Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (35 page)

I shook my head. “No.” I looked at her, turning the question around. “Would you take child pornography photos for a million dollars?”

She cast me an obscure glance I had a hard time interpreting. “No. But I wonder
who
would pay
what
to know about that handsome fellow hiding up there.”

I looked at her. “Do you think he’s famous? Do you know who he is?”

“No, I don’t.” She brought the car to a stop to read a road sign indicating McMinnville to the north, Albany to the south and Salem to the east. “How about you? Did you recognize him?”

“No,” I answered curtly. “Which way now?” I could feel her eyes studying me intently as I pretended to look left and right.

“How about Salem? I know a small country inn where we could spend the night. It’s not too far from here. I don’t know how tired you are, but if we see something else that interests us on the way we could stop if you’d like.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Salem. Benedetta would be proud. Fancy how no esoteric endeavor had tinged this trip yet. I touched my amber, thought of
his
eyes . . . and reconsidered.

F
rom a glass of wine in Miami to the hills of Oregon to the winemakers themselves, I journeyed in quest of the source of liquid passion. A successful winemaker holds the secret to the fascinating alchemy necessary to bottle passion. Once a bottle is opened, it’s a magical experience to see this passion pour into the glass, to anticipate the aromas in the colors of a job well done. When they finally explode in the mouth, all the elements swirl into place in a complex dance. From the fiery heat of the sun . . . to soil, wind, and rain . . . earth, air, and water . . . all are spellbound into a perfect liquid potion.

As I wrote my article in the privacy of my room at the Salem Country Inn, I realized that my words were infused with magic. I lifted my fingertips to touch the amber still hanging around my neck.

Was magic still dwelling?

I saved my words, turned off my laptop, and went to bed wearing only the pendant.

I slept soundly and woke up with a vague memory of dreaming about wolves. I rubbed my eyes and stretched slowly. I looked out the window and couldn’t believe my eyes. The sun! Shining! A few clouds lingered around, but I could tell it was going to be a gorgeous day.

After a light breakfast, we hit Interstate 5 north and branched right outside of Portland to go east. Thinking about the Oregon Wine Tasting Room and the Sangiovese from the Columbia River Gorge, I had told Hannah that we should head up there next.

We left the highway, followed the directions I had gotten off the billboard, and climbed up until we reached a plateau at an elevation of about 800 feet. The sun ruled strong up there and it felt great to step out of the car. The pure air welcomed us to River Gorge Vineyards. The difference between a winery and a vineyard is that the vineyard grows grapes to sell to the wineries where the wine is actually made. What intrigued me about this particular vineyard was the fact that it supplied local producers with the Sangiovese I had seen at the tasting room and, amazingly, Barbera grapes as well.

My article was going to be a lot more interesting than expected. I had so many questions. We ended up spending most of the day right there with Mike Olson, the owner of River Gorge, and some of his helpers. Hannah came and went, snapping photos left and right. We tasted a few finished wines that Mike had gotten back as presents from some of the wineries that had bought his grapes. One particular bottle from a small winery across the river caught my attention: Wind Bluff Sangiovese and I asked Mike if he would be willing to sell me a couple of bottles.

“I won’t sell it,” he said seriously, “but I’ll give it to you.”

After thanking him for everything, we finally headed on our way. I held on to the Wind Bluff bottles while Hannah tucked away half a dozen rolls of film. We’d skipped lunch, and the day was almost over. We decided to turn around and drive back to Portland, and Hannah graciously invited me to stay at her place for the night.

*

The following morning, with heavy clouds hanging daringly low, my plane took off in a turbulent effort and was soon soaring above the clouds. The sun shone bright all the way home as I fidgeted with my laptop. Hannah had wanted me to choose the photos I’d like to have printed along with my words and to assemble the piece. I thought the magazine editors would do that as usual. But Hannah firmly believed otherwise.

“I’m sure in the end they’ll have the last word, Porzia, but we did this together. We shared the experience and the energy. I’d like my photos to echo your words and our feelings about the whole trip,” she told me on the way to the airport.

We had agreed she would send me everything she thought might be worth considering and then we’d decide what we would send along with my article to the magazine.

I worked all the way back to Florida. I declined airplane food and drank only apple juice and water. By the time I landed in Pensacola I was famished.

