Read Online Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) by Giuliana Sica - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Giuliana Sica
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
