“What are you doing standing there like a freeze-frame? Have you got any coffee?”
I took a few steps, not trusting my legs, and pointed at the kitchen. She walked in and began to open and slam shut cabinet doors until she finally found a canister of Illy and began making us espresso. I followed and leaned against the doorframe. Forgive my cowardice, but I was scared to death. Then, realizing it wasn’t all fear I felt, I mumbled an apology and rushed to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I ended up washing my face, brushing my teeth, and even made a futile attempt to comb my hair, finally throwing the brush back in the basket. The smell of fresh espresso beckoned me back into the kitchen, the need for it stronger than my unjustified fear of Camille. I set my shoulders straighter and crossed the line.
“How much sugar do you take?” she asked.
“Three,” I responded sheepishly, dropping my shoulders involuntarily.
She didn’t flinch but handed me a cup. She took a sip of hers and nodded approvingly. “I guess there’s a man behind this?” she asked, widely gesturing a perfectly manicured hand.
“Camille—” I cupped my coffee with both hands, summoning courage. “What are you doing here?”
“Protecting my interests, of course.” She used a tone that openly diagnosed me with acute idiot syndrome.
“Your interests?” I dared.
“Helen got no answer for the last week. No machine, no way to contact you. You don’t even have a cell phone, and according to her you haven’t checked your e-mail in ages.”
“The thought that I might have been out of the country didn’t cross your mind?” I asked sarcastically.
She swatted at my sarcasm with her imperious hand. It dropped like a stiff fly. “You’ve gained my trust with your professional demeanor. You always leave your answering machine on or a phone number where we can reach you. I even have your parents’ number in Italy, Porzia. Not this time. This time you disappeared. Until I spoke to an extremely distressed Oscar and he finally broke down and told me you’re dating Gabe Miller.”
“Not anymore,” I hissed.
“That’s none of my business.” She tilted her head back to catch the last drops of her espresso. “Until now.”
“What do you mean?
“We’re going forward with Scoop, Porzia. Oscar has accepted. He’s been trying to reach you for the past week or so. Then he heard the news about Miller going to race again and called me. I put two and two together and flew up.”
“I see,” I said, finally taking a sip of espresso. Colder, but it still tasted great. “You make good coffee, Camille.”
“Nonsense. Anybody can make good coffee with a Moka and the brand you use.” With totally unexpected tenderness Camille leaned forward and tucked a rebel strand of hair behind my ear. “Go jump in the shower, Porzia. We’ve got business to discuss.”
*
As if I give a shit, I thought as I walked back to the bathroom. My suitcase stood in a corner of the bedroom still unpacked. I kicked it.
I walked into the bathroom, making a point of avoiding the mirror. I quickly peeled off my—by now contaminated—pajamas and turned the shower on.
My skin tingled under the welcomed pelting. I turned the shower jet to full blast and felt my body drink in the moisture like a parched plant soaking in the year’s first rainfall. I lathered my hair with invigorating rosemary shampoo and rinsed it thoroughly before applying a generous amount of conditioner. Ten minutes later, I had almost entirely restored my human status. I changed into some clean clothes, combed my hair thoroughly, and walked back into the kitchen. Fearless, this time.
Camille was speaking to someone on her cell phone, nervously swinging a high-heeled foot back and forth.
“Yes, Helen, go ahead. I’ll catch you later.” She hung up without saying good-bye, folded her phone shut, and smiled at me. “Don’t you feel better?”
I nodded and sat down and took a look around my kitchen. “I would offer you something to eat, but I’m afraid I’ve got nothing,” I apologized, passing a hand through my wet hair.
“Don’t worry. I ate on my way from the airport, and I won’t stay long.” She got up, walked to the front door, and disappeared outside for a few minutes. Peridot followed her to the door and peeked out the curtain to see. Just as curious, I wondered if she had left when I heard her heels clicking back up the stairs.
“I had to tell Ambrose to just park it for a bit, but not to get too comfortable. We’re going as soon as you and I are finished,” she said, breathless. A thin attaché case snapped open under the light touch of her sharp vermilion fingertips. She handed me an official-looking folder and sat down.
“It’s a contract, Porzia.”
“I don’t—”
She raised a hand silencing me. “No need to decide this minute. I just thought you might like some news other than what you’ve been dealing with.”
“Oh—”
“I’m on my way to New Orleans for a week or so. I would like an answer by the end of the week.” She paused, and I worried she would ask me to come along.
“Who’s Ambrose?” I asked her instead.
“My driver; you met him in Miami.” She smiled. “I flew up and had him meet me here. I absolutely detest flying into New Orleans.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He drove up from Miami? So you wouldn’t have to fly into New Orleans?”
Camille tilted her head and cast me a piercing look confirming my acute idiot condition. “He ought to be grateful to you for being such a pressing matter and on my way. So he was spared my tedious company almost all the way up.”
Leave it to her to make you feel like anything she did, you owed her.
