Entrainment: Among the Cloud Dwellers

Chapter 7

I slept like a baby for the rest of the night and woke up at the sound of heavy rain tapping against the window. The room hummed, warm and cozy. My eyes lazily followed rivulets of rain weaving erratic patterns along the glass pane. I didn't want to get up. I could have spent the rest of my morning under the blankets, snoozing off and on. I wondered about breakfast in bed but decided against it. After a quick search through my luggage for clothes, I wrapped my still-damp hair in a low bun and went looking for coffee. I followed the sound of laughter and the scent of strong coffee to the dining hall, where I found the gathered family enjoying a buffet worthy of Pantagruel. The rustic table almost bent under such abundance. Three baskets of wheat, rye, and sunflower seed country breads exchanged hands over a soundtrack of chatter, laughter, and silverware clatter.

Nicolas noticed me first. With a flamboyant "G'day," he stood, bowed, and offered the chair next to his.

"Thank you and good morning," I greeted everybody, accepting the seat.

Frank sat at the head of the table opposite Beverly and nodded at me. Ronnald and Luke smiled as they simultaneously handed me serving platters of fluffy scrambled eggs laced with chives and wild mushrooms, grilled lamb chops with mint sauce, roasted new potatoes with rosemary and sage, and the breadbaskets.

Nicolas poured me a cup of steaming coffee, pushed away the Vegemite jar, and almost miraculously handed me cream and sugar.

Beverly quietly nurtured a steaming tea mug, her arms propped on her chair armrests, her rust-colored cashmere sweater only a shade darker than her cheerful freckles. "I trust you slept well, my dear?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes, I slept great, thank you," I replied, helping myself to some of the eggs and spearing a lamb chop with the serving fork.

"How was your trip?" Frank asked, waving an empty mug under Nicolas's nose. Biting into an oversized, generously buttered slice of rye bread, the cheerful kid promptly refilled it for his father with both hands.

"Long, but I was able to sleep for quite a while. Thank you for asking."

"Well, we have a long day ahead of us. If you'll excuse us, Porzia-I reckon if you need anything, Beverly will be able to assist you. Also, you're welcome to join us down in the cellar for a private sampling later on, if you'd like." He stood as I nodded, taking his mug with him. The boys followed, saying good-bye. Nicolas winked and grabbed one last lamb chop on his way out.

Beverly watched them leave in pensive silence.

I tasted the food. The eggs were excellent. It might not seem like such a difficulty but to make good scrambled eggs actually takes a measure of skill. It took me ages to finally manage a decent outcome and Benedetta still makes better ones, although that's all she can cook. One can't hurry the cooking or over-beat the eggs. I know several chefs who actually separate the yolks from the egg whites. They then beat the whites into soft peaks and fold in the yolks after slightly whisking them with some whole milk, salt, and freshly ground white pepper. The result is a heavenly explosion of lightness in the mouth.

The sunflower seed bread tasted great with the fantastic eggs. It stood on its own with no need for butter. I had just about wiped my plate clean before I even reached for my mug to sip some coffee. Yes! Strong and sweet.

Beverly poured herself more tea, added milk, and stirred in some sugar. "It's indeed a pleasure to see you again, Porzia," she said, raising her cup to her lips where it steamed up her galaxy of freckles. "You've been making quite a name for yourself in the gourmet world and international wine circles. I have been following your articles, and I know it was quite a challenge to book you for this event, but I wouldn't want anybody else to have the exclusive coverage of the presentation. We're delighted to have Desmond Tanier as the photographer. You probably remember him from Barossa. He'll be arriving later tonight. Driving from Melbourne, he is." Beverly chuckled at her own last remark.

Desmond Tanier looks like the ear Van Gogh cut off.

He established his own recognition during the Vietnam War, risking his life taking pictures of things nobody back home wanted to know about. His work earned him several prizes. He took to drinking, though and shifted his skills to make a living taking pictures of his favorite subject: alcohol. He's a legend, if not just because people can't seem to figure out if he's dead or still alive. I had worked with him on several previous occasions, and I do believe he is alive; seldom sober, but alive.

"How did you manage to book him?" Helen had graciously warned me of his potential presence. I knew how irreverent and outrageous he could be.

