Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (7 page)

Frank had brought up several chilled bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, a pleasant surprise, for I thought Umeracha specialized in red grapes. Dark grilled country bread accompanied the soup, and a light spring greens salad dressed in raspberry-walnut vinaigrette followed. Cheeses and juicy Anjou pears completed the meal.

On some more recent occasions, the host has tended to be a bit overly concerned with me as a guest at their table. In the Jourdains’ case I was treated with respect and warmth. Through each course of supper, fine food combined with entertaining conversation flowed smoothly along the wine riverbed. I slipped into my rusty, rudimental French occasionally as Madame Framboise asked me questions and intrigued the rest of the table with her charm and humor. Frank surprised me as his reserve melted, revealing an extremely intelligent dry wit that had Desmond booming with laughter, bringing him to the verge of tears a couple of times.

After promising Madame Framboise to visit her the following afternoon for tea, I found my way upstairs, thinking about Gabe and what tomorrow would bring. A gentle tapping against my window told me it was raining outside. I quickly undressed and was soon under the covers, sound asleep.

*

I had no ground beneath my feet.

As I fell through pitch darkness, a voice commanded me to stop fighting, and I woke up suddenly, soaked in chills from a terrible nightmare. Sweat pearled my forehead, drenching the back of my hand when I wiped my soaked hair off my face. Darkness surrounded me. Fear seized me, gripping me breathless. Bitter panic curdled at the back of my throat, paralyzing me. I didn’t dare blink, swallow, or move. My heartbeat pounded like a thief caught in the blasted, trapping rubble of a bank vault, a prisoner of its own mistakes.

Scared to death, I panicked.

I had no idea what drove the fear. The images vanished on awakening, unavailable to my conscious mind. I couldn’t remember what had happened in my sleep to frighten me so, and honestly, I didn’t really try hard to recollect.

It was ages before I finally summoned the courage to reach out and turn the nightstand lamp on. I rubbed my eyes and took a sip of water. I glanced at a wooden clock faithfully ticking away and saw I had been asleep only a few hours.

Evalena had once told me that nightmares alert us to face issues that need tending. Recurring nightmares happen when we ignore such warnings. How was I supposed to face my issues if I couldn’t remember my nightmares in the first place? I don’t have bad dreams often, and I’m usually not insanely affected by them, but I had a feeling this one was going to linger like a nagging runny nose, probably until something in my living reality triggered the memory of it.

Until then I’m going to try and catch some seriously soothing sleep,
I thought, hiding my head under the pillow. I left the light on. Apparently this wayward path sometimes held no ground.

Afraid? Chi, io?

I
woke up late—extremely late. I had missed breakfast.

I grabbed some coffee and spent the rest of the morning in the kitchen with Beverly going over recipes for that evening’s menu. Desmond was out with Frank and Dom taking advantage of a break in the overcast sky to shoot outdoor photographs. I doubted we would see them until later in the evening. A flower delivery van took Beverly’s attention away from me, and I decided to start jotting down ideas for my article as I warmed up beside a scorching fire that roared in the kitchen fireplace.

Lori, a charming pixie lady who turned out to be Dom’s wife, kept me company. She answered my culinary questions in her thick Australian accent, repeating her words slowly at every puzzled look of my face.

I always marvel at a chef’s skill to match, pair, and marry flavors. I grew up with simple earthy flavors straight from the family garden, and now I know I was truly blessed since I can’t grow anything but herbs, and those merely due to Evalena’s guidance.

I went into this line of work mostly because of my familiarity with wine and quickly discovered I needed to learn at least the basics of gourmet cuisine to make a decent living. Desmond is the only human I know capable of making a living strictly on spirits.

I could manage wine pairing but in order to decide what to cook, I have to begin with the wine and then retrace my steps from there. I could never be offered gourmet choices and then match them to their ideal wines. So, I shop for wines and then I buy my ingredients and groceries based on that decision. My choices are often simple and limited to what I know best or, better yet, like to eat. I am quite aware of the fact that this is not an orthodox way of looking at it, but it works for me, and isn’t that what we do? Work with the skills we’ve got? And leave the rest to professionals I can always write about . . .

