Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series)
Page 35
John believed in leaving his Pinot Gris the hell alone, no malolactic fermentation and no oak. He fermented his wine cold in stainless steel, got it in the bottles, and voilà, all done. The result was bright, clear aromas with the spice reaching the nose, and at the end of the palate a lush but clean sense. After all, it’s Pinot, not Chardonnay; no buttery, oaky flavors but fruity, crisp, refreshing. “Not a wine to be masticated,” he commented confidently. Hannah abruptly stopped sloshing it around her chipmunk-inflated cheeks.
I had enjoyed it in Miami and with my girlfriends a few nights back, but now I truly appreciated it. Almost disappointed, Hannah thought it too zesty, almost tangy. We moved on to try the Pinot Blanc, which I found, in turn, a bit too fruity, though I did appreciate the creamy-textured structure, tasting traces of vanilla on the finish. Of course, Hannah loved it. We tried the winery’s Pinot Gris Reserve—made from his oldest vines and best grapes—last, and John’s eyes twinkled as he filled our glasses. I took a sip. This one embodied a totally different profile than the crisp freshness I had tasted in the first Pinot Gris. Extremely fruity but not cloying, with a rich texture that wasn’t in the least overpowering, it held a lingering, warm, spicy finish topped off at the very end with a whiff of smoke. Intriguing varietal characteristics indeed!
I ended up buying two bottles of the Reserve and two bottles of the Pinot Gris. Pascal, readjusting her pink barrette, cast John a conspiring look and offered us hospitality for the night. After just a moment of hesitation, we accepted.
I spent the rest of the evening with Hannah walking outdoors among the grapevines. Occasionally, the sky took a break from the constant misty drizzle, allowing her to take additional photos in better light.
With Pascal and John we shared a simple but regal pear and cheese salad for dinner, accompanied by their delicious Pinot Gris. I helped Pascal clean up after dinner while Hannah excused herself to take advantage of the lingering daylight and a break in the clouds to snap some more photos.
Sensing my need for some rest after such a long day, Pascal led me upstairs to a guestroom and bathroom. She graciously made sure I didn’t need anything else and wished me goodnight. Grateful for some privacy, I took a warm bath and washed the day off my tired body. A sunset streaked the valley, tingeing the river waters with deep purples and oranges.
I must have been really tired, for I fell asleep right away while daylight still lingered outside, with a brief kiss sent out to meet Gabe in his adventure.
*
With my body set on Florida time I woke up early. I bundled up in flannel pajamas and thick socks and went to work at my laptop, entering all the information I had gathered the previous day. When my stomach begged for coffee I took a quick shower and slipped into a clean pair of jeans, boots, and a heavy, fitted, black silk blouse I don’t wear often in Florida because it’s so warm. At the last minute I clasped the amber pendant around my neck.
I found John, Pascal, and Hannah in the kitchen engulfed in the juicy aroma of frying bacon. I sat at the table with them and poured myself a steaming cup of coffee, added cream and loads of sugar, and took a sip. They offered me a simple but delicious breakfast of eggs, hand-cured bacon, and toast. I asked John if he knew of anybody who made Pinot Noir in the area. I specified that I wanted a smaller, off-the-beaten-path winery where I could find a gem or two for my article.
“I don’t know how he’s gonna take the idea of his wine in a major publication—” John peered at me over his spectacles, “but just about an hour and a half south there’s a place called ToeKnight Cellars. They might have what you’re looking for.”
I wrote down his directions while Hannah traced the route on our map. We thanked our hosts for the warm hospitality and set off in search of this promising destination.
John told us the scenery would indeed be incomparably nicer if, instead of the highway, we decided to follow his instructions for secondary roads.
