Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (9 page)

“Porzia—”

I kept on kissing him. He tugged my hair again, pulling my head aside to kiss my left ear. “Porzia, luv,” he whispered, kissing my neck. Shivers ran through my body in vibrating echoes of pleasure.

“Hmm—”

“I was just thinking that I could do this forever but they might wonder about us inside.” He raised his head, leaving a wet, hot trail on my exposed neck. I felt it steam away in the cold night air. I opened my eyes and looked at him.
How can he be so beautiful?
I marveled, gazing at him in fascination. I couldn’t even blink, so intent was my contemplation of his perfect features. He smiled, showing me his chipped tooth. I stood on my tiptoes and lightly kissed the smile. I felt like crying, I was so touched by the moment. He must have sensed my reaction because he took my hands in his and brought them to his mouth to kiss my open palms. “There is no room for fear in this perfect moment.” He folded my fingers over his kiss, sealing the warmth of his words.

“Thank you.”

“No worries.” He cast me an inquisitive smile I would soon learn to recognize. “What was the bet about?”

I sighed, “This isn’t my first assignment with Desmond. I’ve worked with him in the past. Last time we saw each other he told me my boyfriend was having an affair and I was an idiot for not having noticed. He bet me the Scotch to go home and catch him.”

Gabe brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. “How long ago was this?”

“Over a year ago.”

He observed me silently for a while, then, keeping my hand in his, he led me back indoors.

The rest of the night flowed smoothly around wine production chat. Clark astonished us all a few times by revealing a deep knowledge of grapes and, surprisingly, French. At about midnight, the Dassaevs said their farewells, signaling the end of a great night. Gabe got the hint and took a special moment to say goodnight to Madame Framboise, Frank, and Beverly, promising the boys to have them come down to his shop for some off-road talk. Clark hugged me warmly, shook hands with the men, and kissed the ladies on both cheeks like a perfect European gentleman. Lori giggled like a teenager, and Beverly’s freckles blushed into an ecstatic peachy glow. Madame Framboise actually accepted Desmond’s arm and slowly walked upstairs, laughing softly at something he was telling her.

As Clark walked away to get their car, I was left alone to say goodnight to Gabe.

“Thank you again for asking us to join you tonight, Porzia.”

“You’re welcome.” I smiled and handed him his jacket.

“Are we still on for tomorrow night?” he asked, bundling up.

“Yes, of course. How about I call you in the morning?”

“Great.” His voice was a barely audible whisper as he bent his head to kiss me.

Just the brush of his lips is enough to set me ablaze,
I thought, tasting his lingering scent.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” I caught a sparkle in his eyes. It blended with the night as he turned and walked out.

I closed the door, leaned against it, and caught Nicolas walking up to me.

“I need to say I’m sorry for the stupid way I acted earlier in the kitchen. I was just bloody stunned to find a legend walking in and shaking hands with everybody,” he blurted all in one breath. “I mean, those hands have raced the best off-road circuits of the world, and here he is just using them to do regular stuff with, eating and drinking.” Still amazed, he looked at his own hands as if they ought to perform miracles as well.

“Do you think he should unscrew them at night and place them in a safe?” I teased. “Or maybe have a regular everyday pair to do daily things with and then, when he races, he’d screw his special pair on?”

“Don’t you know? He hasn’t raced in a while.”

Hair rose on the back of my neck. “Oh! He hasn’t?”

Nicolas shot me a cryptic look and moved closer to me. “So it’s true, you just barely know the bloke.” He suddenly looked older than his seventeen years. “Porzia—it’s not my place to tell you. It’s late and you need to go to sleep.”

Then all of a sudden he grinned broadly, dissipating the moment’s heaviness. He grabbed my hands in his and smashed me against himself. With my boots on we were almost at eye level, but he was a lot stronger than I expected.

“Nicolas, you’ve got the power of a boa constrictor,” I choked.

“Would you like me to
ssserenade
you, my dear?” he hissed, imitating a snake.

“How much Scotch did you slurp tonight, Mr. Boa?” I chuckled.

“
Ssscotch?
You
insssult
me, my dear, I’m a wine
sssnake
.” He wiggled as if to emphasize his wine preference. I took advantage of his wiggling to do some of my own and set myself free.

“Well, Mr. Boa, it’s way past my bedtime, so I gracefully ask you to forgive my yawning in your face and accept my goodnight.”

“Goodnight accepted.” He bowed, kissing my hand. “Porzia, how long are you staying with us?” he asked, on a more serious note.