I shared all this to Lori while a symphony of intense flavors and subtle, enticing spices unraveled in the kitchen. Nutmeg and thick cream bubbled happily with butter, white wine, and black peppercorns in a deep copper skillet. The pungent scent of lamb mingled with tangy rosemary and chanterelle mushrooms seeped from the oven. Several loaves of hot country bread slowly cooled on a wire rack.

By lunchtime I was famished and extremely grateful when Beverly, Lori, and I shared
jambon
sandwiches, a delicious cherry tomato salad, and a pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade.

I finished my notes while Beverly prepared a tea tray for Madame Framboise and then eagerly followed her upstairs.

Madam’s room smelled pleasantly of chamomile and lavender. A lively fire burned in a massive stone fireplace, warming up the entire room. A pastel-yellow angora shawl fastened with a garnet brooch hugged her shoulders while a single lacquered chopstick held her upswept, silvering hair. Her bright eyes greeted us, and her hand motioned me to sit across from her in a comfy-looking sage chenille chair with a beautiful antique three-legged table set between us. She waited for Beverly to leave before she finally spoke, pouring tea. “I trust you’re enjoying yourself with us, my dear?” she inquired. Her steady hand offered me a dainty china cup filled with steaming amber liquid.

“Yes, thank you, Madame Jourdain.” I took the cup and helped myself to sugar.

“It must be difficult to shift from different weather and time zones.” Her gypsy eyes watched me attentively.

“It takes some adjustment, but I seem to manage after a few hours.” I could barely hold her gaze.

“Are you sleeping well, my dear?” She leaned forward and took my right hand in hers. She never broke eye contact with me. Her warm hands poured heat into mine like some sort of tension-relieving drug that spread its effects from my fingertips to my hand, coiled around my wrist, and slowly worked its way to my elbow, up my shoulder, and around my nerve-stiff neck. There it diluted my tension until I dropped my shoulders. I found myself relaxing and eager to confess anything, as if it were most natural to spill my secrets to an almost perfect stranger.

“I had a nightmare last night,” I told her, squeezing her hand back. Suddenly, her familiarity hit me like a distant flavor from a long-forgotten childhood memory. She was no stranger. Framboise was the living example of what Joséphine would have been if she hadn’t renounced her power.

“And you don’t remember it.”

Astounded that she had gone right to it, I could only agree. “No, I don’t. But I’m still a bit shaken.” I recalled the fear that had paralyzed me in the darkness. I swallowed hard against the bitter tide surging up in my stomach.

She let go of my hand and sipped her tea. She added sugar. I settled back in my chair, my tea untouched. The lingering chamomile scent soothed me. I felt myself slipping into a gentle trance; any apprehension I had ever felt about meeting this woman had been evaporated by the familiar magic of her divine magnetism.

“I get the impression that you’re wading through some shifting waters,” she ventured.

I nodded once, silently waiting for her to continue, still unsure of where this was leading.

“You strike me as a very realistic, rational creature . . . you believe in ingredients assembled . . .
et voilà
, there is a dish.” Her hand fluttered swiftly. “If the ingredients were a poor selection, the outcome would reflect it. But when the right combination is achieved, then the result is superb.”

I nodded again in agreement.

“All of a sudden abstract concepts are introduced into this schematic world of yours. Things are no longer either black or white. Unexplainable events, emotional tides, the past is revealing itself to you.” There went her hand again, up in the air like a flutter of wings. “But of course,
ma chère
—life is so much more profound than mere reality as it appears to our mortal eyes . . . alas, once magic stirs in your life, my dear child, you can only accept it, learn to expect it. Perhaps you can even learn to use it to your advantage—never to harm, of course.” She blinked. “Perhaps your background? Your family?
Oui
? You are part French?”

“
Oui, la famille de mon père,
” I explained.

“Bien sûr, alors ta grand-mère?”

“Oui, Joséphine Amard.”
I whispered my dearest grandmother’s name.
“Mais elle n’est pas vraiment Française, sa famille vient de l’Hongrie.
Ils sont d’origines Manouche.”

Enlightenment brightened Madam’s eyes at the mention of the gypsy Manouche tribe my paternal grandmother belonged to. She reached behind her and took a carved wooden box from the windowsill. “
Et ton nom?
”

I smiled. “
Porzia Joséphine Amard.
” I had been named after my grandmothers.

“Would you make some room on the table, dear?” she asked. She pulled a worn tarot deck out of the box.

