“Have you now?” I warmed from the inside out. I kicked my boots off and sat on the bed, folding my legs crosswise. With my free hand I pulled my hair out of the constricting bun and combed it out as if he could see me. I thought of Japanese people who bow on the phone as if the person they’re talking to could actually see them.
“Of course I have. How’s everything going up there?” he asked.
“Great. I’ve slept, I’ve been fed, and I’ve tried the new wine. It’s excellent.”
“That’s why you need the antidote?” His laughter spilled out of the receiver.
“Yes,” I laughed. “I also wanted to know if you and Clark would be interested in coming up tomorrow around six for the presentation.”
“I don’t know about tearing Clark away from his card-writing business, but if you tell me there’s forage involved, I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“Great. It’s not formal, so no tuxedo or anything. I’m sure whatever you both wear will make you the most handsome men of the evening.”
“Oh . . . adulation,” he said, suspiciously. “Do you need something?”
Wow! If he wasn’t quick. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“And—?”
“A bottle of Scotch,” I blurted, retracting my head turtle-style between my shoulders.
“Porzia, what in the world? Is this in case the wine sucks?” he asked in disbelief.
My head snapped back up in surprise. “You know, for an Australian, you speak pretty good American slang,” I remarked.
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
“OK, I need the Scotch to pay a bet I lost with the photographer.”
“If I get you the Scotch, will you tell me what sort of bet you’re talking about here?”
“I guess it would be only fair,” I agreed. “Ok, you have a deal.”
“What do I get if I bring the antidote to your acute light-drinker syndrome?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What would you like?” I held my breath.
“How about you spend the next evening with me?” A pause; was he holding his breath? “If you’re free, that is,” he added.
“Well, that’s easy. I’d love to spend time with you, antidote or not.” I smiled.
“Great. I’ve just wasted a perfect chance to take advantage of you.”
“Perhaps the gods will be generous and will grant you plenty more,” I laughed.
“It’s great to hear you laugh, Porzia,” he whispered. “I believe I’m the one who needs an antidote here,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About how close you are to me, and yet I have to wait until tomorrow to see you again.”
“Thank you.” I stretched my legs, leaned against the pillows, and wiggled my toes inside the warm socks.
“Well then, I will pass on your invitation to Clark, and I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
“Sounds wonderful. Thank you, Gabe.”
“No worries. I wish you goodnight, Porzia.”
“Same to you. Bye—”
“Goodnight.”
I sat on the bed for a few precious moments, savoring his voice and the pleasant feeling stirring in my heart. I smiled, absently combing through my nearly dry hair. I wanted to change for dinner but realized I was running late already. I pulled my boots back up and walked to the bathroom where I freshened up with cold water. I made a face or two at myself in the mirror. All things considered, and no makeup time, I was holding up quite well. Finally, I rushed downstairs taking the steps two at a time again and collided with Desmond at the foot of the stairs. He took my right arm and escorted me to the dining room where the family had gathered to start supper.
The table took center stage, elegantly covered in linen dignified by Limoges plates and polished silverware. Crystal wine and water goblets reflected candlelight discreetly around the room. The table centerpiece, an exquisite Limoges tureen, carried an earthy bouillabaisse. I inhaled; my nose sorted out saffron, cayenne, and bay leaf, among other ingredients. My mouth watered.
Madame Framboise Jourdain, Frank’s mother, sat regally at the head of the table. Frank sat to her right, quietly speaking to her. Totally captivated by her son, she seemed unaware of the others. I took time and observed her. Until now, I had only heard of her legendary reputation in the wine circles. I had to admit I was apprehensive at the thought of finally meeting her. She seldom left her quarters, especially in winter when the harsh weather affected her fragile health the most. Her bright black eyes shone like polished opals. Although her patrician face reflected her age, her aristocratic profile was still sharp, her chin firm as she turned it to study me intently.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Amard. It’s a pleasure to have you here with us.” She tilted her head and extended her right hand to greet me. Her English was unblemished, barely laced with a subtle Provençal accent.
