For all the frantic need that had built up over the last five days, a need he’d only barely been aware of, they were very gentle with one another. Cresting over the slow-arriving waves with a sigh rather than a gasp.
He knew the rest was there. The wildness, the desire to give and take on a grand scale. But for this one moment he was shocked into gentleness by the discovery of her.
Gail Miller. A wonder of a woman.
When their heart rate had returned from the stratosphere, a thin lance of the rising sun shone in over the Well Deck rear gate and outshone the light of the little tree. Sly knew his world had indeed shifted.
It was wrong in so many ways, but he wanted all he could get of this woman. Once would never be enough, no matter how perfect the meal.
She brushed her lips lightly over his and then held him close and whispered in his ear.
“Chief?”
“Yeah?” he managed.
“That stuff you do?”
“Uh-huh?” He nuzzled her neck again and elicited the sigh of contentment he had discovered there. He wondered just how fast he’d be ready to do more of that “stuff” he did. Sly already knew that the next time they were together would be as wild as this time had been sublime.
“That still isn’t barbeque.”
It was rude to laugh in the face of a naked woman still straddled across your lap, but that’s exactly what he did.
Chapter 8
“Matheo!”
“Ma bien-aimée!” Matheo Chastain practically shouted over the ship-to-ship comm circuit.
The call had been routed to Gail’s cabin. She was barely awake.
“How is your life being, my love?”
“Good,” Gail insisted. After what she and Sly had done to each other’s bodies last night—this morning, whatever it was—it was very hard to complain. It was, she checked her watch, an hour until it was time to start prep on this evening’s breakfast service.
She finally felt she had some form of control on the Peleliu’s galley and mess. Another triumph. Now she was ready to begin with some of her long-term plans.
And Sly Stowell. While she didn’t have plans there, she was definitely looking forward to a rematch. Their second time, he’d laid her back against the rear of the LCAC’s control cabin and blown rationality right out of her brain. They’d driven at each other until they both dripped with sweat. It was a good thing the windows had been replaced or their cries would have echoed about the Well Deck. She shifted in her bunk and felt deliciously achy.
She was doing, “Very good.”
“Very good? That is not what I am hearing,” Matheo’s voice regrounded her in the moment. “But when I consider the source, perhaps it is high praise indeed.”
“What source?”
Matheo’s parents had moved from a small town outside of Riems, France to just down the street from Gail’s childhood home in South Carolina. He was in junior high school and Gail was just starting to wonder what kindergarten might be like. He had made his English American-perfect by graduation, and then totally regressed by the time he was her culinary instructor at the Art Institute of Charleston. It was at least partly her fault he’d gone on to be a Navy chef; she’d coaxed him into signing up together. He must like it though, as he’d stayed in.
“The source, it was a totally despicable man who was allowed in my galley for mere minutes. My guest at the time was the group admiral, so they were minutes poorly spent by Monsieur Schmidt. He is lucky he did not leave my galley in irons. He is now a Second Class Petty Officer though I fear little humbled. He behaves only because he wishes his discharge to remain honorable. The admiral, he threatened to make this man swim home.”
“Well, I actually did have him tossed in the brig, though I don’t know if it ended up on his record.”
“Parfait! You must come see me and tell me about it.”
She laughed, “That could be a while. Wait. You saw Schmidt? Where are you anyway?” Maybe he’d seen him during the man’s transit back to stateside.
“I am aboard the George H.W. Bush, sweetheart.”
“Wow!” The newest aircraft carrier in the fleet. That was the premier mess in the Navy. There were bigger messes ashore, but the prestige rested with this newest carrier.
“You must come see. I want to show it to you, my Gail. I must ask you things.”
“I’m in Africa right now Matheo.”
“Yes.”
“What?” she’d missed something.
“You are in Africa. I am also.”
“Africa’s a big place, Matheo. You were never good with time and distance.” Such things were unendingly elusive to the man, but he was a masterful chef.
“Yes, but whether I am a thousand meters off your port bow or two thousand I think is making little difference.”
# # #
The sun was rising once more by the time Gail arrived at the Bush. She hadn’t even had time to discover which ship she’d landed on in her transit to the Peleliu they’d moved her along so fast.
Looking up from the small Zodiac boat that Sly had used to deliver her, she was monstrous. The CVN-76 displaced a hundred thousand tons to Peleliu’s forty. Her six-thousand person crew would need two Pelelius and they still wouldn’t fit aboard. And instead of carrying a mere eight highly specialized helicopters, though she could load on twenty if needed, the George H.W. Bush carried nearly a hundred jet fighters and heavy-lift helos.