I hadn’t seen the cards in ages; ever since I got caught snooping in Joséphine’s secret
coffre au trésor
and got such a whipping that just thinking about it still makes me cringe.

Reluctantly, I cleared the table, leaving only our teacups and saucers. Maybe it wasn’t chamomile scenting the room. Maybe it was opium.

Her hands expertly shuffled the cards. “Porzia, when is your birthday?”

“July 30th.”

She pulled the Queen of Wands out of the deck and laid it out in the center of the table, face up. At her direction, I cut the deck with my left hand. The left hand is connected to the heart, my mother once told me. That’s why you wear your wedding band on it.

Madam laid the cards in what looked like a random order to my inexperienced eyes. Two cards covered the Queen, forming a cross. I sat up, moved closer to the table, and looked down at the vibrantly colored images trying to understand the various figures upside-down. Meanwhile, what I had mistaken for a fluffy white pillow thrown nonchalantly on the massive bed caught the corner of my eye as it stretched, yawned, and unfolded itself into a huge Persian cat. Its deep emerald eyes looked at me, decided I wasn’t worthy of further attention, and commenced grooming places I will not mention.

Madame Jourdain pointed at the Queen of Wands. “This card is the significator: it represents you in the reading. Wands are backed up by the fire element, just as your zodiac sign Leo is. That is my reason for its selection.” She paused and looked at the spread. “
Ah! Le Pape!
” She indicated the first card across the Queen of Wands.

“You have had a recent revelation. Your astral connection with an ancient soul mate has been revealed to you. To be blessed with such knowledge carries responsibility for the manner in which you will use this information. You have much to learn. Free will lies in your soul-searching path, and you have the power to use this knowledge either foolishly or wisely.”

The second card completing the cross was the Magician.

“
Le Bateleur
. He represents brewing forces. Not necessarily negative, just out of the ordinary realm. Will and trust are his strengths. He is a fierce one, extremely powerful. He holds the strings and offers protection from danger. Remember, Porzia, danger is sometimes healthy, shaking us up from torpor.”

Who the hell could that be?
I tried to identify the role among the people I knew but was distracted by the beauty of the next card. A naked woman stood in a golden circle framed by a yellow-eyed snake biting its own tail.

“
Le Monde
. The World. How odd.” Madame Framboise frowned. “My intuition is incapable of reading this one at the moment.” She paused to sip her tea and scrutinized the space around me. “Someone does not want us to interfere.”

I felt like getting the hell out of there but sank my nails into the chair’s armrests instead. I cast my own intuition out there and felt my blood rush, my lineage reclaiming its power. But it was too new, too weak to breach through the mystical barrier surrounding
Le Monde
.

“You’ve met someone recently.” She caught my attention, pointing at the Two of Cups. “But perhaps influences from a recent past are still at work. The card’s advice is to be open. Keep honesty and an open heart up front, if you will. Fears and hesitation regarding new decisive steps are only lingering aftershocks of past failures. Be as childlike as possible, for only such a magic-infused demeanor will allow the ensuing cards to manifest the outcome.”

Gabe came to mind with such intensity I thought he would materialize right in front of us. Instead, what did materialize—with a loud meow—was the fluffy white cat. That he chose such an inopportune moment to jump on the table put an end to my reading. He landed on the spread, scattering Queen, Pope, Two of Cups, and the World into disarray. Then he straightened his tail, bounced off the remaining deck, and leaped to Madame Framboise’s lap, where he curled up and began to purr.

I bent to pick up fallen cards off the Persian rug.
Don’t fight . . . allow free will. Don’t resist free falling.
The echo of my nightmare ricocheted through my brain and dissolved, to be echoed by the Baci chocolate message Gabe had read to me over the phone. I looked at the cards in my hands with the momentarily delusional thought that I could figure out what they meant.

“Madame Jourdain, it seems like I wasn’t meant to find out about my future after all.”

“I guess not,
ma chère
. This is most baffling. Neige knows better than to jump on the table in such an awful manner.” She frowned at the remorseless bundle on her lap.

I handed her the remaining cards and glanced at my watch.

“I need to get going to be ready for tonight’s event.” I looked at her. “Will you be there, Madame Jourdain?”

“Why, of course, my dear child. I would love to meet the Two of Cups.” She smiled, sending a chill down my spine.

How on earth?