Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series)

by Giuliana Sica

  “Benedetta, if you wish to continue, here’s my card.” She handed Bene a lilac business card and then got up with effort. I helped her, supporting her elbow, and asked if she needed to lie down. I knew I could sleep for a week.

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine with fresh air on my drive back.” She inhaled slowly. Her unfocused eyes gave the feeling she was looking within, but I was sure her sight actually cast outward, toward tomorrow’s horizons. Exhaling, she regained contact with her surroundings. “Thanks for a lovely dinner, Porzia. This is to be continued.”

  “Do you dream?” Benedetta asked her.

  “Of course I do. But, if you mean do I have premonitory dreams, I have to admit not as often as one would think. It seems that whatever connection I have works best when I am awake. I often have nightmares, but that’s only because I’m a bit slow at perceiving hints, so in my dream state whatever issue I am struggling with recurs to get my attention. And what better way to motivate than with fear?”

  “So you have pretty scary nightmares?” I asked her.

  “The kind one never forgets.” She looked at me. “Don’t you?”

  I thought about it for a few seconds. “I do. But not often, and I seldom remember them once I’m awake. But even if I don’t recall what frightened me in the nightmare, once I finally awaken from it I’m paralyzed with fear.” I shook my head at my own weakness. “I have been so afraid that I wouldn’t get up to go to the bathroom until I could shake the bad feelings. Sometimes I’d hold it until daylight.” I tilted my head toward the dark window behind Benedetta and shifted my gaze to address her. “Do you have bad dreams?”

  Benedetta smirked. “I seem to have it all scrambled. I have bad dreams when my reality is peachy. Like, if everything is going well, then I dream of something catastrophic happening to disrupt the balance. When my reality sucks I sleep like a baby.”

  “A shrink would have a blast with you, sweetie,” Evalena smiled.

  “So I was told after the accident.”

  We escorted her to the door where she slipped her sandals on and reminded me to smudge with sage before she left us.

  Benedetta left shortly after.

  I cleaned up the kitchen, lit some sacred sage, and walked around letting the sweet smoke cleanse the atmosphere as I straightened up. By the time I was done my clock read way past midnight.

  I got ready for bed wondering if Gabe might still call, but I knew he was better at calculating the time difference than I was and was sure he wouldn’t call this late.

  My bedroom faces in the direction of the Sound, so I pulled the blinds down but left the window open to welcome the fresh breezes then hopped into bed, switched the nightstand light off, and fell asleep with my fingers crossed against nightmares.

  *

  The phone rang, piercing through the buttery thickness of my sleep. I opened one eye and noticed the bright daylight outside.

  “Hello?” I managed groggily. I shook my head, glanced at the alarm clock—not as late as I thought—and spoke again. “Hellooo?” Maybe Gabe from out there somewhere?

  Finally, a formal British voice replied, “Good morning, Miss Amard. How are you?”

  “Splendid,” I responded, stifling a yawn.

  “Grape Expectations here, Miss Amard. We were wondering if you had received our information. And if isn’t too much pressure, if you’d agree to a tentative deadline for the end of October at the latest? It would force you to leave in a few days.”

  I shot out of the sheets and sat up straight. “Yes, good morning!” My brain wheels clicked into survival mode and my professional gears shifted in smoothly. Well, somewhat smoothly. I pulled the sheet up over my bare breasts and asked to whom I was speaking with.

  The distinguished voice chuckled and then left me speechless. “Gilroy Wyvill, Miss Amard. At your service.”

  I opened my mouth, and then shut it; opened it again, stuttered silently, and closed it. After taking a deep breath I finally managed to tell my former professor that it was a pleasure to talk to him again.

  “It has been quite some time indeed, Miss Amard. I have enjoyed your career’s progress, and I must admit I have been looking forward to the day our paths would cross again.”

  “This is quite a surprise, Professor. How are you, sir?” I said, still shocked.