*
Once she left, I wondered if I really wanted to be subjected to her as a boss. I closed the door behind her, catching a glimpse of Ambrose and a shiny black Cadillac. I walked back to the kitchen and opened the folder. I sat down while Peridot rubbed against my legs and finally jumped on the table to lie on the spread-out contract. I scooped him in my arms—a dead weight like only cats can manage—settled him on my lap, and read on.
Everything she had promised during the meeting was listed, from my collaboration with Oscar to the monthly column and the quarterly featured article. She hadn’t left anything out. Salary, special bonuses, deadlines, and penalties were all listed, including a special clause saying I was free to live anywhere I wanted and to continue with my freelance career.
I wondered if I needed a lawyer as I flipped pages looking for fine print.
There wasn’t any. The contract was everything I had been working toward these past years as a freelancer: the security of a steady income doing what I loved, not to mention the freedom I would still be able to enjoy. Camille must have considered this thoroughly.
How ironic, I thought, now that I can’t really appreciate it.
I got up, gently dropped Peridot back on the chair, and walked to the bedroom where I plugged in the phone and dialed Oscar’s number at Gusto in New York. His secretary paged me through instantly, making me realize he must have been worried sick.
“Porzia! At last, honey!”
“Hi, Oscar.” I rubbed my third eye. The opening act of a splitting headache arrogantly throbbed inside my forehead. Rubbing wasn’t really going to help. Neither was talking to Oscar.
“Are you alright?” he asked, deeply concerned.
“No, but I don’t wanna talk about it,” I sighed. “Camille stopped by.”
“I told her not to.”
“Never mind, Oscar,” I sighed. “She left me a contract and wants an answer within a week.”
“It’s not the best of times, honey, I know.”
“Oscar, what do you know of what I’m going through?” Let’s see the extent of the damage.
“About the Oz Endurance you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Where have you been, Porzia, for the last week?” Oscar asked, incredulous. “The press has been covering the news nonstop.”
“What’s the bloody big deal?”
“Oh, nothing—just the biggest event of the end of the millennium. Besides this computer bug everybody’s yapping about,” he replied sarcastically. “The fact that your beau has decided to resume his brilliant career for such an event is raising the stakes—”
“He’s not my beau, Oscar,” I interrupted him through clenched teeth.
“My apologies,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to sound demeaning, honey, but you’ve got to admit he is a beau.”
I heard him giggle. Oscar will always be Oscar, even at the worst of times.
“Listen—,” I began as my headache shot like a ricocheting bullet behind my eyes. “I just called to say I am this close to accepting Camille’s offer and please don’t worry, I will be fine.”
“I don’t mean to pressure you as I say this, Porzia, but you are aware that without you there is no deal, right?”
“Right.”
“I’m fine with you declining,” he said. “I’m honestly OK with what I am doing and with where my life is going, although the challenge of having my own magazine is appealing. So promise me you won’t make any rash decision only for the sake of who’s involved.”
My head was pounding so loudly I saw flashes when I closed my eyes. “You have my word,” I promised him.
We left off agreeing to get back in touch with each other by the end of the week, and I told him I would call him before I spoke to Camille, no matter what I decided.
I hung up the phone and thought about calling my family. My head was begging for me to grab an ax and split it open, it hurt so much. I took some aspirin with a tall glass of water and went back to the bedroom where I shut the drapes Camille had determinedly spread open. I yanked the phone plug out of the wall and lay back down on the unmade bed.
CHAPTER 41
I ended up taking it.
The job, that is.
After a week, I finally came out of the coma I had slumped into and replugged the phone in.
Sad to say, it wasn’t that I had reached enlightenment, although after a week of fasting, I should have.
Nope, nothing so drastic or life changing.
Simply put, I got hungry.
I called my favorite deli in town and asked for a delivery of fresh bread, crab salad, a wedge of Brie, and a basket of fruit. I took a shower, opened a bottle of chilled Galestro, and, as I waited for the food to arrive, picked up the phone. I called my family first and talked to my father for the longest time. He just listened, as he usually does. I could almost picture him leaning against the heavy dresser in the hall, where the only phone in the house is kept, nodding or frowning as the conversation unfolded. He whistled softly at the mention of Gabe’s name. I finally sighed and waited for him to speak.
“Take the job. Don’t be an idiot.”
I shook my head. Straight to the point, my father will never waste words.
My mother resonated a totally different vibe.
It took a while to share it all with her, and as usual, she listened patiently. “Why is it that Prince Charming always shows up at the end of the tale, Porzia?”
“I have no idea, Mamma.”
“It’s only when the heroine is ready that love finds her. Maybe he is not your soul mate,” she sighed, but her voice held a hint of pride for my choice to embrace magic. “I remember Joséphine’s words, cara bambina mia. Do you know yourself? Or how much of your essence have you stifled in the pursuit of this love?”
I was going to have to give her questions some thought.
