“Very funny,” I smiled, knowing he was teasing. “I got traumatized by kindergarten food.”
His raised eyebrow invited me to explain.
“Minestrone with big veggie chunks; spinach leaves bigger than my spoon, dripping dark broth; chicken bits with more fat than meat on them.” I shivered just thinking about it. “Family food, on the other hand, has always been a big part of what I considered comfort in my childhood.”
“And the wine?”
“The wine? Oh, well, that’s familiar territory. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? I guess in my particular case, the grapes didn’t fall far from the vine. On special occasions my father would pour just enough in my glass to stain the water a light-pink blush. He says that no matter how rough life gets, as long as there is wine on the table, problems can be solved.”
Gabe was still laughing when Etienne returned with a brand-new menu and a fountain pen, which he handed to Gabe with a bow and flourish. Gabe signed it and shook hands with him. As we walked out, I wondered, feeling a surge of relief, if this would finally free me of Monsieur Le Pew’s sappy flirting.
With full tummies we headed for the grocery store. On the drive over I told Gabe about Oscar’s invitation to Madame Magdalena’s new restaurant and asked him how he felt about driving over to New Orleans. Then wondered how I would feel to be back there with Gabe. New Orleans drips of memories of times I had shared with Steve. I hadn’t gone back since. I had even turned down a few assignments because I didn’t think I could handle it. Look at me now. Facing my own fears.
“How far of a drive is it?”
“About three hours, depending on if we take the highway or the scenic route along the Mississippi coast. Have you ever been to New Orleans, Gabe?’
“I like the way you say my name with that accent of yours. No, I’ve never been.”
“Gabe . . . Gabe . . . Gabe . . . Gabe,” I repeated slowly, teasing him. “Would you like to go?”
“What I’d like is to be alone with you somewhere I can take your clothes off roight now. Yes, I’d like to go. Later.”
I brought the car to a halt just in time for Gabe’s arm to wrap itself around me. My right hand let go of the emergency brake and worked its way up his strong chest, found the back of his bare neck, and grabbed onto his golden hair. His lips fed hungrily off mine. I felt desire build up deep within. The emergency brake painfully stabbed my hip as I inched myself closer to him, then I forgot all about it as his tongue slipped inside my mouth, searching, teasing. I moaned throatily against his lips and opened my eyes slightly to meet his. Soulful blue eyes sparkled at me through thick lashes, his simmering lust clearly visible. A surge of thick desire built up within me.
To feel the strength of his need reflected in his melting eyes drove me crazy with power. I couldn’t stop looking into his half-slit, blue-shifting eyes as I teased his tongue with mine, as I nibbled at his lips with my teeth, as I ran my hand through the thickness of his luscious hair and pulled it downward until my wet mouth found the stubble on his chin. I kissed and kissed and kissed . . . I lost track of time, space, boundaries.
He pulled away from me just before I lost total control. Breathing heavily, he bored straight into my eyes and asked me, “Who’s Xavier?”
“My soul mate,” I blurted before I had time to think, my lips still wet with his taste.
Merda!
CHAPTER 22
“Your—bloody what?”
I didn’t like the frown creasing his usually smooth brow, not one bit.
“My soul mate.” I took a deep breath, took my eyes off his troubled face, ran a hand through my own hair, and dared to look at him once again. The frown had deepened.
“According to Evalena—” I stopped abruptly. Accidenti! Why was I blaming her? And how much was I willing to share? I had begun to believe what I had seen during my past life regression, and a small part of me wanted desperately for Gabe to be Xavier. The rest of me, the real me I’ve grown up with and knew well, was telling me to shut the hell up.
But I knew better. It would be only fair, after what he had told me about his accident. So I took a big breath, cast a sidelong glance at him, and as usual, as of lately, questioned my choices. Treading on unfamiliar territory, I had no idea how to go about it. Italians have an expression for such a feeling: Brancolare nel buio—dwelling in darkness. That’s exactly how I felt: about to jam myself against unpredictable sharp corners, walking ever so slowly, afraid to step into and be swallowed by a bottomless hole, keeping my arms wrapped around myself, jeopardizing my balance in the process, but too scared to extend my hands out and touch . . . the monsters of my own devising.
