Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series)

by Giuliana Sica

  “It’s OK. I’ll hug you instead.” I gave her a nice squeeze, veering away from the green hands, and followed her into the kitchen.

  Her table displayed a battlefield. A big ceramic bowl heaping with fluffy couscous waited to be dressed with a colorful palette of veggies and roasted chicken.

  “Have a seat and excuse the mess,” she told me, resuming her parsley chopping.

  “Do you want a hand?”

  “Sure. You could chop the tomatoes.”

  I took a cluster of ripe tomatoes still attached to the vine and rinsed them under cold water. “Would you like them peeled?”

  “No, thanks, they’re organic.”

  “This looks delicious,” I told her. “I was with Benedetta and we just had some toast and coffee.” I munched on a bit of chicken.

  Evalena dumped a handful of fragrant parsley into the couscous. The bright green herb brought out the cooked grain’s pale yellow color. She added the chopped tomatoes, roasted chicken, steamed carrots halved and cut in bite-size pieces, raisins plumped up in orange juice, and bright red slices of roasted peppers. A generous pour of extra virgin olive oil went in last. She tossed everything with a large wooden spoon, added salt and fresh ground pepper, and then scooped a heaping pile into a bowl for me.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed a spoon.

  “Here.” She handed me a glass of her famous iced tea, took a seat next to me, and poured herself a glass as well.

  “We’re home alone?” I asked, looking around.

  “Rex went to check on the construction progress down in Navarre.”

  “I meant to ask you about that. How is it going?”

  “Ever so slow. We don’t even have a driveway yet.” She took a sip of the tea. “How’s the couscous?”

  “It looks delicious.” I took the first bite. I looked at her with my mouth full and gave her thumbs up.

  She grinned.

  Perhaps I ought to write an article about Evalena and the benefits of esoteric cuisine, I thought, taking a sip of her tea. Don’t get me started on her tea.

  “How’s Gabe?” she asked after giving me a chance to wolf down almost the entire bowl.

  “Fine. Made it home knackered, and his father just told me he’s following the Australian Safari with his head mechanic.” I took a long sip of tea.

  “And what is your heart telling you?”

  Accidenti! Talk about a straight-to-the-core question!

  “My heart is worried at the moment.” I looked at her, hesitating, wondering whether to share all my worries. “You mean I can talk to him through my heart?”

  Evalena smiled. “Of course you can.”

  “How?”

  “Find him in the space between heartbeats. Then fill that space with the message you want to send him. Cast it out there on the next breath, over and over until you believe it has reached him.”

  “Is this something you’ve done before?” I remembered, without knowing of the technique, I had tried something of that sort in Savannah. Perhaps magic is an innate quality.

  “Ancient tribes didn’t have e-mail, Porzia. Communicating with their hearts was—and perhaps still is—at the root of drumming. They used their hearts and their drums, beating in unison, to cast prayers, to send heavenly messages, to offer gratitude to the gods.”

  “At any given time?”

  “Well, some moments are more favorable than others, but truly speaking, I believe when he’s most present in your heart is probably the best. Don’t you think?”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Oh, you’d get there on your own,” she said, refilling my glass. “So what’s next?”

  “I’m flying to Miami tomorrow to meet with Camille Weir, the editor in chief of A’ la Carte.”

  “A business proposal?”

  “I don’t know, Evalena. I guess so,” I ventured. “She’s too professional to fly freelancers around just to impress them.”

  “Make sure to wear blue.”

  “Why?” I asked, mentally running through my closet.

  “Soothing, calming, reflective.”

  “OK, I will.”

  “Plus, I read in Cosmo it increases your chances of getting the job by twenty-seven percent.” She winked.

  “Oh! You’re impossible!” I laughed.

  She shrugged. “Any other assignments after this trip?”

  “Oregon and Washington, to check out some wineries up there.”

  “Ah! Now that’s an interesting destination.” She cast me a look that made me suspect she might have had one of her visions about my impending trip.