Benedetta waved at me as I emerged from the jetway. “You look horrible,” she commented, hugging me.

“Nice to see you, too!” I groused. My empty stomach was making me grumpy.

“Bumpy flight?”

“No, just starving,” I grumbled.

“Well, we can fix that. I forgot your cat at home, so we can swing by Central Market and eat.” Benedetta reached for the wine box.

“Oh, that sounds great! Thanks!” I said, feeling a little guilty about postponing seeing my kitty. Food over pet; my stomach made up my mind.

We drove downtown on a beautiful September afternoon, the summer mugginess just a memory swept away by the salty breezes.

Central Market used to be just that, the market where all the local restaurants bought their produce, seafood, and meats. Now the market is a thing of the past, but the name still stands on a small restaurant serving the best salads and sandwiches around.

We parked and climbed the few steps up to the dining area. I wasn’t dressed for warm weather and kept peeling layers off as we seated ourselves on the front porch overlooking a small marina down below.

Benedetta ordered her usual seafood salad, and I asked for the crab cakes. We always order the same dishes and then share. They know us by now and bring extra plates automatically, along with a chilled carafe of the house white. I have no idea what it is. Joe, the owner, won’t tell me, but both Benedetta and I love it.

“So, now that you’re stuffing your face—,” Benedetta asked me, while I tried folding half a crab cake into my mouth, “how was your trip?”

I chewed the heavenly, oversized morsel and took a sip of wine before replying. “It was a lot of fun; a lot of incredible scenery, a lot of wines, and a handful of great winemakers deserving a lot more recognition.”

“That’s what you were there for.”

“Give them recognition, you mean?”

“
Grape Expectations
is the gospel of wine aficionados, Porzia. Of all people, you should know that.”

“I do. And I’m actually happy about putting some of these folks in the spotlight, but I’m not sure about one of them.” I told her of Zechariah ToeKnight.

“You mean there are people out there who would rather keep away from becoming famous?”

“I mean there are folks out there that had been faring quite well on their own. People who make wine because it’s a passion.” What had the mysterious “wolf” said? I tried to remember his exact words: “The wine business is not great unless you have a passion for it. Like everything else in life,” I quoted.

“And whose words are those? Are you saying that there are still people out there not obsessed with making money? That they’re happy to just live for their passions and leave aside profit?”

I nodded but didn’t feel like sharing with her my mysterious encounter, so I steered the conversation toward safer shores. “Why are you so surprised?” I stuffed the other half of the crab cake into my mouth and waved my fork at her. “You’re one of them.”

Benedetta smiled. “Because I only teach music?”

“
Si,
” I said. “You could be out there doing concerts and recording your own music. You’re choosing to spread the word instead, as you say, touching one life at a time in your classroom. Making a lot less money than if you’d sell yourself.”

She looked at me. “You’re right. It’s just hard to believe there are others out there like me.”

“How’s your salad?” I asked her, pointing at her untouched half.

“Not as good as your crab cakes, I guess, judging by the speed you’re inhaling them at.”

“I didn’t eat anything all day.”

“Then you should probably not drink so much wine.” She moved the carafe away, out of my reach.

“It’s OK. If I drink with food, I’m fine.” I tilted my head and committed to finding the last drop at the bottom of my glass. “I wish Joe would tell me what this is.”

Benedetta chuckled. “Maybe it’s Italian-style house wine. That’s why he doesn’t tell.”

I smiled as well, remembering how I once fibbed to Benedetta about some
trattorie
way of pouring leftover wine from the evening bottles into carafes and selling it as the house white or red the following night.

“Good call, but it’s been way too consistent in taste,” I said. I felt a little lightheaded. Actually, I had a pretty good buzz going. I tossed Benedetta one of the crab cakes, leaned back in my chair, and took in the view below me. A few people had docked their boats and were climbing the narrow staircase up to the restaurant. I squinted to read the name of a sleek yacht moored at the end of the main dock and couldn’t focus.

Hic!
I hiccuped, looked at Benedetta, and saw two of her. I heard thunder in the distance, but the sky looked pretty clear to me.

“I think I’m tipsy.” I hiccuped again.

“You are?”

“I hear thunder.”

She looked up. “It’s the Blue Angels flying above us.”

