Chapter 8

I spent the day exploring the winery, escorted by an extremely informative and most courteous Dom. I shrugged off some of the painful memories and plunged my thoughts into musty-scented cellars full of aging wooden barrels and decanters ready to be sampled.

It was mid-afternoon when I remembered Frank's invitation to an informal tasting.

I hurried to the cellar's entrance in the main kitchen where the scent of the tarragon beef stew we had enjoyed for lunch still lingered. By the pantry I found the door I was looking for, opened it, and took the stairs down. The temperature dropped by at least fifteen degrees as I stepped onto the bare brick floor. Naked light bulbs hung from the raw-stoned ceiling, casting shadows in alcoves where dusty wine bottles rested; each alcove was numbered, named, and dated with plaques. I glanced at some Grand Reserve bottles dating back to the 1960s.

Frank and the boys had gathered around an ancient rustic table where opened bottles of Shiraz stood at attention like obedient soldiers. Frank had a couple of half-filled decanters in front of him and was pouring thick purple wine into Riedel glasses.

Greeting me, they shifted around the table to make room. I mumbled an apology for being late and bumped into Nicolas on my left. He winked at me. I cracked a grin and then turned serious as Frank cast a sidelong glance at us.

The wines that benefit from decanting are usually the robust reds, such as the most mature red Bordeaux, Italian Barolos, and, occasionally, Australian and California reds. Shiraz (known in France as Syrah) also responds well to decanting. Decanting, in addition to filtering out sediment, aerates the wine, allowing it to breathe or, as they say, 'open up,' which enhances the flavor.

The Shiraz grape appears to be named after a city in Persia (Shiraz) where the grape variety probably originated. It was brought into Southern France by a returning crusader, Guy De' Sterimberg. He became a hermit and developed a vineyard on a steep hill where he lived in the Rhone River Valley. It became known as Hermitage. This is the sort of story I fell asleep to as a child. The occasional princess tale intruded once in a while but my mother always had an uncanny ability to lace true history with fantasy at our bedside and those stories I truly enjoyed. As I pursued my sommelier studies, all grown up, I mused every time I discovered and validated real tidbits of history she'd so skillfully woven between her vivid imagination and immeasurable knowledge. Only later was I able to figure out and distinguish that she was the creative part while my father and Joséphine had provided the historical facts.

The Shiraz grape produces a tannic, purple wine with a peppery flavor that was originally used to bring strength to Grenache wines in the Southern Rhone and with Bordeaux and Burgundy, until it was legally excluded from this last role by "appellation contr?lée" rules. It has become extremely important in Australia, producing rich, spicy, intense reds, but it also does well in blends with Cabernet Sauvignon.

We followed a simple wine-tasting ritual. Frank handed each of us a glass filled to one third of its capacity and, with a general "¨¤ votre santé," raised his glass to toast ours.

Color, smell, and then taste are the essentials to look for when sampling a new wine for the first time. Held against the light, Frank's Shiraz revealed a deep purple, almost inky color.

We sipped in silence.

The nose evoked intense, rich blackberry aromas. The flavor on the palate showed mouth-filling fruit, massive structure, and a long, sweet finish. It coated my throat like a velvet caress, glazed my stomach with warmth, and shot straight up to my head.

Have I mentioned that I'm a sensible drinker?

A plate of paper-thin sliced salame and hearty bread appeared as if by magic on the table. Nicolas passed it around while Frank refilled us, a satisfied smile lingering on his face.

I looked at Frank and cleared my throat. "I believe there is no need for me to mention how excellent a product you have here. I know by experience that the producer is his own biggest critic, and if I'm not mistaken, you're having a hard time hiding that grin of yours." I must have been getting drunk at the speed of light to use such a tone with him. Faintly appalled at my gaffe, I begged, "Pardon my hauteur."

A loud racket coming from the stairs made us all turn at once.

"Bloody hell! You've been as busy as cats burying shit! I can't believe you've hit the turps without me!" Desmond Tanier's voice boomed like a cannonball, ricocheting against the dark stone walls. Beverly followed at a safe distance, her flustered freckles blanching with chagrin.