Sly pulled them up to the floating dock that hung down her side and tied off. The sea was calm enough for them to leave the boat here and climb the stairs up to the mid-level hatch.
“I needed a couple of parts from their chief mechanic anyway,” Sly had said when he offered to motor her across.
In sharp contrast to the Peleliu that appeared to wander the world’s oceans on her own, the Bush claimed a carrier group for company: a guided missile cruiser, two warships, a pair of destroyers, and miscellaneous oilers and tenders for company. The ocean felt very crowded around the massive ship.
Jets roared aloft and into the blue sky with painful regularity, forcing her to cover her ears time and again during the ascent of the stairs. A look back showed the Peleliu’s deck to be quiet and the helos shrouded once more. She’d heard them out on exercises during the various night-time meal services, but it was daylight now and they were done.
At the head of the stairs a Seaman First Class awaited her.
“I’ll come find you after,” she offered Sly and then realized that was a stupid thing to say. If she’d get lost on the Peleliu then she didn’t stand a chance here.
The man simply grinned at her.
“Perhaps you better come and find me in an hour or so. I’ll be close by the galley.”
He saluted, “Yes, ma’am, Chief.”
She saluted back and matched him grin for grin, “As you were, Chief.”
# # #
The galley aboard the aircraft carrier was much bigger than hers and thirty years newer. Suddenly the mileage and the years on the Peleliu showed.
Gail had been so proud of her new command, but her galley was half the size. The battering of hard service that couldn’t be removed by hard scrubbing and fresh paint didn’t appear here. Instead of a dozen willing hands, plus two more on the midrats shift, here there were a dozen working the line. More tended steam kettles, oven, mixers, blenders…
Breakfast service was at full roar. Mile-long griddles were buried in pancakes. Gallon pitchers of maple syrup were pulled from the warmers. Waffles, eggs, link sausage—it was a mass of food that would feed her six hundred charges for days. And this was only the main galley. How many did a carrier have?
“Sweetheart!”
And she was lost in Matheo’s bear hug. He held her close and hard. Enough for her to remember what it had been like to be his lover. It had started the day she graduated culinary school and was no longer his student. For a month they had rarely left his bed. Over the years since, when they were both between lovers,
they would plan leave together in some corner or other of the world that was convenient or had a regional cuisine neither of them had tasted before. The last time had been three years ago in southern Thailand. A sun-soaked holiday she remembered well.
But now—she pulled back—she was not between lovers. She and Sly had spent only a single night together—not even that—but it had been one that definitely counted.
“Ah,” Matheo felt the shift and acknowledged it sadly with a great sigh she could feel ripple along his chest. “My timing is not so lucky. Is it serious?”
“Too soon to tell.” They had always confided in each other, picked each other up afterward, patched bruised egos, and sent one another on their way with a kiss, or more if they were unattached at the time.
“Then there is still hope for me,” he moved back but kept an arm around her shoulder and they both turned to face the galley once more. “Is it not an amazing sight, my sweet?”
“It is, Matheo. And she’s yours?”
“Yes, all seven galleys.”
Seven? She had one galley and two messes. Seven was…just like the ship…monstrous.
“Come let us have breakfast together.”
“I just finished dinner.”
He looked at her strangely and she wondered how much she was even allowed to say.
“We’re on an odd training schedule at the moment.”
That appeared to satisfy him.
She took a cup of coffee and kept him company while he whipped up a quick omelette. Gail had many fond memories of his omelettes. Smoked salmon in bed had been her first introduction to it outside the classroom. A red curry with Kung haeng shrimp cooked in a grass hut on a Thai beach had been the last; again served in bed.
She tasted a corner of his when he offered a forkful. It was so simple that the perfection of it showed through as the key element.
“Chive and fresh basil,” she sighed. She was awfully glad that the aircraft carriers were in a different class of the Admiral Ney Food Service Awards than her ship or she wouldn’t stand a chance.
In the competition, there were the aircraft carriers, then the “large afloat” category which included the Peleliu even with her reduced crew. Below that were “medium,” “small,” and “submarine.” There were ten ships in both the “aircraft carrier” and “large afloat” categories. That at least was fair between them. She’d desperately like to out-cook Matheo, though there was little chance of ever doing that.
He led her to a small office off the side of the galley, plate in one hand, coffee in the other. The full-throated roar of the beast—chopping thunks, dishwasher, calls up and down the lines for refills of pans that rang loud with their emptiness—was muted but far from gone. It was a world they both lived and loved. To shut it out would not be a comfort to either of them.
She had so much in common with Matheo.
That gave Gail a pause. They did have so much in common.
What did she and Sly have?