“Oh! I’m not
that
drunk then.” I smiled at her and took a bite of seafood salad. It was delicious. I gave Bene the rest of the crab cakes and finished the salad. My head cleared up a bit, but I still felt tipsy.

We paid the bill and got back in the car. We drove to my place where she helped me unlock the door and take my shoes off as I climbed into bed. She pulled the sheets up to my chin and told me she would be back shortly with my cat.

I fell asleep right away.

I didn’t hear her come back with Peridot, but I felt his purring against my neck as he settled on the bed and fell asleep with me.

*

Waking up with that incredibly satisfying feeling of knowing I didn’t have anything to do, I stretched and looked out the window, wishing it was raining. That would have been a perfect morning: rain outside and nowhere to go. I reached over to grab Peridot, still asleep against my back, and flipped him over to scratch his chin.

“
Buongiorno, micio,
” I greeted him.
He slit open a swampy-looking pupil and immediately re-closed it to better focus on the feeling of my nails on his cheeks.

I was feeling pretty content to just lie there, until something caught my eye on my nightstand. I shot out of the blankets and grabbed my key chain. A single die hung amongst my keys. I looked on the floor, idiotically believing the other one might have somehow rolled down there, somewhere. I jumped up and made for the front door, remembering that Bene had helped me unlock the previous night, and I felt a surge of inexplicable fear at the thought that I had lost one of the dice. It could be all the way back in Oregon for all I knew, perhaps in Zach ToeKnight’s yard. In a vision I saw the piercing, crystal eyes of the mysterious guest. Spellbound, I watched him lean forward, sided by the husky, to pick up my die, almost buried in a spread of gravel.

I opened my fist and stared at the remaining die in my hand. It stared right back at me.
One.

A subtle, fleeting longing began to dull my heart. I shook it off and wondered if Gabe had made it back yet. Clark had said about a week . . .

I ran to grab the phone only to notice that the answering machine was blinking at me. I hit play and heard his voice asking me about my trip and to call him back.

I dialed his number, frantically adding hours randomly in my head, concluding that it was probably late at night there. I hoped I wasn’t calling too late but then heard his voice answer.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hey, luv! How you going?”

“Great! I’m home and glad I caught you.”

I heard him laugh. “Me too.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I grinned. “I meant
awake
, but how are you?”

“Knackered, about ready to fall asleep.”

“Busy day?”

“Can say that again. Busy bloody week.”

“I won’t keep you then.”

“No worries. I like talking to ya. How was your trip?”

“Went great. I’m almost finished with the article. I actually worked on it on the plane flying back yesterday. Now I just have to choose some photos and send it in.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yes, it was intense. A lot of driving, but interesting. Found a couple of great undiscovered places I’m featuring. One for Pinot Gris and the other for Pinot Noir.”

Peridot stretched to sniff the phone and purred loudly.

“What’s that?”

“The cat. Purring.”

“I just love how you say ‘purring’ with those
R
’s rolling.” His voice stroked my skin like fingers.

“Puuurrrring.”

“Tease.”

I heard him groan. “
Moi?
”

“Wait until you get here.”

“Oh, you’re gonna make me wait,” I crooned innocently.

“Don’t push it.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“That’s right. You’re . . . what’s the word you used? Knackered—that’s it. You wanna go to sleep,” I chuckled, turning the knife in the wound. “Didn’t mean to keep you . . . ahem . . .
up
.”

I heard him laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“I can’t wait to see you too,” I said only half jokingly.

“So what dates will work for you?”

“As soon as possible would be wonderful, Gabe. Especially right now. I miss you. I missed you this morning when I woke up in my bed all alone.”

“Get on a bloody plane tomorrow.”

“I wish I could, but I have things to sort out, the article to send for
Grape Expectations
, other assignments to book and perhaps even postpone so I can do this and not worry about pending stuff. And you? Working everybody to death down at the shop?”

“Got that roight. They’re mad at me. Can’t wait until you get here so I’ll be off their backs. Clark asked about you.”

“Wants to know if I’m still around?”

Gabe laughed, “Roight.”

I chuckled. “He can see for himself in a few days. Did you guys have fun?”

“Oh, heaps of fun!” he said. “The car we sponsored got a good placement. We didn’t win, but just to be able to be there was bloody great!”

“How long did it last?” I asked him, infected by his enthusiasm.

“About a week of real racing, but a few days longer if you consider the getting-things-going time.”