  “Have you ever been?”

  “Once. Mystical grounds all over up there. Great healing for a sabbatical.” She sipped her tea silently for few minutes. And then she dropped the bomb: “Porzia, how is your friend Benedetta? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet.”

  “Yes.” I took a long breath and slowly let it out. “I think you two should talk.”

  *

  Although I truly felt I had done the right thing, I drove home second-guessing my instinct.

  I opened the door and pushed Peridot back inside with one foot. I kicked my sandals off and walked straight to my wardrobe. I saw the dress Gabe had bought me in New Orleans and for a second I toyed with the idea of shocking Camille. With Evalena’s advice in mind, I pulled out an ocean-blue silk dress I’d bought in France last time I went to visit Joséphine. I eyed it critically. I had matching high-heeled sandals and a shawl that would work great with it.

  I grabbed my overnight carry-on bag and began to pack. I set my laptop aside and made a mental note to remember to add it to the bag in the morning along with my toiletries. Peridot walked into the bedroom and jumped in my open suitcase. “It’s only for one day, micio,” I told him, scratching his chin. He looked up at me through emerald slits and meowed loudly. I chuckled at his unrestrained disapproval and played with him until we ended up with the old ritual of hide and seek. It was frightening how good he was getting at it; a couple of times he startled me to the point of screams. But I had him jumping as well, his tail all fluffed up as he scurried away while I chased him. I had crawled under the kitchen table trying to grab him when the phone rang, and in the rush to answer, I banged my head on the solid wood.

  Mamma mia! Che dolore!

  I massaged what I knew would soon turn into a huge bump as I answered the phone.

  “Cheers, luv. Can you hear me?”

  “Gabe!” My knees gave and I sank slowly onto the floor. “How are you? Where are you? Are you all right?”

  His laughter reached me, warming up my heart. “I’m OK. We’re OK. Gomi is here with me and besides some sore bones from going from airplane to sleeping bag on hard sand I’m OK.”

  “Where are you?”

  “We’ll be by Ayers Rock by nightfall, luv.”

  Just where I had imagined him.

  His voice became an irritating sequence of hiccups. “Gabe? I’m losing you—” Static spread into my earpiece like a devouring disease. Finally, his voice cleared just long enough for me to understand he would call back soon and not to worry. I told him I loved him and then silence, without even the annoying static.

  Relief and anxiety churned like tangled sumo wrestlers in my stomach. I made a conscious effort to breathe slowly and relax. As much as I detest interrupted phone calls, I hate even more the idea of the phone having the power to control my feelings. I poured a glass of fresh water and drank it. I leaned against the counter and felt a bit better. I switched the water for a glass of wine and decided to take a bath to help me relax.

  Surrounded by softly glowing candles, I soaked, sipping the chilled wine. I let my mind wander but steered it clear of troubling thoughts. And then, remembering Evalena’s words, I went deep within myself, searching. I found the steady
pulse at the base of my neck and felt blood pump against my moist fingertips. I filled my heart with Gabe’s name and laced it up with intense love. I unleashed it in the instant between pulses. The still waters of the tub rippled gently and I smiled. I repeated the meditation several times, noticing how the instant between pulses stretched to accommodate all the love I felt for this man and how my heartbeat slowed down in unison with my deep breathing.

  CHAPTER 28

  Wishful thinking accompanied me outside Miami International Airport and dissolved in scorching sunlight. Shielding my eyes from the brightness with a hand, I spotted Oscar casually leaning against a shark-sleek black limousine. His eyes crinkled behind miniscule dark shades, much more fashionable than functional, as he smiled and kissed the air around my cheeks. He pulled away to arm’s length and twitched his nose in disapproval of my casual outfit. “What a sedate choice compared to New Orleans!”

  “I have a change of clothes, Oscar,” I assured him, waving my bag under his nose. “You’re the only human I know who doesn’t get wrinkled when flying.”

  He smiled and bowed as I got into the limousine. We sped off in the direction of the skyline.