“A few more days, Nicolas. Why?”

“You’re going to need a lot longer than that to get to know a legend,” he said, slowly turning and walking away.

Bloody hell! Here comes reality disguised as a wine snake to smack me in the face,
I thought as I climbed up to my bedroom.
Measly mortal recently turned witch, am I up to getting to know a legend; furthermore . . . date a legend?
The sweet scent of flowers interrupted my brooding thoughts. A small lamp illuminated a fragrant bouquet of white freesias in a crystal vase on the dresser. I smiled thinking of Gabe, took the delicate vase in my hands, and buried my nose in the intoxicating blooms. I inhaled deeply and my heart opened. Nicolas’s words suddenly shot through my core, “He hasn’t raced in a while.”

I got ready for bed and snuggled under the covers wondering why.

I
woke up extremely early after a dreamless night, refreshed for a change; my nocturnal activities often exhausted me more than my waking life. I lingered in bed listening for a few seconds. The rest of the house was silent. I yawned, stretched, and decided to take advantage of the early hour. With a sudden burst of energy, I kicked the covers aside and padded barefooted to a small desk. This kind of magic I felt comfortable with, this kind of magic I could perform. I lost myself in the craft of writing, spent a few hours working on my article, and time dissolved. Outside my window, dawn broke through darkness, tearing an orange seam through a violet sky. I paused in my work, watching raptly until the light show was over. If anyone, it’s Mother Nature who excels effortlessly in magic.

I took a quick shower, tied my hair in a wet ponytail, and went downstairs to see if I could help with breakfast. I found Lori alone in the kitchen, busy lighting the fireplace. She smiled and offered me some coffee, freshly brewed in a French press. Bless her. I poured myself a cup, adding cream and sugar. Pleased with the happy fire, Lori wiped her hands on her immaculate white apron, leaving a trail of perfect black streaks a zebra would have killed for. “How about some pancakes for breakfast?”

“Sounds good to me, Lori, but you’d have to show me how you like to make yours.” I smiled sheepishly.

Impalpable sunrays filtered through the lightly frosted courtyard doors as if beckoned by Lori’s softly hummed tune. I set my mug down and went to work under her skilled direction in the warming kitchen, pouring, measuring, grating, and mixing. We used flour, eggs, sugar, buttermilk, grated Granny Smith apples, pinches of nutmeg, cinnamon, and fresh orange zest.

“Fluffy pancakes require a bit more skill than the thin, flat ones,” she masterfully instructed me. “The secret is to not over-beat the batter and not add too much of the liquid ingredients. When the batter is lumpy and thick enough that you need a ladle to spoon it onto the skillet, stop right there. If you keep on messing with it, you might as well settle for the thin kind of pancakes you were trying not to make in the first place.”

We made batches of both—intentionally, that is. As Lori worked on the pancakes, I got busy with the simpler tasks of apple and chicken sausages, maple-cured bacon, fresh tea, and more coffee. She excused herself and went to dress the table, leaving me with a fresh refill of coffee, a jar of homemade blueberry marmalade, fresh butter, and a warm loaf of walnut bread. I dropped the last strips of crispy bacon on the absorbing paper, wondering if they would be interested in adopting me.

Dom’s appearance interrupted my daydreaming. He walked into the kitchen from the garden door and went straight to the fire. While he rubbed his hands together and slapped his shoulders, I poured him a cup of coffee. “This might help you warm up a bit faster.”

“Splendid! Thanks.” He accepted the cup gratefully. “We had a great time last night. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked.

“It was a very special evening. The new Shiraz is an excellent wine. I won’t be surprised when the awards start pouring in.”

“Your mouth to God’s ear. It takes a lot of dedication and hard work to reach these levels of quality, but the results have this magic effect of making one forget about the hardship and just enjoy the outcome.” He paused to take a sip of steaming coffee. His eyes lit up as Lori walked back into the kitchen.

She gave him a sweet smile. “Dom—Mr. Tanier is in the living room asking if you could go out with him and show him the American oaks we make the wine barrels from?” She paused, her eyes dancing to both of us. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

“Oh, no worries,” Dom smiled, “Frank and the boys are pulling his leg. I reckon he had a lot of questions about unoaked wines. There was an award-winning Chardonnay produced in Tasmania a few years back. He wanted to know how we managed to win our award for the Cabernet. So Frank told him we mate Australian grapes with imported American oak barrels that we build right here using our own trees, especially brought over from the United States.” He grimaced at me, “I reckon somebody ought to tell him the truth.”