Tanier spotted me. "Porzia! Dear lass! How long have you been going at it? You seem a bit flushed." He hugged me, then abruptly pushed me to arm's distance and eyed me critically. "Have you gained weight since last I saw you? Having romantic troubles as usual?" Desmond Tanier would never win awards for manners; we all knew that by now.

"Desmond! Mon petit fleur, did you just get in?" I asked, smiling sweetly. I threw French at him in a futile attempt to trigger Vietnam flashbacks in his mind. It didn't seem to shackle him at all.

"Yes, indeed! Just drove up the coast from Melbourne. I reckon I beat my own previous record, but I'm as dry as a nun's wrinkle." He snatched the glass Frank was handing him.

Beverly got hold of a bottle and looked like she had all intentions of drinking straight from it. Who could blame her? Heaven knows what had happened upstairs before they actually made it down to the cellar.

Desmond quickly sniffed his glass. With a sharp motion of his wrist he swirled the dark wine once around the smooth crystal, grunted satisfaction, and gulped the contents. Briefly, he closed his eyes. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he declared, "Excellent!" He raised the empty glass up to Beverly who promptly refilled it from her precious bottle. Frank and the boys shared an idiotic, amused look that reminded me they were definitely related.

Dom appeared, legs first, and announced dinner to be served in less than an hour.

As I followed everybody upstairs, I realized the thought of Gabe had been humming in the back of my mind the entire day. I couldn't wait to talk to him again. I climbed the steps two at a time.

The sun had set and dusk spread twinkling stars one by one on a violet velvet stretch of sky. A gentle winter breeze fluttered softly along ... or maybe it was just my head buzzing. I made it to my room and dialed Gabe's home number from the back of his business card and sat on the edge of the bed. The anticipation of speaking to him again rose with every ring. I tried to imagine him on the other end, wondered what he was wearing, who he had thought could be calling him ...

He answered, catching me by surprise, and just hearing his simple hello made my heart jump.

"Hello, Mr. Miller, my name is Porzia Amard. You don't know me, but I heard all about your extensive antidote collection, and I was wondering if you had anything that would cure acute light-drinker syndrome?" I used my most scholarly tone. I should have pinched my nose. Oh well, too late.

"Hey, I've been thinking about you."

"Have you now?" I warmed from the inside out. I kicked my boots off and sat on the bed, folding my legs crosswise. With my free hand I pulled my hair out of the constricting bun and combed it out as if he could see me. I thought of Japanese people who bow on the phone as if the person they're talking to could actually see them.

"Of course I have. How's everything going up there?" he asked.

"Great. I've slept, I've been fed, and I've tried the new wine. It's excellent."

"That's why you need the antidote?" His laughter spilled out of the receiver.

"Yes," I laughed. "I also wanted to know if you and Clark would be interested in coming up tomorrow around six for the presentation."

"I don't know about tearing Clark away from his card-writing business, but if you tell me there's forage involved, I'm sure he won't mind."

"Great. It's not formal, so no tuxedo or anything. I'm sure whatever you both wear will make you the most handsome men of the evening."

"Oh ... adulation," he said, suspiciously. "Do you need something?"

Wow! If he wasn't quick. "Well, as a matter of fact, I do."

"And-?"

"A bottle of Scotch," I blurted, retracting my head turtle-style between my shoulders.

"Porzia, what in the world? Is this in case the wine sucks?" he asked in disbelief.

My head snapped back up in surprise. "You know, for an Australian, you speak pretty good American slang," I remarked.

"Don't try to change the subject."

"OK, I need the Scotch to pay a bet I lost with the photographer."

"If I get you the Scotch, will you tell me what sort of bet you're talking about here?"

"I guess it would be only fair," I agreed. "Ok, you have a deal."

"What do I get if I bring the antidote to your acute light-drinker syndrome?"

"Oh, I don't know. What would you like?" I held my breath.

"How about you spend the next evening with me?" A pause; was he holding his breath? "If you're free, that is," he added.

"Well, that's easy. I'd love to spend time with you, antidote or not." I smiled.

"Great. I've just wasted a perfect chance to take advantage of you."

"Perhaps the gods will be generous and will grant you plenty more," I laughed.