“Bonsoir, Madame Jourdain. Please call me Porzia.” I walked up to her to shake her hand.
“Thank you, my dear.” Once again she graciously tilted her head toward Beverly, who was busy serving the bouillabaisse. “Beverly, cheri, I would never think of distressing your dinner placements but I would love to have Porzia sit next to me this evening,” she kindly requested.
“Of course, Maman,” Beverly nodded, smiling at both of us.
I sat down on her left. Frank nodded and everybody else took their seats. Nicolas jumped to sit next to me, cutting Desmond off in his path.
“François, would you mind saying grace this evening?” Madame Framboise asked her son. “Unless Monsieur Tanier would rather do the honor himself.” A hint of mischief danced in her eyes.
Desmond Tanier, busy tucking his linen napkin into his shirt collar, almost burst into flames in a spontaneous combustion of discomfort. “Oh no, Madam! I wouldn’t dream of robbing the lord of the manor of such an honor!” he thundered, waving his open palms like windshield wipers.
Frank and Dom struggled to keep straight faces. Nicolas didn’t even try. The sound of Beverly’s soft giggle stopped my smile in midair while Luke and Ronnald struggled to catch up with the rest of us.
Frank cleared his throat. “Dear Lord, thank you for another bountiful season. We give thanks for our health and for the joy of sharing your blessed gifts among friends and family. Amen.” A choir of “amens” and a dysfunctional “no worries” from Desmond sealed the deal.
The bouillabaisse was thick with a rich fish and white wine stock. Juicy butterflied prawns, baby oysters, cubed cod filets, and shredded crabmeat gave texture to the soup along with chopped celery, onions, and tiny tomato bits. The saffron, mixed with cayenne, chopped parsley, and bay leaf, enriched the seafood flavors, conjuring up images of blazing red Provençal sunsets, salt-scorched fishermen mending nets, and children running along the seashore chasing crabs. Beverly had drizzled raw extra virgin olive oil into the Limoges tureen right before serving to tie the ingredients together. It was delicious.
Frank had brought up several chilled bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, a pleasant surprise, for I thought Umeracha specialized in red grapes. Dark grilled country bread accompanied the soup, and a light spring greens salad dressed in raspberry-walnut vinaigrette followed. Cheeses and juicy Anjou pears completed the meal.
On some more recent occasions, the host has tended to be a bit overly concerned with me as a guest at their table. In the Jourdains’ case I was treated with respect and warmth. Through each course of supper, fine food combined with entertaining conversation flowed smoothly along the wine riverbed. I slipped into my rusty, rudimental French occasionally as Madame Framboise asked me questions and intrigued the rest of the table with her charm and humor. Frank surprised me as his reserve melted, revealing an extremely intelligent dry wit that had Desmond booming with laughter, bringing him to the verge of tears a couple of times.
After promising Madame Framboise to visit her the
following afternoon for tea, I found my way upstairs, thinking about Gabe and what tomorrow would bring. A gentle tapping against my window told me it was raining outside. I quickly undressed and was soon under the covers, sound asleep.
*
I had no ground beneath my feet.
As I fell through pitch darkness, a voice commanded me to stop fighting, and I woke up suddenly, soaked in chills from a terrible nightmare. Sweat pearled my forehead, drenching the back of my hand when I wiped my soaked hair off my face. Darkness surrounded me. Fear seized me, gripping me breathless. Bitter panic curdled at the back of my throat, paralyzing me. I didn’t dare blink, swallow, or move. My heartbeat pounded like a thief caught in the blasted, trapping rubble of a bank vault, a prisoner of its own mistakes.
Scared to death, I panicked.
I had no idea what drove the fear. The images vanished on awakening, unavailable to my conscious mind. I couldn’t remember what had happened in my sleep to frighten me so, and honestly, I didn’t really try hard to recollect.
It was ages before I finally summoned the courage to reach out and turn the nightstand lamp on. I rubbed my eyes and took a sip of water. I glanced at a wooden clock faithfully ticking away and saw I had been asleep only a few hours.
