framboise as she entered the room aided by a walking stick. She looked regal in vintage black silk. Her bright smile matched the purity of the single strand of pearls gracing her neck. The rest of the family followed, headed by Frank in a black dinner jacket livened by a burgundy bowtie. Beverly beamed in forest-green lace, and the boys looked stiffly uncomfortable in starched white shirts.

I stood as the doorbell announced the arrival of the first guests. My heart jumped in my throat. Neige rubbed himself against my ankles, and Desmond boomed in with a camera dangling from his neck like a jolly monkey on a jungle vine. A bouquet of feminine laughter spilled from the foyer. It told my pounding heart that my wait wasn’t over yet. Then my brain took over and curtly stopped the intense emotional nonsense, enabling me to greet the Dassaevs, the Jourdain’s friends and fellow winemakers, without making a fool of myself. I turned professional, grabbed two glasses of apéritifs, and went in search of Lori, following a trail of mouthwatering aromas back toward the kitchen.

Beverly had hired catering help for the evening, and the kitchen resembled a very organized war camp. Lori accepted her glass gracefully and showed me around the scrumptious array.

I believe that a gourmet meal without wine is like a song with great music but lacking intelligent lyrics. What lay in front of my eyes confirmed that the Jourdains shared my belief in the concept.

Where to begin looking?

My mind surged into overdrive, striving with enormous effort to master the entire menu concept at once. I began the tedious task of taking notes, the least appealing side of my job. The breads could hold court per se. I counted honey rolls, poppy seed muffins, whole wheat
bâtards
, crusty thin baguettes, and one of my favorites, Tuscan focaccia drizzled in an embrace of extra virgin olive oil that could make you forget about your hottest lover, unless you were lucky enough to be sleeping with the baker. I nodded to a smiling young fellow about to wheel several trays of
crostini
out of the kitchen: grilled country bread topped with a variety of mushrooms, cheeses, tomatoes, tapenade, and
pâté
.

The first course consisted of a red chicory risotto presently bubbling on the stove.

“The risotto looks happy,” I observed.

“Could you blame it?” Lori laughed. “What a life, even if short. Hot in a copper pan snuggled with butter, sweet onions, radicchio, and Arborio rice, drowned in rich vegetable and saffron stock.”

Lori moved on to Beverly’s choice of entrée: a slow oven-roasted rack of lamb and side dish of rosemary potatoes. She commented on the ideal pairing with the new wine.

I groaned to hide my stomach’s rumble and walked to the salad to pick a cherry tomato from the bed, saw the baby green beans glistening with olive oil, and struggled to control myself. “Lori? What about dessert?” If I had to suffer, I might as well inflict my own coup de grâce.

Fruit compote followed en suite by rich French coffee.

Engrossed in jotting down material for my article, I didn’t realize I was being observed; my sixth sense kicked in. I turned and saw a flustered Nicolas watching me with something close to . . . renewed respect. How long had he been standing there? “Porzia,
G—Gabe Miller
is out there with his father, asking about you,” he stuttered.

“Oh, thank you, Nicolas. Have they been here long?” I tried and failed to control my heartbeat.

“No, only a few minutes. He gave
Desmond
a bottle of
Scotch
.” Nicolas’s tone dripped the sort of awe usually reserved for a miraculous sighting of royalty.

I raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“You didn’t tell me you knew Gabe Miller,” he whispered, as if afraid to say the name.

“Should I have?” I asked, puzzled.
What was going on?

I began to walk out of the kitchen and collided with Beverly rushing in as I flung the door open.

“Oh dear!” Her green eyes, gleaming like emeralds, peeked out from behind a gigantic bouquet of rainbow-colored freesias. The sweet scent drowned the food aromas.

“Beverly! Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to bump the door like that.”

“Porzia! Gabe Miller is out there shaking hands with Frank. He brought
me
flowers!” She shook my arm with the flowers. “We need to do something!” She looked possessed.

“OK . . . ,” I said warily. “What would you like me to do?”

“Oh dear! I don’t know! Would it be too rude to ask him to autograph some of the wine bottles?”

“Beverly! What’s going on? Why are you all so agitated about Gabe being here?” I demanded.

Nicolas looked at me suspiciously. “Porzia, how long have you known him?”

“A bit—”

“So I reckon you have no idea how famous the man is, do you now?” Nicolas’s tone didn’t help my confusion at all.

“Gabe? Famous?
Ma che caz
—?” I snuffed the last word to a muted snort at the last second.

“Gabe Miller is only the most famous driver of off-road racing that Australia has ever produced. He’s a legend in the international circuits. He’s won the Paris–Dakar a couple of times. Once with your fellow countryman Tonacci coming in second, eating dust.
And
he holds several records,” Nicolas ended
tremolo
, with feeling cracking his voice.