Above us the sky still looked undecided whether to give us drizzle or a sun break. Hovering clouds lazily collided against one another reminding me of trapped cows on a moving cattle trailer. But all around us the landscape sparkled brilliant, verdant, and luscious. I guess it pays to get so much rain. I had never seen so much green all at once. Hill after hill, valley after valley of it unrolled, ever shifting. Emerald fields swayed gently under the encouraging breeze. Rows and rows of endless, bursting grapevines sloped vibrant hills; I bet they shone like real gems when the sun kissed those leaves. In the far distance the stark silhouette of forest-covered mountains sawed a jagged line across the blue horizon. I rolled down my window as we passed a grove of evergreens. It smelled like Christmas.
“Douglas fir,” Hannah told me. She pointed at more trees coming up the road. “Those are hemlocks.” She cast a sidelong glance at me. “Don’t see many of those down in Florida, huh?”
“No, we don’t,” I said, inhaling deeply with my nose out the window.
In a small town named McMinnville we stopped to fill up the car, and I read a sign advertising for the Oregon Wine Tasting Room.
“What do you think, Hannah?” I asked her, pointing at the billboard.
“It won’t be your secret ace, but it’s worth a quick stop,” she answered, smiling.
Chased by the sky’s decision of more rain, we rushed back to the car and headed southwest on Highway 18. We found the tasting room in no time.
We parked the car beneath a welcome sign announcing not only a tasting room, but a farmers’ market as well. What had begun as drizzle now mutated into persistent rain; we ran inside. I checked my boots to make sure my feet were still dry, and Hannah whistled, “These people mean serious business.”
The place echoed the hollow enormity of certain primitive caves. Only this cave had mutated into an impeccable and well-stocked cellar featuring rows and rows of wines. I grabbed a visitor’s pamphlet and read that the place featured over 150 wines from over seventy Oregon wineries.
Hannah fidgeted with her camera lenses and flagged down a young man to ask permission to take photos.
“By all means,” he replied, smiling.
I walked up to one of the several displays and began to read labels. Mostly Pinot Noir from Willamette and Yamhill, Syrah, and a few bottles of—surprise, surprise!—Sangiovese from the Columbia Gorge. In the crowded space I felt like one of the trapped cows I’d thought of earlier. Colliding with rain gear-shrouded patrons, I worked hard to reach each station. I found Chardonnay and Pinot Gris; I looked for La Maison de Pascal and didn’t see it. Then I stumbled upon the dessert wines and lingered over an interesting label of Pinot Gris Vin Glace. Used to not judging a book by its cover, I asked for a tasting. By its stem, I held the glass up to the light and admired the warm honey overtones. I dipped my nose in and finally took a sip: fruity, almost like a cobbler, filled with Cameo apples, peaches, and a hint of cinnamon aromas. Hannah would really like this, I thought, looking around for my companion. Only a few feet behind me, she was sipping from a glass of dessert wine as well. I asked for a second tasting and called up to her, “You would like this one, Hannah.” I raised the glass.
“Here, let’s trade,” she said, handing me her glass.
I tried it and thought of poached pears stuffed with Gorgonzola cheese, and walnuts. Not that the wine tasted like poached pears, but it would marry well with such a dessert. It presented a little too honey-ish on the palate for me, but rich nonetheless. I walked back to the Pinot Noirs and browsed for ToeKnight Cellars. Quite pleased, I didn’t find it.
Cradling a couple of bottles, Hannah reached me at the cash register. Her pleasant smile told me it had been fun. One more surprise met us outside: no more rain. The earthy scent of upturned soil enriched the air and held a lightness incomparable to Florida’s humid breezes. I offered to drive, but Hannah declined, assuring me she was just fine to continue.
By early afternoon I began to think about food whe
n a brightly painted sign on the edge of the road announced our destination. Inside a grape-filled vat, a smiling knight in full armor danced with bare, oversized feet, splattering purple mosto all over the sign. With the engine still humming, we stopped for a few seconds to enjoy the jovial, contagious energy of the barefooted knight. We grinned at each other and drove on. I knew Hannah shared the same intriguing feeling I had churning in my stomach. I don’t know how to explain it, but I knew without a doubt that this place made excellent wine.