  “Do you have any idea why we’re here?” he inquired in amusement, flaring a long-fingered pianist’s hand at our surroundings.

  “Not a clue,” I answered, distracted. I had never been in a limo before. I pushed a button and the glass between the driver and us rolled down. He glanced at me from his rearview mirror. I tried another button.

  “Uh . . . Ma’am? What can I do for you?” the driver’s voice came through a speaker.

  “Nothing! Thanks!” I said, finally managing to bring the glass up.

  Oscar laughed, shaking his head. “You’re absolutely impossible.”

  “I can’t imagine why she called both of us.” I opened the bar and saw it was loaded. I closed it and pushed another button. A TV flipped on with local news in Spanish. “Maybe she’s into cannibalism.” I smiled mischievously and switched the TV off.

  “She would have to braise me for a long time.” He touched his chest lightly with impeccably manicured fingertips strongly contrasting his charcoal Armani shirt.

  I flipped on another switch and the sunroof began to slide open. I closed it. “I have to change so you’re going to chance her alone.”

  “Oh, I see—feed me to the shark alone and then, once she’s satiated, you waltz in. Sure she won’t bite your head off?”

  One last untried button sent Oscar’s seat into rippling vibrations.

  *

  The magazine occupied the top four floors of a glass and steel skyscraper. It was my second time there and I couldn’t wait to admire the incredible view.

  Security had buzzed Helen and we found her waiting by the elevator. Poised like an Asian orchid, she showed me where to change. Camille was in a meeting and it would be a while. I had plenty of time. I made a face at Oscar and walked to the ladies’ room. I had rolled the dress to keep it from wrinkling too much and was happy to see it had worked. I shook it a couple of times and put it on. I traded my sneakers for the thin-strapped sandals and looked at my toes, checking my pedicure. Great! Still holding. Humming softly with a mouthful of hairpins, I French braided my hair, securing it with an azure silk clasp and then applied light makeup. The dress brought out the deep tan I had acquired while Gabe visited. I looked sophisticated, professional, and not overdressed. I grabbed the silk shawl and folded it in my brown leather laptop case that in this instance would double as my purse.

  Only minutes had elapsed when I emerged from the bathroom as if reborn. Helen smiled at me, offering me a seat and a cup of tea. I declined the seat and stood, catching up with her for a few minutes. I thanked her for the magazine copies she had sent of the Jourdains and asked what she thought of the article. She smiled and told me it was one of my best so far. Then, pausing for a moment, she said she thought in some of the pictures she had recognized Gabe Miller, the famous off-road racer. I told her she had been right and that the older gentleman was his father.

  “Camille said it couldn’t possibly be,” Helen said with a twinkle of mischievousness in her almond-shaped eyes. “Are they friends of the Jourdains?”’

  Oscar answered for me. “No, peach blossom. Porzia here is dating the fellow.”

  I blushed and Helen’s eyes got so round that for a second she looked like Betty Boop. She regarded me with awe and a lingering skepticism, awaiting confirmation with her mouth slightly open. I nodded, smiling self-consciously. “I trust this is to remain between us.”

  “But of course.” She recomposed herself. Then, as an afterthought, she looked up at me and smiled. “He won the Paris–Dakar.”

  “Twice,” Oscar added succinctly.

  Camille opened her office door, releasing a trail of somber editors and mournful graphic designers. She looked smart in a Chanel pantsuit with a price tag worth three of my assignments, and princess-cut diamond stud earrings. Her piercing gaze landed on us and she walked our way, her hands extended to shake ours simultaneously. She does not usually waste time with trivialities but seemed honestly pleased to see us. She told Helen to hold all her calls, led the way into her spacious office, and shut the door. We sat in comfortable leather armchairs facing a vertiginous view of the Miami skyline.