Evalena had once told me that nightmares alert us to face issues that need tending. Recurring nightmares happen when we ignore such warnings. How was I supposed to face my issues if I couldn’t remember my nightmares in the first place? I don’t have bad dreams often, and I’m usually not insanely affected by them, but I had a feeling this one was going to linger like a nagging runny nose, probably until something in my living reality triggered the memory of it.
Until then I’m going to try and catch some seriously soothing sleep, I thought, hiding my head under the pillow. I left the light on. Apparently this wayward path sometimes held no ground.
Afraid? Chi, io?
CHAPTER 8
I woke up late—extremely late. I had missed breakfast.
I grabbed some coffee and spent the rest of the morning in the kitchen with Beverly going over recipes for that evening’s menu. Desmond was out with Frank and Dom taking advantage of a break in the overcast sky to shoot outdoor photographs. I doubted we would see them until later in the evening. A flower delivery van took Beverly’s attention away from me, and I decided to start jotting down ideas for my article as I warmed up beside a scorching fire that roared in the kitchen fireplace.
Lori, a charming pixie lady who turned out to be Dom’s wife, kept me company. She answered my culinary questions in her thick Australian accent, repeating her words slowly at every puzzled look of my face.
I always marvel at a chef’s skill to match, pair, and marry flavors. I grew up with simple earthy flavors straight from the family garden, and now I know I was truly blessed since I can’t grow anything but herbs, and those merely due to Evalena’s guidance.
I went into this line of work mostly because of my familiarity with wine and quickly discovered I needed to learn at least the basics of gourmet cuisine to make a decent living. Desmond is the only human I know capable of making a living strictly on spirits.
I could manage wine pairing but in order to decide what to cook, I have to begin with the wine and then retrace my steps from there. I could never be offered gourmet choices and then match them to their ideal wines. So, I shop for wines and then I buy my ingredients and groceries based on that decision. My choices are often simple and limited to what I know best or, better yet, like to eat. I am quite aware of the fact that this is not an orthodox way of looking at it, but it works for me, and isn’t that what we do? Work with the skills we’ve got? And leave the rest to professionals I can always write about . . .
I shared all this to Lori while a symphony of intense flavors and subtle, enticing spices unraveled in the kitchen. Nutmeg and thick cream bubbled happily with butter, white wine, and black peppercorns in a deep copper skillet. The pungent scent of lamb mingled with tangy rosemary and chanterelle mushrooms seeped from the oven. Several loaves of hot country bread slowly cooled on a wire rack.
By lunchtime I was famished and extremely grateful when Beverly, Lori, and I shared jambon sandwiches, a delicious cherry tomato salad, and a pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade.
I finished my notes while Beverly prepared a tea tray for Madame Framboise and then eagerly followed her upstairs.
Madam’s room smelled pleasantly of chamomile and lavender. A lively fire burned in a massive stone fireplace, warming up the entire room. A pastel-yellow angora shawl fastened with a garnet brooch hugged her shoulders while a single lacquered chopstick held her upswept, silvering hair. Her bright eyes greeted us, and her hand motioned me to sit across from her in a comfy-looking sage chenille chair with a beautiful antique three-legged table set between us. She waited for Beverly to leave before she finally spoke, pouring tea. “I trust you’re enjoying yourself with us, my dear?” she inquired. Her steady hand offered me a dainty china cup filled with steaming amber liquid.
“Yes, thank you, Madame Jourdain.” I took the cup and helped myself to sugar.
“It must be difficult to shift from different weather and time zones.” Her gypsy eyes watched me attentively.
“It takes some adjustment, but I seem to manage after a few hours.” I could barely hold her gaze.
“Are you sleeping well, my dear?” She leaned forward and took my right hand in hers. She never broke eye contact with me. Her warm hands poured heat into mine like some sort of tension-relieving drug that spread its effects from my fingertips to my hand, coiled around my wrist, and slowly worked its way to my elbow, up my shoulder, and around my nerve-stiff neck. There it diluted my tension until I dropped my shoulders. I found myself relaxing and eager to confess anything, as if it were most natural to spill my secrets to an almost perfect stranger.