Deep green—one shade shy of black—fir trees secluded the lengthy uphill driveway, barely giving us a glimpse of thriving grapevines in the background. The car wheels met gravel and a wide front yard opened suddenly in front of us. Right in the middle of a perfect spread of emerald grass stood a large fountain featuring a marble knight—twice the size of a real man—proudly holding a spear, his eyes fixed on a past lost in the distance.
A massive husky ran up to the car barking loudly. He sprang up on his hind paws and landed his front on the car hood as Hannah slammed on the brakes.
“Holy shit!” she howled, instinctively throwing an arm out to keep me from hitting the dashboard.
I could only stare at the growling, angry dog, hypnotized by his sharp fangs. His mouth foamed. Mine suddenly dried up. The space between my heartbeats immediately filled up with fear. Then, as if responding to a silent command, his ears twitched. He jumped off and sat down, still tense and suspicious.
“What a welcome,” Hannah whistled softly. Carefully, she circled the car around the majestic fountain under the dog’s watchful guard and throaty snarl.
I watched the dog stare at me through the window and wondered whether it would be best to just bail on the visit. Then we heard a voice calling the dog back. We both turned toward the sound. At first glance I thought the man to be the fountain knight come to life, standing on a wide porch that wrapped around the main house. I then realized he held a walking stick, not a spear.
Hannah cut the engine, tossed me the keys, and bowed. “After you . . .”
“Not without you as back up.” I shot her a serious glance and closed my hand around the dice key chain.
She nodded. “Deal.”
CHAPTER 32
Something eerie lingered in the air, and the feeling deepened once I left the safety of the car, colliding with a solid barrier of tangible discomfort. As if walking through the silver shards of a splitting mirror, I heard Hannah’s feet crunch gravel right behind me. Summoning a drop or two of undiluted courage, I balled my fists and reluctantly walked up to the man, now crouched to hold the dog by its collar with both hands. His walking stick leaned lifelessly against the porch railing. I looked into a rugged, unsmiling face and stumbled upon the lightest blue eyes I had ever seen. Husky eyes, just like the dog he was restraining.
A deep sense of vertigo spun me into a timeless void.When he finally broke the spell, Hannah’s soft gasp gave voice to the pang I felt, and I realized that my heart had suddenly stopped beating.
“May I help you?” he asked in a throaty whisper, exuding everything but the willingness to actually help.
With pure survival instinct, I clung to his arrogance with emotional claws, wondering why the hell I felt so defensive. Maybe I was overreacting, but my senses—especially the ones my proper self never speaks of—stirred, awakened by what I could only describe as an ancient, familiar summons.
The dog sat up and sniffed the air, as if reacting to my frenzied pheromones.
I shoved my sweat-drenched keys inside my pocket and took a step forward, subconsciously hoping not to be shocked, the air seemed so charged, and hesitantly extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Porzia Amard. I’m writing an article for Grape Expectations magazine—” I paused to read his face and gratefully noticed a hint of recognition at the mention of the magazine.
He said nothing but let go of the dog, got up, wiping his hand on his faded jeans, and took my extended one. He looked straight into my eyes.
I felt extremely uncomfortable. No way in hell this man was gonna let us taste his wine. I struggled to continue: “This is Hannah, the photographer.” Hannah stepped forward but merely waved, since his hand still held mine.
“Hi,” she said softly, bravely attempting a smile.
Barely glancing over my shoulder at her, he acknowledged Hannah with a curt nod.
“I hope you don’t mind us dropping in like this, but John and Pascal of La Maison de Pascal mentioned your winery this morning, and I thought it would be great if I could possibly include your wines in the article we’re working on . . .”
He finally let go of my hand, but the warmth of his lingered. “La Maison de Pascal, you said?” His eyes dropped down to my neck and the amber flared alive, hot against my skin.
If a wolf could speak it would have such a voice, I thought. My fingers flew to my throat and I nodded. The stone felt scorching to my touch.