Exhaling painfully, I decided I would risk it. I knew no other way: honesty before all, even loss . . .
With difficulty, in the small space of my car, I told him about losing Joséphine and my promise at her deathbed. I wasn’t looking for sympathy or excuses. Fully aware of my decision, I briefly described my past life regression and how Evalena had helped me.
Gabe’s face darkened, quickly clouding over.
Xavier’s essence flared alive, beckoned by my words. Like a genie impossibly manifested from a magical lamp. Out of nowhere, I smelled dry hay.
The sky had gone gray again; the early afternoon sun had given way to rain-laden clouds. Drops hit the fogged-up windshield and brought me back to the present.
“You reckon I’m him?” Gabe asked, after a moment of silence.
“No . . . Yes . . . Perhaps? Merda! Gabe, I have no idea.”
“Do you want me to be him?”
“I thought you were him a couple of times. When you told me you spoke French . . . when you understood about me having lost track of dimensions and mentioned the wastelands . . . almost a reflection of what I saw to be real. ‘To let go and believe it fully.’ Hell, I’d like to believe it fully, but reality is a different matter. You’re so real, and I feel you so strongly that it’s difficult to worry about someone else in another life. The intensity of you and me as us, building a relationship . . . making memories with you is erasing my doubts. You take over and I stop thinking about it. Until something you do or something that happens triggers the thought. But I am obsessing—”
He interrupted me. “To let go of what?”
“Fear.” I looked at him.
He understood.
Xavier or no Xavier—Gabe Miller was my present, not only as present in time, but as a gift as well.
“I’m not him.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t, but I won’t do a past life regression to find out either.” He ran a hand through his hair, then leaned over and flicked at the dice hanging off the car ignition. “You’re gambling, Porzia. On two dice. And I only have now to believe in.” He held my gaze. “I hope it’s enough, luv.”
Like a puppet whose strings are magically pulled by invisible hands, I could only nod. And Pinocchio is not my favorite fairy tale.
*
It was still raining when we arrived back home. I hoped the weather would clear up by next morning when we’d have to hit the road. Highway 10 to New Orleans is a boring drag in good weather but with rain it would be the equivalent of a never-ending funeral sermon.
Keeping in mind we were going to drive to New Orleans, I had bought mostly breakfast items, plus bruschetta ingredients, new potatoes, and tenderloins for dinner.
While Gabe unpacked the groceries, I marinated the tenderloins with extra virgin olive oil, added salt and pepper, and stored them in a covered container in the fridge to marinate.
“Would you mind peeling some potatoes while I check New Orleans to make hotel reservations?” I handed him the peeler.
“No worries.”
I left him in the kitchen and walked to my computer desk where I sat down to check my calendar. In about two weeks I would most likely be in Oregon for
the wine aficionados’ publication Grape Expectations.
Gabe walked into the den with a glass of white wine.
“This is where I might be going next.” I blew him a kiss and accepted the wine.
“Looks like fun.” He peered over my shoulder at the screen. “How long will you be gone?”
“About a week all together.”
“I’ll be done with the Australian Safari by then.”
“When is that?”
“Last week of August through the beginning of September.”
“So you’re heading back just in time for it.”
“I should be there now, luv. But Clark and Gomi have things under control, so no worries.”
“I won’t worry if you don’t.” I took a sip of chilled-to-perfection, crisp wine and clicked on the hotel’s link to make a reservation at Le Moulin, my favorite, just outside the French quarter, with the façade opposite a cemetery and all the rooms tucked away around a picturesque courtyard.
“I’ll go fix a bag.” He kissed the top of my head. “Join me when you’re done?”
I found him minutes later, standing over his suitcase with a worried look on his face. “I don’t have anything formal, Porzia. I wasn’t planning on attending anything ceremonial.”