  Camille glanced at her watch and corrugated her brow for a second before raising her cerulean eyes to us. “Reservation for lunch is for one o’clock sharp. With traffic these days we don’t have much time, and decisions are often better pondered after a nice meal.” She smiled at me as her vermilion-painted lips mouthed those last words. I felt like a child in front a carnivorous plant. Appalled, fascinated, terrified.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” she stated, handing us large black leather folders. I took mine and rested my back against the fresh leather of the armchair. I opened the folder and glanced quickly at a magazine outline.

  “Scoop!” Camille announced, snapping shut her thorn-studded petals. “I’m launching a new magazine. A quick glance at what’s happening in the underground gourmet and spirits circles. The antithesis of A’ la Carte’s grand presumption. A vibrant, eclectic guide to the rising stars, happening places, and hidden treasures that anonymously surround us.”

  She paused to appreciate the effect of her words on us. Pleased with our enthralled expressions, she continued, looking at Oscar. “I’m offering you the driver’s seat: Editor in chief. Carte blanche on commanding the project and a five-year contract with a yearly bonus. I’d double what you’re currently making at Gusto and move you down here. All expenses paid.”

  She turned to look at me. “You’d have your own monthly column and carte blanche as well, as far as who, what, where you’d like to feature. I would like at least four of these features to be our main ones throughout the year. Quarterly, that is, Porzia. You’d have monthly deadlines to keep up with, but you’d often have the choice to pick the photographer, the place, and the length of the piece, to be no more than three pages for your regular column and not to exceed five for the feature articles. And just like Oscar, all expenses paid. I’ll double what we currently pay you for the A’ la Carte articles as well.”

  She paused for a second to leaf through some papers in her folder. “I wouldn’t ask you to move down here. I don’t see it as necessary. You’ve proven to be extremely professional. So far we’ve been able to communicate and exchange information smoothly with you living in Pensacola. Also, I wouldn’t require you to be ours exclusively. You’d be free to pursue your freelance career but, as a resident columnist, I’d ask you to sign a contract with Scoop nonetheless.”

  She turned to Oscar once more. Engaged in a fast-paced tennis match with a woman who held the power to make us or break us with a sweep of her hand, so far we’d only been able to absorb her strikes without a chance to return them.

  “Oscar, I’ve followed your rise to senior edit
or of Gusto and have always admired your ability to keep a fresh outlook in a business that easily becomes trite. Of you I’d require, of course, that you resign from your present position and give me the exclusive.”

  With those final words she leaned back in her chair and smiled at us, sure, confident.

  *

  Game. Set. Match.

  *

  Camille’s table at Lumière overlooked a picturesque marina. I sat down admiring the soothing water in front of me and the gently lulling boats content to just float moored next to one another. I had been in Miami once before, for my first meeting with the same woman now seated in front of me and who was about to make one of my dreams come true. At the time, I was trying to make a name for myself in the business and—being the arrogant European that believed she could skip the painstaking climb up the ranks—I went straight to her: one of the biggest icons in the publishing business. I remembered how she had slashed my piece here and there with a bright red marker, her legs crossed and a Chanel-clad foot swinging as she read. “Not bad for someone who hasn’t even been weaned yet.”

  Her interest in me had been slow but constant. At the rate of two articles a year, we’d now been collaborating since I graduated college. I admired and feared the woman, but I was also grateful for her trust in me. I had learned priceless lessons—sometimes painfully, sometimes just by silently observing. And now she offered me this career-changing opportunity on the proverbial silver platter.

  A waiter laid a linen napkin on my lap and startled me back in time to accept the menu.

  She offered a dream come true. Subconsciously I began to make plans: locations, ideas, and the photographers—maybe Desmond would be interested. My business mind was spinning, high on adrenaline. But my heart told me to slow down. She said she would be fine if I stayed in Pensacola. Could I run my column from Australia? I shook my head. As my mother often said, I needed to wait until the wave had receded before stepping on shore. Gabe and I were sailing on full winds, but we hadn’t really sat down and seriously discussed where we were going with this sweeping love. One of us would eventually have to move. And taking a realistic look at both of our careers, I was the one with less to lose.