Chapter 6

Steve couldn't believe their good luck. There were three moorages still open in the cove. He checked the chart and chose the one closest to the entrance. He had expected that he would have to mooch around and find a spot to anchor, but this was a windfall. He quickly tied off the bow line to the mooring float while Ingrid held the boat in position with her newly learned skills.

Steve walked briskly to the stern and pulled the small anchor out of the locker under the seat. It was linked to twenty feet of chain and a large coil of nylon line. He dropped it over the side away from the shore, making sure all the chain was on the bottom and tied the line off to a nearby cleat on the rail. He tucked the remaining line back into the locker, making sure there was none on the deck. The whole process had taken less than ten minutes.

Ingrid had left the boat in neutral when Steve had finished with the bow line. When he had secured the stern anchor, she pulled the throttle all the way back and killed the engine. It was suddenly quiet. No wind, no waves lapping on the nearby rocks. She looked around and she immediately thought of paintings she had seen many times. They may have been local clichés, but this scene was one of the inspirations for those paintings.

Seagulls and Cormorants stood on rocks and floats on the opposite shore. Several houses and a single store were visible among the trees on the steep cliffs. A narrow road ran down near the water. The dock consisted of a short pier and a ramp down to the three floats that were tied to the four sets of pilings extending out into the cove.

Several boats were tied along side each side of the floats. Two appeared to be work boats with LS followed by numbers painted on boards mounted on their cabins. Beachcombers. Three small pleasure boats were moored at the dock while two larger motor cruisers sat out in the cove with the 'Matron.'

"The attendant will be along shortly to collect his fee," Steve said. "Twenty dollars, probably."

"That sounds like a lot for one night," she said.

"Too many boats, too few sheltered mooring spots. Supply and demand," he said in a resigned voice. "However, it's a safe, quiet place, and we'll get an easy exit in the morning ... when we want to," he said, looking at Ingrid, his voice trailing off.

"If it's stinky or rough, we can stay here until noon, no extra charge. If it's really crummy, we can stay a second night. That wouldn't be tragic. We could take the inflatable ashore and go exploring. Or, we could stay aboard and do other kinds of exploring," he said slyly.

"Got it all figured out, eh Captain," she said returning his grin.

"Be Prepared, that's the Boy Scouts Marching Song!" he chortled.

She looked over his shoulder and saw a small dingy moving out from the dock. This must be the attendant.

It was soon along side and its occupant, a rough, heavyset, grease-stained man called, "Ya here for just tonight?"

"Yes." Steve answered.

"Fifteen bucks. Ya get the early season discount."

"Lucky me," Steve mumbled and fished in his pocket, pulling out a twenty. "Got change?"

"Sure." He took the bill, reached in his pocket and pulled out a greasy, rumpled bunch of bills, found a five and passed it to Steve. "Next day starts at noon, ya know," he said in a raspy growl.

"Right," Steve replied. The man sat back in the dinghy and put the tiny outboard in gear and scuttled back to shore. "How'd you like to have him serve you dinner?" he asked disdainfully.

"Yuck!" Ingrid replied quickly.

Steve turned back to Ingrid. "And now my lovely lady, tell me you're hungry and you're ready for something to eat," he demanded softly, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm starved. Get to it, Captain."

"Give me ten minutes. In the meantime, I have a lovely Spanish Red that I know you'll like. Be right back."

He turned and slipped down the companionway to the galley. Ingrid lifted the port side bench top in the stern and removed four flat cushions and set them in place around the stern. Steve was back with two glasses of wine which he set on the dash. He went below again and returned with two sturdy teak folding tables that he set up near the stern, covering them with dark green fitted table cloths. The cloths had the MO monogram stitched in white at the corners.

He went back below deck while Ingrid placed the wine on one of the tables. She took a sip from one of the glasses and was rewarded with a cool, smooth, softly flavored red. It was the perfect choice. In a couple of minutes a familiar aroma began to drift up from the galley and a sharp hunger pang ran through her.