“They’re friends of the owner.” He seemed to warm up a bit. “I’m just a guest. Zach is the one running things around here. Would you like to meet him?” His features shifted seamlessly right before my eyes.
Oddio! E’ bellissimo!
“That would be great.” I exhaled and released the tension in my shoulders.
“This way.” He picked up his walking stick and leaned on it as he began to walk away, limping slightly, the husky at his heels.
Hannah hurried next to me, whispering to make sure he wouldn’t hear, “He belongs on the cover of Playgirl, not at some remote winery in the middle of frickin’ nowhere,” as she cast an arm out to our surroundings.
I felt a pang of discomfort at the thought that she found him attractive, but it disappeared before I could even begin to reason over it.
We reached a red barn with a heavy sliding door. Our mysterious host easily opened it and motioned for us to enter. It was darker inside, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light’s sudden shift until the winery’s fermenting area slowly took shape, shrouded in dimness. Bent over a thermometer, in overalls and a ball cap, an older man straightened up and looked at us curiously.
“Hey, Zach. These ladies are from a magazine and want to talk to you about the wine. John and Pascal sent them,” he said to the older gentleman.
With a skeptical smirk Zach approached us. “John sent you?” he asked, accepting my extended hand.
“Yes. I’m Porzia and this is Hannah.”
“Which magazine?”
“Grape Expectations.”
“I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed and smacked his leg.
More at ease, I finally managed a genuine smile. “John makes great Pinot Gris. I asked him about someone in the area who made great Pinot Noir, and he recommended you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You just drove down?”
I nodded. “We stopped at the Oregon Wine Tasting Room on the way.”
“We’re not featured,” he grinned.
“So I noticed,” I grinned back.
He scratched his ball cap, then, not satisfied, sneaked a finger under the cap and really scratched. The ball cap bobbed back and forth, precariously hanging up there. He resettled the cap down his forehead and grinned again. “I’m Zechariah ToeKnight, but you can call me Zach.”
It was my eyebrows’ turn to shoot straight up. “Your last name is ToeKnight?” I heard Hannah behind me stifle a chuckle.
“Yep. Waddayathink? That I dreamt the catchy name up one starry night?”
I laughed. The guy had great self-irony. “I guess you were blessed from birth.”
“Or doomed.” He laughed, spreading his arms. “What else could I have gotten into with a name like that if not wine?”
“Wine is a great business to get into,” I stated.
“I agree,” Hannah chimed in.
“Is wine a great business?” Zach turned to ask our mysterious guide.
“That’s right!” Zach approved. “How about a bite, young ladies?”
Hannah and I exchanged glances. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Sounds like a great idea,” Hannah replied for us both.
“Ya coming?” Zach asked the mysterious guest.
“No, thanks. I ate already.”
“Fair enough.”
Via a well-manicured grass path, we reached the house’s back door. Zach took a moment to wipe his muddy boots on a porcupine-shaped brush and then, with a wink, he opened the door, and we stepped into a cozy family room where a fireplace crackled happily beneath a mantel adorned with an abundant spread of family photos.
“My wife should be in the kitchen. Let’s surprise her,” he said. With the look of a mischievous child about to start trouble, he tiptoed up to a tall woman washing dishes by a deep sink. He grabbed her waist, swept her in his arms, and swirled her around. With soapy hands fluttering suds like snowflakes, she screamed, kicking her feet, and finally landed laughing. Thrilled with the result, Zach introduced us to his ‘Missus’ and told her we were from Grape Expectations. Her hands shot up to her plump cheeks.
“La Maison de Pascal sent them down,” Zach added.
“And how are John and Pascal?” she asked, delighted.
“Doing great, from what we saw,” I told her.
Pleased with my answer, she got busy with a tray of cheese and tomatoes, country ham, roast beef, dark bread, and a platter of—believe it or not —juicy Mission figs. The kind with thin purple skin and crimson pulp I could die over and just about did right on the spot.