Merda!
I knew the name Tonacci: Italian billionaire, heir to the Tonacci Engines empire, painfully handsome heartthrob, and excellent off-road racer. And Gabe made Tonacci eat dust? It’s like saying he walked on water with Jesus and Jesus sank halfway there.

I needed an explanation. I rushed out of the kitchen, then slowed down and struggled a second to regain my cool before Gabe’s eyes met mine—and the rest of the world dissolved.

His serious eyes caressed every inch of my skin while his heart told me silently he was happy to see me again. I heard his voice beneath the loud thumping of my own heart pulsing against my inner ears. I shook my head, blinked—twice—and found my hand in his. Nothing had happened. Nobody seemed to have noticed the intimate moment he and I had just shared.

“Porzia, thank you for including us in such a special occasion,” I heard him say, breaking the spell. “Frank was telling me tonight is the first time his Shiraz is to be enjoyed by mortal palate.”

Oddio! Did he have to say “Shiraz” like he was reading it out of the Kama Sutra?
I smiled wickedly.

“Well, I guess that would make the few of us who tried it yesterday perpetual souls.”
Merda! Would that make Desmond immortal?
I drove frightening thoughts of eternal doom in the company of such a belligerent ogre from my mind. I smiled at Gabe, less wickedly this time. “I’m glad you were able to join us. Beverly was delighted to know I had some friends I wanted to invite. But not as delighted as when she found out who you were,” I ribbed smoothly.

I didn’t just say that out loud. Mamma mia, please tell me I didn’t say that!

“It doesn’t matter who he is, Porzia, dear lass. What matters is that he brought my Scotch, and he’ll be sitting next to me at the table. So maybe he’ll be asked to say grace this evening instead of poor old atheist me,” Desmond intervened. He waved an aged bottle of Scotch under my nose and walked away.

I shook hands with Clark, looking smartly at ease in evening wear. For some intriguing reason I felt profoundly grateful for his presence.

Beverly, likewise having regained her perfect-hostess composure, made the introductions among those who didn’t know each other and proceeded to seat us. I ended up in a cozy blanket between Gabe on my left and Madame Framboise as head of the table. The family, sitting at the table to enjoy the fruit of their extensive labor, reminded me of childhood celebrations at harvest time back home.

Dinner turned out to be a superb success. Seldom do I find myself in such an environment where business and pleasure hold hands so gracefully, enabling me to reach that plateau where my ever-working mind takes a step back and my emotional passion for gourmet is unleashed in the harmonious ambiance. The excellent Shiraz was the table’s undisputed protagonist, complementing the assortment of foods offered by the various courses like colors on a painter’s palette, creating a symphony of excellent flavors. I particularly enjoyed the cooked-to-perfection chicory risotto, a perfect partner to the smooth bouquet of the Shiraz.
A’ la Carte
should expect one hell of an article, Australia and eventually the rest of the world, one hell of a wine.

By the end of dinner, the impact of Gabe’s fame had been digested and Australian camaraderie reigned. We opted to take coffee by the fireplace in the cozier living room. Clark offered his arm to a delighted Madame Framboise, her personal “Two of Cups” for the moment. Desmond, having used at least three rolls of film already, decided to take a break and opened the Scotch. He began spiking coffee left and right, reminding me of a jovial priest dispensing holy water. I chuckled at the sacrilegious thought.

I finally managed to have a moment alone with Gabe. We stepped out on the covered porch where the chilling winter night drove me straight into his warm embrace.

“I’ve been thinking about this moment ever since I left you the other day,” he whispered, breathing deeply in my hair.

“Hmm—” I barely murmured, snuggling even closer to him.

“You look beautiful in this dress.” His hand caressed my back. “I love the way you’re wearing your hair tonight.” He tugged a handful of it, pulling my head back. His mouth inched toward mine as I arched my back and parted my lips. His hands found the side of my face and held me still, a breath away from his mouth. I could smell the heat radiating from his skin. His eyes sought mine and held me prisoner, waiting, searching my eyes for something he needed to feed on. Anticipation built and a thick core of undiluted lust began to melt deep inside me. I begged him with a silent plea to his eyes, then closed mine and felt his lips grant my wish. I exploded behind my shut eyelids into absolute raw hunger. Nothing mattered but to keep on drinking from his mouth as if my own life depended on it. I could have spent the rest of my life dancing with the tip of my tongue against his, tasting the fullness of his lips, brushing the harsh five o’clock shadow with my sensitive skin and hearing him whisper my name from behind a thick curtain of desire.