"Hurry with that Steve. The aroma is killing me," she pleaded.

"Coming up in two minutes," he called back.

She wondered if she would survive the next two minutes. Shortly, she heard the oven door bang closed and with a bit of clatter, Steve rose once again through the companionway. He was wearing an oven mitt and carried a large baking sheet covered with bruschetta.

The aroma nearly overpowered her. He had made then larger than the bite-sized ones at his apartment. He placed two pot holders on the vacant table and set the tray down. Ingrid was reaching for a piece as he warned her.

"Careful, they're hot!"

In his other hand he placed two side plates on the table beside the wine glasses. He zipped down into the galley and quickly returned with a wooden spatula and placed a steaming appetizer on each plate. Ingrid was almost beside herself wanting to pick up the seductive first course.

"Dinner will take a bit of time," he said apologetically, "so I thought I'd better have enough to ward off starvation." He looked apologetic.

Ingrid hardly noticed. She was concentrating on nibbling on the edges of the first piece, desperately trying to get some of the appetizer into her mouth without burning it.

"It will cool down quickly, so give it a minute and you'll be able to enjoy it."

She had finally managed a proper large bite and was savoring the familiar wonderful flavors. "Oh god, that was torture," she said with her mouth almost still full.

She waited to finish another bite and turned to him and said, "I would have done anything for this, you know. Anything!"

"I'll have to remember that," he smiled.

Ingrid finished the second piece and sat back on the bench with her eyes closed. "I think I'll live now."

"Glad to hear it," he said. "I'm going to set the barbeque up now, so if you can move over toward the wine table, I'll get started."

Ingrid slid to her right and picked up her wine glass. She watched Steve open a hatch on the deck and pull out a briefcase sized metal box and two stainless steel rods, bent roughly in a right-angled 'S' shape. He placed the rods into two metal slots on the stern rail and then slid the box onto the top part of the 'S.' There were two slots in the side of the box to accept the rods.

The box was now elevated to about waist height, and Steve he began to unfold it. It produced two angled sides and a foot high back, all three of which locked together to form a three sided wall. A stainless steel grill sat flush with the top of the box, but Ingrid could see there were guides along the angled sides to elevate the grill. He stood the grill at his feet and went below.

Returning with a bag of charcoal, and a can of lighter fluid, he carefully arranged the rough, random and angular shaped charcoal in the bottom of the box. He then sprinkled what seemed to be a very small amount of lighter fluid on the charcoal. He pulled a butane probe-lighter out of his pocket and lit the fuel.

"This barbeque is an invention of one of my clients," he said. "It's very compact for applications like this. Even so, I can cook a full meal for six people on it with no problem. It also comes with a battery powered spit, all of which can be stowed in that one compact box." He was clearly impressed with this simple device.

"The charcoal looks different too," Ingrid noted.

"It is," he agreed. "It's imported from Spain and Portugal. It's real charcoal, not the manufactured stuff. It burns better, slower, cleaner, and with a more even heat. We've been using the briquettes for so long we've forgotten what real charcoal is like. When we're done tonight, it will be nothing but clean ash, which I can dump overboard without concern."

Ingrid had picked up one of the unused cushions and placed it behind her back. She was slowly taking smaller bites out of the third bruschetta and stopping for a taste of the wine. She slipped off her boat runners and tucked her feet up underneath her. She looked around at the tiny cove. It was completely in shadow except for the very top of the hill behind the store.

She could feel the cool softness of a whisper of breeze on her face. The water in the cove was mirror flat. The occasional ripple from one of the sea birds was the only sign of movement. The tide was a couple of hours from high slack. Steve had said the night low was a half tide. She watched him organize around the barbeque.

"Now that you've hung up your Captain's cap for a while and you've put on your Chef's hat, may I ask what the entrée will be this evening?"

"Sorry, not yet. The 'Chef's Special' is always a closely guarded secret," he said looking back at her and winking.