  “I’m faring well, thank you. I have been contributing to this magazine for quite some time now, Miss Amard, and truly enjoy it. I’m retired from the academic world, and I do this now as a favor to an old friend. We were discussing innovative ideas at a recent meeting and I thought of you. Merely mentioning your name along with a couple of your recent publications stirred the editors’ interest. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not, Professor! I’m thrilled!”

  “And how have you been?”

  “I’ve been doing well. I’m pleased that you remembered me. I’m working steadily and slowly building a solid reputation. I honestly enjoy what I am doing. I don’t want it to merely turn into a job. It has to be a pleasure first, then a living. And yes, I have received the itinerary.”

  “Interesting perspective, Miss Amard. Please feel free to browse through my suggestions, but if you have any original ideas don’t hesitate to add your personal touch. Also, you need to contact a photography agency in Portland where one of our professional freelancers will join you.”

  I wasn’t familiar with the name he mentioned and silently hoped this person would be friendly and not too overbearing. I hate to be stuck for days with someone too clingy. I told him I planned on about four days at the most, and he thought that agreeable.

  “The phone number you have, Miss Amard, is the only one I have available here at the magazine. I do promise to be available if the need arises.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call only if I have questions. If not, I’ll get in touch once I get back from Oregon.”

  “Sounds good. Have a great trip.”

  “Thanks, Professor.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I took a deep breath. Professor Gilroy Wyvill. I couldn’t believe it! Originally from Great Britain, he holds the qualification of Master of Wine, the British certificate which is globally recognized as the toughest set of written and tasting exams of all. Most years fewer than a dozen applicants pass, and fewer than 250 people have been awarded the qualification. He taught an elite group of extremely grateful students a splendid summer class on the history of European grapes in America. He had enthusiasm, knowledge, and incredible respect for the first wine pioneers of the new continent. Needless to say, his classes were always booked solid. Students from as far as Japan and South Africa came to attend his excellent courses.

  Although I could have daydreamed for hours, I finally kicked the sheets aside and got up to face the busy workday ahead of me. I showered and made coffee. Carrying a steaming cup of espresso to my desk, I turned on my computer and got started. I worked on my piece about Chez le Chat, and it didn’t take me too long to feel satisfied. Draining the remaining drops of coffee, I sent it off to Oscar and then faxed it, too, holding his assistant hostage on the phone until she confirmed receiving my pages.

  I made flight arrangements with my trusted travel agency and also asked for a rental car. I told them not to worry about sleeping accommodations. For some reason, I wanted to wait until I got to Oregon and then decide where to sleep. Despite the short notice I felt excited at the thought of leaving in a couple of days. I got up to make something to eat and break the news to Peridot. He took it better than expected. The fact that I had filled his bowl with fresh tuna helped a great deal.

  I made a quick salad and got back on the Internet to find out more about the Willamette Valley. I must admit, just because I write about wine doesn’t make me an immediate expert on every wine producing region out there. I wasn’t very familiar with this one and found myself fascinated as usual, engr
ossed in learning about one of the most promising new wine-growing areas in the country. The area came alive with winemakers, soil, and descriptions of ocean breezes breaching the Coast Range to the west, the Cascade Mountains to the east, and the Willamette Valley nestled in between. A valley that, thanks to Oregon’s northern latitude, benefits from long hours of summer sunshine adequate to fully ripen its vineyards’ grapes. The addition of the occasional marine breezes rifting through the Coast Range barrier helps to temper the climate, causing the ripening process for wine grapes to be gradual, encouraging complex fruit flavors, deep aromas, and just the right amount of acidity and subtle nuances. All of this combines to allow Oregon wineries to compete well on the world stage.

  From the information I deduced the Willamette Valley wine region is considered a cool-climate viticultural appellation—grape-growing region—similar to Burgundy, France. So we were talking about cool-climate grape varieties such as Pinot Gris, Riesling, and Chardonnay, but most importantly, Pinot Noir.

  I couldn’t wait to get there.