“I had a nightmare last night,” I told her, squeezing her hand back. Suddenly, her familiarity hit me like a distant flavor from a long-forgotten childhood memory. She was no stranger. Framboise was the living example of what Joséphine would have been if she hadn’t renounced her power.
“And you don’t remember it.”
Astounded that she had gone right to it, I could only agree. “No, I don’t. But I’m still a bit shaken.” I recalled the fear that had paralyzed me in the darkness. I swallowed hard against the bitter tide surging up in my stomach.
She let go of my hand and sipped her tea. She added sugar. I settled back in my chair, my tea untouched. The lingering chamomile scent soothed me. I felt myself slipping into a gentle trance; any apprehension I had ever felt about meeting this woman had been evaporated by the familiar magic of her divine magnetism.
“I get the impression that you’re wading through some shifting waters,” she ventured.
I nodded once, silently waiting for her to continue, still unsure of where this was leading.
“You strike me as a very realistic, rational creature . . . you believe in ingredients assembled . . . et voilà, there is a dish.” Her hand fluttered swiftly. “If the ingredients were a poor selection, the outcome would reflect it. But when the right combination is achieved, then the result is superb.”
I nodded again in agreement.
“All of a sudden abstract concepts are introduced into this schematic world of yours. Things are no longer either black or white. Unexplainable events, emotional tides, the past is revealing itself to you.” There went her hand again, up in the air like a flutter of wings. “But of course, ma chère—life is so much more profound than mere reality as it appears to our mortal eyes . . . alas, once magic stirs in your life, my dear child, you can only accept it, learn to expect it. Perhaps you can even learn to use it to your advantage—never to harm, of course.” She blinked. “Perhaps your background? Your family? Oui? You are part French?”
“Oui, la famille de mon père,” I explained.
“Bien sûr, alors ta grand-mère?”
“Oui, Joséphine Amard.” I whispered my dearest grandmother’s name. “Mais elle n’est pas vraiment Française, sa famille vient de l’Hongrie. Ils sont d’origines Manouche.”
Enlightenment brightened Madam’s eyes at the mention of the gypsy Manouche tribe my paternal grandmother belonged to. She reached behind her and took a carved wooden box from the windowsill. “Et ton nom?”
I smiled. “Porzia Joséphine Amard.” I had been named after my grandmothers.
“Would you make some room on the table, dear?” she asked. She pulled a worn tarot deck out of the box.
I hadn’t seen the cards in ages; ever since I got caught snooping in Joséphine’s secret coffre au trésor and got such a whipping that just thinking about it still makes me cringe.
Reluctantly, I cleared the table, leaving only our teacups and saucers. Maybe it wasn’t chamomile scenting the room. Maybe it was opium.
Her hands expertly shuffled the cards. “Porzia, when is your birthday?”
“July 30th.”
She pulled the Queen of Wands out of the deck and laid it out in the center of the table, face up. At her direction, I cut the deck with my left hand. The left hand is connected to the heart, my mother once told me. That’s why you wear your wedding band on it.
Madam laid the cards in what looked like a random order to my inexperienced eyes. Two cards covered the Queen, forming a cross. I sat up, moved closer to the table, and looked down at the vibrantly colored images trying to understand the various figures upside-down. Meanwhile, what I had mistaken for a fluffy white pillow thrown nonchalantly on the massive bed caught the corner of my eye as it stretched, yawned, and unfolded itself into a huge Persian cat. Its deep emerald eyes looked at me, decided I wasn’t worthy of further attention, and commenced grooming places I will not mention.
Madame Jourdain pointed at the Queen of Wands. “This card is the significator: it represents you in the reading. Wands are backed up by the fire element, just as your zodiac sign Leo is. That is my reason for its selection.” She paused and looked at the spread. “Ah! Le Pape!” She indicated the first card across the Queen of Wands.
Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) Page 7