“No worries. Oscar has fashion connections everywhere. I’m sure we can ask him. You’ll be fine. I’m not planning on dressing up either.” I scanned my wardrobe.
“We sound pretty domestic, don’t we, luv?” he observed as he stretched himself out on the bed beside the folded clothes waiting to be packed.
I stopped pawing through my panties and bras to look at him. “Yes, we do.”
“You’re OK with that?”
“Yes.” I dropped my lingerie pile and crawled onto the bed to press myself against him. I gave him a light kiss on the nose and snuggled until I felt his arms wrap around me. His breathing eased into sleep. I remember thinking how luxurious it felt to nap like that before falling asleep myself.
*
Time faded. Sleep took over until Gabe stirred, waking me up.
I stretched and sat on the bed, taking in all the clothes still patiently waiting to be packed. Peridot had followed our cue; he snoozed among bras and panties, his nose buried in a lacy cup.
Gabe followed my stare looking at the kitty cat happy in dreamland. “That’s a place I wouldn’t mind falling asleep myself.”
“Weeell, the bra does have two cups . . . ,” I teased. I got up from the bed and stepped into the bathroom to wash the leftover sleep from my face. I couldn’t hear any rain hitting the skylight so I guessed it must have stopped. Feeling pangs of hunger, I walked back into the bedroom where Gabe was finishing his packing. I reached for my cherry-red overnight bag, a graduation present from my brother and faithful companion on many adventures. I began to stuff it with clothes and things I chose quickly for the trip. “How about dinner?” I asked.
“Sounds good. Will you need help or can I jump in the shower?”
“No help, but company would be nice once you’re done,” I told him, zipping my bag up. I’m a fast packer.
“No worries.”
I retrieved my empty wine glass from where I had left it by the computer and walked into the kitchen where I poured myself a short refill. I hit the light switch, turned on the radio, and set to work while the jazz station coated the kitchen with the sultry voice of Astrud Gilberto. Humming along, I opened the fridge and thrust my face in.
I planned to make seared tenderloins in horseradish butter sauce, smashed potatoes, as Bene loves to call them, and a light spring salad. For a starter, I had bought some crusty baguettes that morning at the bakery. I grabbed stuff from the fridge and looked around for the bread, my arms barely holding all the ingredients. What did I do with it? Ah! Eccolo! There it was, right there on the counter, waiting to be sliced, toasted, and spread with imported caponata. I couldn’t resist and sampled it with the tip of a knife, savoring the rich taste of eggplants. I topped the sliced bread appetizers with freshly crushed black pepper and turned the broiler on. Filling a cookie sheet with the small crostini, I threw them in the scorching oven to warm up. Yummy!
I pirouetted in my kitchen and wondered what next? How about the smashed potatoes? I’d leave the tenderloins to the last minute so they’d be still sizzling. I filled a pot with cold water, added sea salt, and cubed the peeled russet potatoes Gabe had left soaking in a bowl of cold water. I switched the burner on high, dropped a lid on the pot, and decided to set the table.
This is my favorite part of a dinner party. I chose a light yellow tablecloth and matching napkins. I added rustic blue plates and salad bowls I had bought in Provence a couple of years back while visiting Joséphine. I rummaged through the silverware drawer to find knives and forks, and finished with water goblets and Riedel wine glasses. Gabe walked in looking refreshed. He smelled delicious, and I almost dropped the oil and vinegar cruets on the table. Phew!
“Wow! It already smells great!” He hugged me from behind and planted a kiss on my neck.
“It doesn’t take long to make miracles.” I turned to face him and return the kiss properly on his lips. I inhaled deeply. Good heavens! He smelled fantastic! Fresh soap mixed with his intense masculine scent which was becoming so familiar.
“You smell great. My food is a distant second.” I inhaled his essence again. I could get high on him.
“Can I help you with anything?” he teased. He was clearly aware of the effect he had on me.
“Just hold me and stay still so I can keep on breathing you in.”
“For how long? Whatever you’re making smells really good.”