  I called Benedetta and told her the news about my trip to Oregon. She told me it wouldn’t be a problem, as usual, to drive me to the airport and cat-sit for me while I was gone. I worried a bit about Eros and Peridot sharing living quarters, though. She must have sensed my concern for she soothed me by saying it would all be fine. For some odd reason the certainty coating her voice eased my worries.

  I trusted her.

  “Once I get back I might need you to take Peridot again.”

  “Where are you going next?”

  “I’m shooting for Australia.”

  She whistled softly. “Finally, Porzia. I bet you can’t wait.”

  “You have no idea,” I said, venting my frustration.

  We talked a bit longer; actually I talked a bit longer, she just listened to me as I rambled on.

  “Porzia, I could listen to you for hours, but you’re beginning to sound like a broken record.” Benedetta’s citric comment healed me quickly.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK. Just shoot me if I ever get so pathetic,” she begged me, chuckling.

  “I feel like shooting you right now,” I told her, half seriously.

  “I’m gonna have your cat. Be nice.”

  “Maybe I should ask Evalena.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “A familiar can be devoted to only one witch at a time.”

  “Are you calling me a witch, Benedetta?” I didn’t quite understand if she was being serious or not.

  She just laughed and never answered. As soon as we hung up my phone rang again with Oscar on the line.

  “Hello. What are you up to?”

  “Work, work, work,” I told him, walking back to my desk.

  “Find time for fun, Porzia, dear. Life is short.”

  “You sound like the antithesis of il grillo parlante.”

  “Who?”

  I shook my head, as if he could see me. “It’s the cricket in the Italian Pinocchio,” I said.

  “I see.” He still sounded a bit confused. “Well, the reason I’m calling is because I’ve read your piece and loved it.”

  “You did?” I asked, smiling.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks, Oscar,” I said. “And how are you doing?”

  “Doing well. Talked to Joel about Camille’s proposal. We’re fine-tuning the details, some of them major ones, like his worries about employment in Miami, and moving once again, and blah, blah, blah . . . I shouldn’t bore you.”

  “You’re not boring me, Oscar. Remember, we’re in this together.”

  “How about you? Have you spoken with your heartthrob?”

  “Not yet. We have a lot of things to discuss, but over the phone it’s extremely difficult.”

  “I hear you, Porzia. And I wish you the best.”

  “Thanks, Oscar.”

  “Any other assignments or exciting happenings?”

  “I shouldn’t talk to you about it—trying to scoop out the competition?”

  Oscar laughed heartily. “Oh, absolutely not!”

  “Right.” I was grinning as well.

  “Keep in touch between adventures, Porzia, and thanks again for a stunning piece.”

  “Thank you.” I hung up feeling pretty good about myself.

  CHAPTER 31

  I flew into Portland on a very foggy morning, leaving behind sunny Florida, my cat in Benedetta’s hands, and a spotless condo since I’d spent the day before my trip thoroughly cleaning. I’d hoped I would hear from Gabe before I left but didn’t.

  I had called the photo agency in Portland and spoken to Hannah, the assigned photographer. We arranged to meet and decided it would be fine not to make sleeping reservations. “It will be an adventure. Kind of exciting,” she promised.

  My kind of woman, I thought.

  I packed a light suitcase with boots, jeans, layering shirts, and, on a whim, Joséphine’s amber pendant.

  After a bumpy flight from Pensacola to Denver and an even more turbulent one to Portland, the plane slit through a thick layer of rain-laden, gray clouds, which re-closed, unperturbed, above us, and landed on wet concrete. My stomach felt so queasy I imagined my intestines wrought like clothes after a final spin cycle.

  On weak legs, I found the rental car. I fastened my house and car key chain with the dangling set of dice onto the rental SUV’s thinking that Gabe would be proud of my outback choice of wheels. I studied the map briefly and drove straight into downtown rush hour hell. Every other radio station I fidgeted with blasted alternative rock. What a change from Country Georgia or Cajun New Orleans.

