Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (34 page)

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.”

S
omething 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.

Leaning against a thick wooden table, with arms crossed over his chest, he shrugged and looked straight at me. “It’s not great unless you have a passion for it. Like everything else in life.” He unfolded his arms and bent to scratch the dog’s ears, breaking eye contact.

“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.

Zach, ball cap doffed, hands washed, and hair sleeked back, sat with us and uncorked an unlabeled bottle of red wine.

“Is this your Pinot?” I handed him an empty tumbler.

He nodded and poured us the thickest wine I’ve seen this side of Chianti. I expected an overbearing power but was irrefutably wrong. The wine had finesse, opening with currants and dried cherries; a well-balanced acidity followed, thanks to dried strawberries and a hint of cassis. The finish was short and clean, yet luscious flavors lingered.

I looked at Zach. “You haven’t won any awards for this yet?”

“Never bothered with it,” he shrugged and topped our glasses.

“Why not?” Hannah asked. “This is excellent.”

Zach looked at me.

“I agree,” I told him. I rolled up my sleeves. We had found our secret ace. “How long have you been making wine, Zach?” I asked as I helped myself to some food.

“My whole life. My father made wine. I followed in his footsteps.”

“Pinot Noir?”

“Is this going in the magazine?”

I nodded. “Probably, but not all of it and not as we’re saying it. I’m just getting a feeling here.”

“Fair deal,” he said. “Father didn’t care for Pinot. He had Cabernet grapes, but the final product was always average.” He looked at me. “Stuff for just the family to drink. Wine was a hobby, a passion of his, but what brought bread to the table was cattle.” He looked at both Hannah and me. Leaning on the table with an elbow, he pointed outside. “After we eat, I’ll take you two outside and show you around.”

“May I take photos?”

He pondered Hannah’s request while chewing on a piece of bread. “Of everything but our guest.”

“Agreed,” she said without any further questions.

Zach resumed his story. “In ‘Nam I met a French fellow married to one of the local gals there. He had joined the fight just to protect his own and in between dodging bullets told me about Pinot Noir. I spent long nights in filthy foxholes in the jungle surrounded by darkness. While rain pounded relentlessly on my helmet, I listened to this kid talk to me in broken English, describing summer and fall in his beloved France: hills covered in fragrant grapes, harvest time, and Pinot Noir.” Here Zach paused to take a long sip of wine. Mrs. ToeKnight pushed the fig platter under my nose; I almost wept.

“I don’t even remember how long we stuck together, but we both survived. After ‘Nam he moved his family back to France, and I went to visit him. Turned out he wasn’t really French but Dutch—born in Holland by French parents who went back and forth between the two countries. Nonetheless, he knew about grapes and hooked me up. My Missus here is his youngest sister.”

“That’s a great story, Zach. May I write about it?”

“Nope,” he said, refilling my glass. “Write about the present if you like.”

I looked at the plump woman sitting in front of me with curiosity.

Hannah got up to shoot photos.

I ate a fig, thinking about Zach’s story, then ate a second fig and a third, until I was the only one left at the table with Mrs. ToeKnight cleaning things around me. Zach and Hannah had walked outside, and I was left contemplating the thought of eating the remaining figs and the promise I had made Zach not to disclose his Vietnam tale.

Hmm . . . tough choice.

“You like my figs?” Mrs. ToeKnight interrupted my train of thoughts.

I looked up at her and smiled. “I love figs and yours are delicious.”

“Thank you,” she said. The hint of French in her words felt so familiar to my ears.

“The young man you met is my nephew,” she told me, as if explaining something I hadn’t quite grasped.

“Is that why I can’t write about him? And is that why Hannah can’t take photos of him?” She nodded, pleased, perhaps thinking I had gotten the drift, and asked me if I would like some tea.
But why were they hiding him? And what kind of secret lay behind all this?
I declined the tea and a chance to ask more questions I knew wouldn’t get answered anyway and resolved to look for Zach and Hannah instead. I found them in front of the knight statue, taking photos.

“An ancestor?” I asked Zach. Brushing mysteries aside, I had every intention to continue my interview and cast the mysterious “wolf” out of my mind.

“Naw! Just for fun,” he chuckled, dismissing the knight. “Here—let me show you the important matter.” With a brisk step, he motioned for us to follow him into the fermenting area where we found out that he did have labels for his bottles, all portraying the happy knight smashing grapes. He also had a reserve and vintage section and a lot more wine than I expected.

“People find us,” he told me, answering my silent question. “Special folks like you and Hannah. And now with your article, even more people will find us.”

“Does it please you or does it bother you, Zach?” I asked him. “You just have to say the word and I won’t mention you at all.”

“No. It’s fine. I’m kinda pleased, actually.
Grape Expectations
has an excellent reputation. I’m still in control.” He grinned at us. “If you’d like, we’re harvesting in a couple of weeks. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“I’d love to, but I have another commitment,” I said, thinking,
I’ll be in Australia in a couple of weeks.

I bought a case of Pinot Noir and Zach told me he would ship it to my address, while Hannah took a final photo of Mrs. ToeKnight waving at us from the veranda. We shook hands with Zach and asked for the correct address so I could send him a few copies of
Grape Expectations
featuring the article with his winery.

“Don’t bother. I have a subscription.” Tilting his ball cap, he bade us farewell.

We drove away in silence, close to one another physically but light years apart emotionally; our private thoughts, unfolding in distinctive paths, finally converged and met.

“What are your thoughts?” Hannah asked softly.

I shrugged, not sure I wanted to share what I was thinking with her. “I’m not sure, Hannah. I’m a bit perplexed.”

“About what?”

“How has he managed to remain anonymous for so long? His Pinot Noir is prize quality.”

Hannah agreed with me. “I don’t know much about wine, but I really liked his.”

“He seems not to care at all about fame or wealth.”

“Many people don’t.” She smiled. “I’m not one of them, but I also know I won’t do what I repute as immoral to gain status like paparazzi do, following celebrities, invading their privacy.”

“I see.”

“Would you write a fake review if they paid you enough?”