“Oh no! Let’s see how much longer we can fool him,” I suggested, recalling how I felt at the site of my ex and the other woman.

“Fine with me,” Dom said.

“He might get upset about it and queer the review,” Lori worried.

“No, he won’t,” I said. “Especially if he leaves not knowing.”

Dom laughed at that and left to find Desmond. God knows what he was going to tell him.

The rest of the family came down shortly, and we gathered for breakfast. They were pleasantly surprised to learn that I had helped with the preparations. Desmond led them into a critique of my sausages and bacon with ranking scores and all. Behind a neutral façade, I kept thinking
American oaks
as I stole a smug glance at Desmond. Frank came to my rescue. He thanked me for my kitchen effort and ended breakfast by dragging the male population outside with him, Desmond included.

Lori busied herself with cleaning up and declined my offer of help. I took advantage of the quiet moment and told Beverly not to expect me for dinner.

“Well, dear, we’ll sure miss you. Have a great evening.” She paused, pensive for a moment. “What are you going to wear tonight?”

“You mean for the date?” I asked, surprised at the question. “I don’t know yet. I don’t even know where we’re going.”

“Well, whatever you do, honey, don’t shave your legs.” She winked.

My eyebrows arched. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you don’t shave, you’ll think twice before you get naked,” she laughed.

“I see, but I don’t think you need to worry about my virtue here,” I told her, amused. “Let me go ahead and give him a call to see what he has in mind. Then I can decide accordingly.” I stood from the table and headed toward my room, leaving Beverly to her tea and thoughts.

Once in my room, I got comfortable on the bed and dialed Gabe’s number. When his voice came on the line I let go a long breath. “Hello? Gabe? It’s Porzia. How are you this morning?”

“Just great, thanks. How about yourself?”

“I slept well. And you?”

“Not as well as I did on the plane with you in my arms.” I sensed a smile in his voice.

I smiled myself. “You know, that would make two of us. I usually don’t sleep well on planes.”

“I guess we’re looking at either starting to travel together or settling with the idea of getting no sleep,” he said.

“How about not travel at all?”

“It would suit me just fine, but you’d miss running around looking for that perfect wine.”

“You have a point.”

“What are your plans for the day?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I need to work on my article and talk to Desmond about the photos, but besides that not much.”

“Is he still
fossicking
for American oaks?” he asked.

I couldn’t believe it! “You’re in on it as well?”

“I heard Frank set it up, and I actually believed it myself for a second or two, then Clark told me they were mocking around.”

I had never heard “mocking” used that way but the meaning was clear.

“Listen, about tonight . . .” Hesitation crept into his voice.

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel.”

No! I was never going to see him again! I would leave Australia with the eternal wondering of a passerby that eyes a pastry in a bakery window and does not stop to eat it. All that I thought in the blink of an eye, and all that came out of my mouth as my card tower of whimsical expectations collapsed tragically was “Oh!”

“Porzia? Are you there?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I’m here.”

“Just kidding, luv,” he said.

Bastardo.
“You’re lucky I don’t have you in front of me,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

“So how about I pick you up around five? Or is that too early?”

“I don’t know if I want to go anymore now,” I lied.

“You don’t? I guess I deserve that. But I know you’re not serious.”

“No, I’m not. Five sounds good, but I’d like to know what we’re doing so I can dress properly.”

“Dress comfortably. I’m taking you to a local steak house, and it’s a casual place.”

“OK, sounds great. I’ll be ready at five.” My mind leaped ahead to the limited wardrobe I’d brought with me.

“Great. See you soon then.”

“Ok, Gabe. Thanks.”

“No worries. Bye.”

I hung up wondering if I should rush into town for a serious once-in-a-lifetime-occasion shopping spree. Then I reconsidered thinking I would have to ask someone to drive me and what an encumbrance that would be for the family. I did not feel comfortable imposing for such a trivial reason as shopping. I remembered I’d brought some of my favorite pieces and resigned myself to making the best of the situation with what I had. I jumped off the bed, grabbed a jacket, and went looking for Desmond. Anyone would look better than such an ogre. Next to him my spirits and confidence ought to be restored, or else irreparably crushed forever . . .

I found him outside on the driveway shooting photos of the Jourdain dogs.

“At last! There you are, dear lass. How about a couple of piccies with the puppies right here?”

“Is this just for fun, Desmond?” I asked, kneeling to pet one of the dogs.