  Twenty minutes later, a tall redhead shrouded in a hemp outfit greeted me at the photo agency. “You must be Porzia.” Wisps of untamed ginger curls framed her smiling face. I sniffed patchouli.

  I nodded and extended my right hand. “Hannah, I presume?”

  “Nice to meet you,” she replied, offering a firm handshake.

  “You’re driving,” I told her as aftershocks of road rage spasmed through my body.

  “Oh, you’ve enjoyed our traffic, yes?” Cocking her head she regarded me, amusement dancing in her deep emerald eyes.

  “Oh yes,” I groaned, handing over the car keys.

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” she said, laughing and taking the keys from me.

  She grabbed a faux suede bag and her photography equipment and loaded them into the back of the rented yellow SUV and we sped off down the highway heading south, toward where the Oregon countryside timelessly spread.

  “Where should we start?” she opened with, her eyes shining with excitement.

  “How about the Willamette Valley?”

  She nodded, smiling at me. “One of my favorites.”

  “Great!”

  Serenaded by the hypnotic woop-woop of the windshield wipers fighting a lost battle against the unrelenting drizzle, we left the city.

  “I wonder if we’ll get to see anything,” I mused. “Half the day’s gone already.”

  “It won’t get dark until about nine this evening,” Hannah said, reminding me of how the Northwest benefits from extended daylight during the summer.

  “Wineries will be open so late?”

  “To make the most of business some will, yes.”

  “Do you have any particular one in mind?”

  She turned her head smiling at me. “A few, but nothing special. I figured you might have an ace or two up your sleeve.”

  I dug in my carry-on bag for my blue ball cap and tied my hair in a ponytail, anticipating rain for the rest of the day. “There is one in particular I’d love to find,” I said, thinking of Camille’s Pinot Gris.

  “What’s the name?”

  “La Maison de Pascal.”<
br />
  “Pascal’s house? Never heard of it.”

  “You speak French?”

  “Not really. Just what I remember after spending a summer in Europe.”

  I searched my notes looking for La Maison de Pascal’s address and found it. “They’re on the 47, just outside Gaston. It says about thirty-five miles west of Portland.”

  “Not far at all. Let’s go there first.”

  About an hour later, amidst gentle rolling hills covered by thick rows of luscious grapevines, we found a simple sign indicating our destination: La Maison de Pascal. We followed a bumpy, unpaved, winding road up through a ripening pear tree grove to a charming winery nestled by the bank of a gurgling river. We parked the car among a few other visitors’ vehicles and walked up to the main entrance where an older gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles and a trimmed beard welcomed us. We introduced ourselves, mentioning Grape Expectations—much to the delight of the older man. He told us to please call him John. I dropped Camille’s name and their superb Pinot Gris. John, casting formalities aside, hugged us.

  “Pascal!” he called to a petite, brunette, middle-aged woman. A tiny pink barrette kept a mischievous lock of her hair away from her bright golden-speckled chestnut eyes.

  She excused herself from a group of visitors and approached us, smiling shyly but sincerely. John introduced us and told her how we came to be there. Genuinely pleased, Pascal offered to show us around. We got the grand tour of the facility, from the cellars to the ceilings, with Pascal answering my questions while Hannah shot photos left and right.

  We ended up in the tasting room where John awaited with samples of their wine. After so much talk, Hannah couldn’t wait to taste Camille’s Pinot Gris. John explained to us how the Pinot grapes have a tendency to lose their delicate natural flavors and their natural acidity (which, in the case of such gentle grapes, ought to be called crispness) if they ripen too quickly or, even worse, over ripen. Thanks to longer summer days extending well into late fall and cool latitudes, the Willamette Valley climate is perfect for the best development of such grapes. The conversation got technical as we discussed levels of residual sugars, malolactic fermentation, and the singular phenomenon of the Pinot Gris grapes having a tendency to emulate their soil and regionality. The French call this notion “terroir.” It loosely translates as “taste of the earth,” a concept that tries to explain why the same varieties, grown the same way but in different places, end up tasting different.