“Porzia, I know what your next question is going to be. I can only answer that I know for a fact that pain spilling from delusion is every bit as hard and real as pain from a true love. But your illusion of happiness has been obliterated by knowledge you’ve summoned and now need to face, conquer, and use to your own benefit.”
*
I hung up the phone somewhat revitalized, ready to face the rest of the music.
I dialed Oscar on his direct line.
“Oscar—this is Porzia. I’m in.”
He whistled softly and then giggled. “Great!”
“I don’t have much time. I’ll call you back in a couple of days. I need to reach Camille before she heads back to Miami and decides to stop back here.”
“She’s not that terrible now, Porzia.”
“Worse, but I can handle it,” I smirked.
“I need to talk to you about something I’d like you to write about for my last issue of Gusto.”
“Ok,” I told him. “I’ll call you back.”
The food arrived as I reached Helen at A’ la Carte. Thank God for cordless, I thought, carrying the bags back to the kitchen.
“Helen, this is Porzia Amard. How are you?”
“I’m doing great, Porzia. Nice to hear from you.”
“Is Camille available?” I scooped a bit of crabmeat into Peridot’s bowl. After a week of stale dry food, he deserved a treat.
“Actually, she’s still away from the office, I’m afraid. Would you like her cell phone number?”
Now that was a first. Moving up on the food chain, I thought.
“It’s not necessary, Helen; just tell her I’m accepting her offer. I’m making you a copy of the signed contract and will send it in tomorrow. I’ll keep the original as she requested.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ll set things in motion, then and pass on the news to her.” She paused before graciously adding that she would discreetly suggest to Camille not to worry about stopping on her way back from New Orleans to check on me because I ‘mentioned’ to her that I might be out of town.
“Thanks a lot, Helen. You’re precious.”
“You’re most welcome.”
I hung up the phone and took a sip of wine, debating whether to eat first or continue on with the phone calls. Food first, I decided, envious of Peridot wolfing down his share of crab. I set the table, turned on the radio, tuned it to a classical station I love, and sat down to eat my first real meal after over a week of dry cereals and frozen orange juice out of the can.
How sad.
I took my time and enjoyed every bite of zesty crab salad, crusty bread, and creamy cheese. I drank two glasses of Galestro and ended the scrumptious feast with a juicy pear and some more Brie cheese.
Who would have guessed that such a treat would end up being my last one for the longest time?
The phone rang as I wiped my fingers from sweet pear juices.
Funny how my heart knew even before answering.
“Porzia, it’s me. How you going?” Gabe’s voice kissed my ears from across the planet.
“Hi. OK, I guess.”
“I’ve been bloody worried sick.” He sounded tired.
“Yeah? Guess how I will feel for the next couple of months.” As soon as I said it I regretted it. “Look—I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did. No worries,” he chuckled. “I was expecting worse.”
“Worse?” Should I throw a tantrum or something?
“Yeah, like I’d never hear your voice again.”
“I would have called, Gabe,” I said, tired. “I just needed some time.”
“You alroight?”
“You already asked that. No, I’m not OK.” I winced. I could have held him on the phone for the next two months, keeping him away from danger.
How absurd.
I squeezed my eyes shut and exhaled, trying not to cry. If I had let myself, I would have told him I loved him, I missed him, I only wanted his arms to hold me and promise me it would all work out.
As if I had spoken out loud, he answered me. “Porzia, I know I can’t ask you�
��but if you could find the strength through this to keep in touch—it would be . . . it would mean a lot.”
I bent my head between my knees and realized I had collapsed on the floor.
“Also—please don’t keep alone.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“I mean—please keep Evalena by you.”
“Why?”
“In case I don’t make it.”
“Don’t talk like that!” I screamed, angrily wiping tears off my stricken face.
“I have to, Porzia, please understand—”
I heard him exhale, getting impatient. “Listen, this was probably a mistake. I shouldn’t have called. I just needed to know you made it home safe.”
A surging red tide of anger flared inside me. I gave up controlling my tears, my vision blurred, and I exploded, “YOU COULD HAVE BLOODY CALLED EVALENA!”
I slammed the phone down and yanked the cord so forcefully that the plug came off with part of the drywall.
DAMN MY ITALIAN TEMPER!
I changed into my running gear, threw a bottle of water, Walkman, and a small towel into my gym bag, and stormed out of the house, barely remembering the car keys and to lock the door behind me. I actually slammed it shut, almost breaking a window. I glared at the oleander and almost kicked it before jumping in the car and heading to the beach to run away from everything for as long as I could.
And I ran for an entire week.
I got up every day, shot down an espresso and a protein shake, and rushed out to run. For two and a half hours daily. I bought AA batteries, more protein shakes, water, and cat food. I never turned the TV on, never bothered with the newspapers or calling friends. Eventually, I fixed the phone plug, turned on the answering machine, and even repatched the wall . . . with toothpaste. Who needed a man?
Gabe never called back.
But a week later I received a letter.
*
Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) Page 44