“Yes, yes, just fun. No hidden agendas here. Now be nice and say ‘Foster’s’.” He knelt and shot me an arrogant smirk. “That was a mighty fine bottle of Scotch your mate brought over last night.” He closed one eye and brought the camera up to his face.

“He’s not my mate,” I declared. Uncomfortable, I shifted my pose as his camera whirred and clicked. “Foster’s . . . Foster’s . . .” I managed to remain gracious; for how much longer, I had no idea.

“Yes, I must admit I’m rather impressed with your choice of
label
lately.”

“Are you, now? Foster’s . . . Foster’s . . .”

He straightened and rummaged around in a camera bag looking for different lenses. “Porzia, dear lass, need I remind you about the piece of crap you called boyfriend last time we saw each other? It takes one loser alcoholic to smell another.” He pointed a finger at his own chest. “Gabe Miller is a bloody legend,” he chuckled. “A
sacred
legend that has managed to remain single, much to the disappointment of the Australian female crème de la crème.” Satisfied with his choice of lenses, he crouched and resumed his snapping.

“
Accidenti!
Desmond, I just happened to meet him on the plane here and asked him over for last night. I’m not going to marry him!” I glared, indignant. “Sorry, I’ve run out of Foster’s.”

He stopped shooting and took a long look at me. “Porzia, you might spit the dummy after I’m done talking, but you happen to have an incredible mind behind those dazzling green eyes of yours. And I have known you long enough to not waste time with fatherly advice. Hell, that’s almost incestuous thinking, for I’d love to trade places with our fellow racer here. And mine are definitely not fatherly thoughts.” He chuckled again at my stunned look. “Here, here now, no worries. There’s no need to look like I lifted your skirt up. Thanks for the Scotch, and I’d love to shoot the wedding.”

Without even thinking, I yanked a boot off and threw it at him. He ducked and caught it in midair.

“You have a gift, Desmond: You piss people off. Mother Teresa would get pissed off after talking to you for a couple of minutes. Gimme my boot back,” I snapped at him. Hopping over on one foot, I snatched it out of his hand just as he tried sniffing at it. “Beast!”

I sat on a rock to pull the boot back on. He took more photos of me as I tugged it up, and I took the opportunity to find my composure.

Finally, I stood, saying, “Just let me know when the photos will be ready.” I bit my lower lip and added, “Better yet, just send them directly to
A’ la Carte
. You have the address. I trust you won’t be late? And if I don’t see you before you leave, have a great trip, wherever the hell you’re going.” I spun around and strode off. His soft laughter echoed in my burning ears.

Still annoyed by the conversation, I stalked back to my room. For whatever reason, despite his overbearing demeanor, I valued Desmond’s friendship and opinion. He’s probably the only professional contact I can truly say I trust unconditionally to never harm me. In spite of his past or reputation (and crass jokes), I know he honestly cares for me and has demonstrated such care often in the past. In addition, I’ve learned how to canvass through his words for the real gold; among all those vulgarities he pretty much said I was like a daughter to him.

After thinking all this through, I sat down at the small desk and resumed work on my article.

I got so absorbed in typing that if it were not for Beverly softly knocking on my door to ask me if I cared for lunch, I would have kept on going forever. It always happens when I write; time seems to fly, the only proof of its passing is in my printed words.

She handed me a heaping tray and told me to just return it downstairs later.

With trepid anticipation, barely controlling my watering mouth, I set the tray on the desk and tucked into a delectable lunch. For a few precious moments I cared only about the incredible taste of the food in front of me. I loved the smooth texture of the grilled eggplants layered in the thick, basil-infused
ragù
and the aged
Parmigiano
cheese. Melted, runny mozzarella stretched into strings as I cut another bite with my fork and moved back in time to my family’s kitchen, where my mother used to prepare a dish very similar to this particular one. Echoes of my father’s delight rang in my ears, as I tasted the Shiraz with it. Here I was once again, fascinated by the intense color this wine seemed to exude no matter what light it was subjected to. I took a sip, then another, and swirled the glass, admiring the wine’s legs, an old habit to break. Such legs (or “tears”) that run down the inside of a glass of wine are one of the most fascinating visual components of the tasting experience but have nothing to do with the wine’s quality, instead relating directly to the alcohol content. Simply put, and in my father’s own words, a very general rule of thumb is that wine with a higher alcohol content will have a higher viscosity—and therefore, more legs. This is known as the Marangoni Effect.