"He gave Frank his business card back in Barossa, told him anybody who wins a prize for excellent wine has earned a special place in his heart. So I called him up and told him about the Shiraz and that you'd be writing the article. He seemed quite fond of you." Beverly's bright green eyes sparkled just short of twinkling.

I looked at her and caught the light beaming from the window rearranging the freckles on her nose.

"He's fond of me because I owe him a bottle of Scotch," I clarified, laying my linen napkin on the table.

Beverly's eyebrows shot up, questioning.

"I lost a bet. I owe him a bottle but haven't seen him since. He just wants me to pay my debt." I smoothed out the napkin creases with my fingers.

"Indeed. And how's that charming young man who accompanied you at Barossa? What was his name? Steve, I believe?"

"Last I heard he was on his way to California for a sous-chef internship somewhere in Napa. We're no longer together," I shared, with a lot less pain than I had expected to feel. How surprising. What relief.

"Oh dear, I didn't mean to pry or bring up painful memories for you, sweetie," she said, concerned. Her hand reached out to mine over the napkin.

"No need to apologize," I told her. "It's been long enough, and I'm over it." I tried to smile but failed.

"Has it been that long already since we met at Barossa?"

"Over a year." I thought of all the water that had passed under my daily bridges, carrying the debris of memories and events out to sea.

*

I had met Steve at Seville Quarter, a local hangout in downtown Pensacola, during a spring break from my journalism program up in New York.

I wasn't looking for love. I wasn't looking for anything but some time off for life and relaxation. I guess that is always when love finds you: when you're not looking. When all your energies, or what is left of them, are focused on just going your merry way.

I remember it had rained earlier and the New Orleans-style courtyard was still damp, smelling sweetly of night jasmine. Citronella lanterns kept the mosquitoes at bay. I could hear my hair begging for mercy, struggling as the humid air turned my curls into a frizzy mop. Perseus would have chopped my head off instead of Medusa's had he seen me that night.

Steve had just moved from England on an exchange program to train as a pastry chef at Chez Jacques in New Orleans. Chez Jacques is the only French pastry school worth attending in this country, according to Monsieur Jacques himself, naturellement! He was visiting some friends in Florida when I met him, using them as guinea pigs for his culinary experiments. They were gaining weight by the minute.

I loved his British aplomb. I loved how that night he never commented on my messy hair, how it took him forever to ask me to dance, how candidly he told me he was trying to find things to say because he didn't want the evening to come to an end. It all attracted me.

I fell in love with Steve and the Florida Emerald Coast.

After culinary and sommelier schools, and my first serious assignment to the Chianti region for Bacchus Grapeyard magazine, I moved down to Pensacola. Steve and I became inseparable, sometimes driving the three hours between us just to have an evening together.

He brought me Peridot one stormy evening. That night we shared choux filled with Chantilly cream covered in chocolate ganache. We made love outside under a starry velvet blanket, and I toyed with the idea of marriage.

That was eons ago and things changed.

He never asked me to marry him. My assignments took me all over the world, and he started resenting my success. He dove headfirst into his job, trying to prove he was just as good at what he did as I was. In the process, he won several national prizes for Chez Jacques, but his successes were never enough and by then he was addicted to the challenge of working harder and harder. Pretty soon the uniform shrank a couple of sizes too small, the jealousy mounted, and he hit the wall. He quit. He had never hinted at his dissatisfaction, but when he moved in with me, things took a turn for the worse.

I still loved him at that point. Hell, I loved him for months after we broke up. But he didn't want my help. He slumped into depression and blamed it on everything but himself.

It was right after we got back from Barossa. That trip is the last good memory I have of us together.

He couldn't stop drinking -I even caught him throwing empty bottles of whiskey into the neighbor's trash one evening-and he blamed me. His envy of my blossoming career and my hard work left such a bitter aftertaste, I could not help him. My words fell like deaf stones into the waters of his drunken stupor. He chose to keep on drinking; no matter how much pain he caused us. But there was nothing I had done to bring this on. He was battling his own private demons.

My help rejected, my love useless, I slipped into co-dependency. I hated myself. I loved him. I hated myself for loving him.

And then it happened. I caught him cheating and told him to leave. We had been together for over five years. He never forgave me.

I was heartbroken.

Ask Evalena. She was there and caught the tail end of the comet.