“You’re hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Me too,” I agreed and nibbled at his neck, working my way up to his earlobe. With extra effort I pried myself away and went to open the oven. Using a cactus-shaped oven mitt Benedetta had given me for a birthday a while back, I took out the cookie sheet and showed Gabe the crostini. The mouth-watering aroma of baked eggplants suffused the kitchen. Holding the sheet like a serving tray with my right hand, I rested the left on the curve of my hip and leaned forward. “Is this what you wanted?” I smiled; the perfect Italian waitress flirting with a patron.
He laughed heartily. “You’re absolutely impossible.” He reached for a crostino.
“Watch out. It’s hot.”
“I bet.” He sank his teeth into the crunchy bread, his eyes still laughing. I set the cookie sheet on a wire rack, transferred the crostini to a real serving tray, and poured Gabe a glass of a delicious full-bodied Napa Valley Cabernet; time to switch the wine. He settled by the tray with his glass and kept on munching while I resumed my work on the rest of dinner. I tossed the salad, peeled and sliced cucumbers, added fresh olives and orange slices, and then remembered the potatoes. I rushed to drain the pot and sighed, relieved it hadn’t all turned into a starchy mush. From the colander I nonchalantly transferred the salvaged potatoes into a cobalt blue terrine, added butter, a bit of hot milk, a pinch of salt, a twist of freshly ground pepper, and whipped it all up until the potatoes got creamy and fluffy, still steaming hot. I brought the bowl to the table, careful not to burn my hands.
At last the tenderloins! I anointed them with a fresh coat of olive oil and sliced them lengthwise using my hand to guide me. They were so thick I got five slices per tenderloin. I sprinkled on fresh pepper and lightly floured each side. I then set a heavy skillet on a burner and turned the gas on high. I dropped in a tablespoon of clarified butter that impatiently sizzled immediately. Carefully, I added the meat, half a cup of cream mixed with horseradish and extra pepper, and allowed it to reduce for a minute or two, turning the meat only once. Gabe silently watched me as I finished everything up. I let the tenderloins rest a second in the skillet and filled the goblets with sparkling San Pellegrino water, sliced more bread to bring to the table, a
nd checked to see if Peridot needed anything. I presented the meat right on the skillet I used to cook it in. As I grabbed the salad, I cast him a sultry look over my shoulder and silently invited him.
“You’re ready?” he asked.
“Yes, just grab the wine and whatever crostini you’ve got left,” I said, taking a seat.
“This looks great.” He refilled my glass.
“Thanks. I hope it will taste as good as it looks.” I unfolded my napkin to rest on my lap and raised my glass. “It’s heavenly to have you here with me.”
He touched my glass with his and leaned over to kiss me lightly on the lips. “Thank you for doing all this tonight. Even if it didn’t take you long at all,” he teased.
“You’re welcome.” I passed him the bread basket and then quickly moved it away before he could reach a slice of bread.
“Now, Porzia,” he laughed.
I handed him the bread basket one more time, and again, as he went for it, I moved it away. But not fast enough. He grabbed one side and pulled at it until he got his bread and then snatched the entire basket out of my hand, moving it closer to him where I couldn’t reach.
“May I have some bread?” I asked, grabbing the salad bowl. “I’ll trade you some salad.”
“Oh, now we’re bargaining?”
“Please?” I pinched an oil-glistening slice of cucumber with my fingertips and fed it to him.
“OK.” He passed me the bread with one hand and held the salad bowl with the other. I guess he didn’t trust me.
The tenderloins had cooked to perfection in the creamy, rich sauce and the tanginess of the horseradish complimented the smoothness of the fluffy potatoes and the fresh texture of the salad. It turned out to be a scrumptious dinner.
“So how do you keep the feeling of sampling a dish vivid enough for you to write about later on?”
“That’s an excellent question, not easy to answer. I usually take notes as I eat. Especially if it’s a dish I’ve never had before. But honestly, my appreciation, exuberance, and enthusiasm for flavors seem to always find a way to permeate my words, soaking them until the essence of the dish I’m writing about is almost palpable.”
Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) Page 24