"It's great to hear you laugh, Porzia," he whispered. "I believe I'm the one who needs an antidote here," he said. "I can't stop thinking about you. About how close you are to me, and yet I have to wait until tomorrow to see you again."

"Thank you." I stretched my legs, leaned against the pillows, and wiggled my toes inside the warm socks.

"Well then, I will pass on your invitation to Clark, and I'll see you tomorrow evening."

"Sounds wonderful. Thank you, Gabe."

"No worries. I wish you goodnight, Porzia."

"Same to you. Bye-"

"Goodnight."

I sat on the bed for a few precious moments, savoring his voice and the pleasant feeling stirring in my heart. I smiled, absently combing through my nearly dry hair. I wanted to change for dinner but realized I was running late already. I pulled my boots back up and walked to the bathroom where I freshened up with cold water. I made a face or two at myself in the mirror. All things considered, and no makeup time, I was holding up quite well. Finally, I rushed downstairs taking the steps two at a time again and collided with Desmond at the foot of the stairs. He took my right arm and escorted me to the dining room where the family had gathered to start supper.

The table took center stage, elegantly covered in linen dignified by Limoges plates and polished silverware. Crystal wine and water goblets reflected candlelight discreetly around the room. The table centerpiece, an exquisite Limoges tureen, carried an earthy bouillabaisse. I inhaled; my nose sorted out saffron, cayenne, and bay leaf, among other ingredients. My mouth watered.

Madame Framboise Jourdain, Frank's mother, sat regally at the head of the table. Frank sat to her right, quietly speaking to her. Totally captivated by her son, she seemed unaware of the others. I took time and observed her. Until now, I had only heard of her legendary reputation in the wine circles. I had to admit I was apprehensive at the thought of finally meeting her. She seldom left her quarters, especially in winter when the harsh weather affected her fragile health the most. Her bright black eyes shone like polished opals. Although her patrician face reflected her age, her aristocratic profile was still sharp, her chin firm as she turned it to study me intently.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Amard. It's a pleasure to have you here with us." She tilted her head and extended her right hand to greet me. Her English was unblemished, barely laced with a subtle Proven?al accent.

"Bonsoir, Madame Jourdain. Please call me Porzia." I walked up to her to shake her hand.

"Thank you, my dear." Once again she graciously tilted her head toward Beverly, who was busy serving the bouillabaisse. "Beverly, cheri, I would never think of distressing your dinner placements but I would love to have Porzia sit next to me this evening," she kindly requested.

"Of course, Maman," Beverly nodded, smiling at both of us.

I sat down on her left. Frank nodded and everybody else took their seats. Nicolas jumped to sit next to me, cutting Desmond off in his path.

"Fran?ois, would you mind saying grace this evening?" Madame Framboise asked her son. "Unless Monsieur Tanier would rather do the honor himself." A hint of mischief danced in her eyes.

Desmond Tanier, busy tucking his linen napkin into his shirt collar, almost burst into flames in a spontaneous combustion of discomfort. "Oh no, Madam! I wouldn't dream of robbing the lord of the manor of such an honor!" he thundered, waving his open palms like windshield wipers.

Frank and Dom struggled to keep straight faces. Nicolas didn't even try. The sound of Beverly's soft giggle stopped my smile in midair while Luke and Ronnald struggled to catch up with the rest of us.

Frank cleared his throat. "Dear Lord, thank you for another bountiful season. We give thanks for our health and for the joy of sharing your blessed gifts among friends and family. Amen." A choir of "amens" and a dysfunctional "no worries" from Desmond sealed the deal.

The bouillabaisse was thick with a rich fish and white wine stock. Juicy butterflied prawns, baby oysters, cubed cod filets, and shredded crabmeat gave texture to the soup along with chopped celery, onions, and tiny tomato bits. The saffron, mixed with cayenne, chopped parsley, and bay leaf, enriched the seafood flavors, conjuring up images of blazing red Proven?al sunsets, salt-scorched fishermen mending nets, and children running along the seashore chasing crabs. Beverly had drizzled raw extra virgin olive oil into the Limoges tureen right before serving to tie the ingredients together. It was delicious.

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?