"How do I know I'll like it?" she challenged.

He turned and looked at her with mock consternation. "Did I disappoint you with my previous offerings?" he asked, feigning offence.

"No Chef," she answered contritely.

"Well, I don't intend to disappoint you tonight either," he promised.

They were sparring, and Ingrid was curious what he would be preparing. In the meantime, three pieces of the bruschetta had taken the edge off her hunger, and she was comfortable waiting for the main course. She hadn't seen what he had bought for meats as she had been in another store deciding on the pastries. It didn't matter. Whatever he chose, it would be wonderful.

Steve had brought a square, tapered sided device with dozens of holes in it. It fit perfectly on the barbecue's surface and she noticed it was half filled with a variety of the vegetables he had bought. He also had a small bowl with a dark brown liquid and an old paint brush. He put the pot on the now heated barbeque and in a couple of minutes began to stir the vegetables with a wooden spatula and then brushing the contents with the sauce.

In a few minutes Ingrid could smell the cooking veggies, or more accurately, the basting sauce. Steve poked and prodded them briefly and when he was satisfied, put on an oven mitt, picked up the strange vessel and went below. Ingrid heard the oven door open and close.

Quickly back on deck empty handed, he sat down beside her, wrapping his arm around her. He picked up his wine from the table and offered the glass toward Ingrid. She met it with hers, lightly clinking them together.

"To our lost weekend together," he toasted, looking deeply into her eyes.

"Together," she answered simply. She was looking back when he leaned toward her and kissed her gently and held her there for a few seconds. The smells of the cooking and the scent of his body were mixed together as she inhaled them. It was an intoxicating mix.

She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. A feeling of complete contentment washed over her. They sat together for a while until at last he stirred.

"Time to get the entrée started," he said quietly.

He rose slowly, leaned down and kissed her softly on the cheek and headed back down to the galley. He returned a couple of minutes later with a plate on which two small, thick pieces of dark meat sat. The plate was covered with clear plastic wrap and he put it on the bench seat in front of the barbeque. He went below again and Ingrid could hear him after a couple of minutes, closing the door on the microwave oven. A few beeps later and he appeared on deck.

The wrap came off the meat plate and with a pair of wooden tongs he placed the meat on the grill. There didn't appear to be any sauce or other condiment on the meat, not even pepper or salt. He looked at his watch, came back to the table where Ingrid sat, and picked up his wine glass, taking a sip. He picked up the bruschetta tray and took it back down to the galley. Back up in a moment with the picnic basket, he began to set the table.

"Let me do that, please," Ingrid insisted.

"Sure," he said, grateful for the help.

"I'll take these to the warmer," indicating the dinner plates.

Ingrid quickly set the teak table with side plates, cutlery and two clean wine glasses. There were no champagne flutes or champagne in the picnic basket this time.

Steve returned to the barbeque and turned the meat. Ingrid couldn't quite identify the aroma from the meat. The microwave beeper went off and Steve headed back down the companionway.

Ingrid began to wonder how many times he would have to make that trip. No wonder he's fit! She heard the 'thock' of a cork and the sound of a bottle being placed in a cooler with ice. In a moment he was back up on deck and placed the cooler on the bench beside the dinner table.

He returned to barbeque, poked and prodded the steaks gently with a fork and nodded in satisfaction. He moved the steaks to the now cleaned plate they had arrived on and once again he was down the companionway. He returned in less than five minutes with the two dinner plates.

The meat was again the centre of the presentation with the vegetables stacked in a pyramid leaning on the thick steaks while the other side featured a rice dish, obviously well seasoned. A grizzle of the dark brown sauce trailed around the outside of the rice and meat.

He carefully slid a plate in front of Ingrid and the other in his own place. He picked the bottle of white wine out of the cooler and poured some into each of their glasses. He showed Ingrid the label and she saw that I was the Italian Pinot Grigio they had enjoyed the first day they had met.