A heat, that she suspected they had only begun to discover. Both being the same rank, well, they were both Chiefs, the same first word of their rank—the Stewards department was its own thing. And they each despised the others’ taste in barbeque, on grounds of principle if not for reasons of the palate. Not much else.
“So, chérie, I must speak quickly so that you may return to your little boat in time for lunch service.” He ate his omelette in slow leisurely bites. Even when in a hurry, Matheo had always slowed down to appreciate anything he was eating.
She didn’t correct him on that assumption. The midrats crew would have the rest of the “day” well in hand. It was coming up on her own bedtime.
“I wish we had the time to show you all of my ship.”
Gail knew full well what else he would like to show her and normally she’d be as eager as he was. Not this time. Not even a little. His amorous attentions weren’t even raising her pulse rate which was curious; he was always able to do that no matter who she was with. An incredibly handsome chef with a dashing French accent who was also a very dear friend—normally an intoxicating combination.
“Instead, I must be very American and blunt. I want you, chérie!”
“You what?” Gail wondered where that had come from. Matheo always respected her relationships with others as she did his. And she’d just said she was in one.
“Well, I would like you for that as well, my dear Gail. But I need you. Here!” he pointed a forkful of omelette emphatically toward the door and almost lost the bite. “You belong here!”
He couldn’t mean—
“Seven galleys. Six thousand people I must feed. Eighteen thousand meals a day, I feed a small city. It is insensé! You must leave your little ship and come help me. We will cook like we once did, together. And who knows, maybe you cook with me, you forget about…” he offered her a very Gallic shrug.
He was watching her carefully.
“…or perhaps not.”
How had he read that in her face? She didn’t even know how she felt about Sly yet. Goodness, she didn’t even know if that was a nickname or a birth name.
“Either way, my Gail. You must think. I need a sous chef désespérément. Consider. You and me. As you said so long ago in my little Charleston apartment. The Admiral Ney Award for the largest boat in the world. Wouldn’t that be something worth doing together? You tell me what must I do to have you and it will happen. Anything. Oui?”
“Oui,” she managed weakly. “I’ll think on it.”
# # #
Gail was very quiet on the ride back to the Peleliu.
Sly didn’t like that. Something was wrong.
Nor had he liked the way the Chief Steward aboard the Bush had hugged her goodbye. No salute or handshake. Instead he had hugged her tightly and she had rested her head on his shoulder.
He wouldn’t ask.
It was her business.
But damn it! Wasn’t it his as well?
He just couldn’t figure out how to start that conversation. So, they rode in silence back to their boat, picked up the falls from the davits, and latched them to the Zodiac boat fore and aft. The winch lifted them aloft by those lines until the boat was tucked back in its cubbyhole high on the outside of the hull, close beneath the Flight Deck.
Sly offered a hand to help her out of the boat, just for an excuse to touch her. To confirm that he wasn’t totally shut out.
She looked at the offered hand for a long moment.
“Where’s your part?”
“What part?”
She watched him a moment and then smiled sadly.
Part? Right! Crap! He’d said he’d take her to the carrier because he wanted to fetch a part from their chief mechanic. Instead he’d sat in the ready room lounge sipping a cherry Coke and watched one set of planes land and another set take off.
One look at her face told him it was too late to backpedal now, so he offered a shrug. You caught me. Was it so wrong to be nice to his…well, he went looking for another word, but “lover” was the only one he came up with.
She took his hand and squeezed it tightly, far more tightly than she needed to maintain her balance out of the boat and into the hatchway.
He used his hand to stop her, until she turned to face him.
He thought about asking if this was about them, but how did you ask that of someone you barely knew and had made love to just last night. That glorious moment that he couldn’t wait to repeat. So, he changed his question.
“Gail,” it felt a little odd calling her by name rather than Chief. Odd but good. “If you need to talk about anything, I hope you’ll think to talk to me.”
In the privacy of the little alcove, five decks above the sea, she patted him on the chest.
“You’ll be the first, Sly. Thanks.”
Then she did the strangest thing, considering the circumstances. She went up on her toes and kissed him lightly before proceeding inside.
Sly took his time battening down the boat and pulling t
he cover back in place as he watched the big aircraft carrier in the distance, riding on the shining sea.
Chapter 9
Gail wished she’d slept.
She wished she’d made love to Sly. Right there. In the little boat, in the privacy of the little cubbyhole high on the Peleliu’s side, exposed only to the sea. Let him purge the doubt from her. For she was filled with doubt in all its many flavors.
So, she did the only thing she knew how to do.
She cooked.
Matheo served pancakes to the crew and an omelette for himself.
She showed her staff how to make omelettes for six hundred. A massive undertaking to have just the right amount of air whipped into the eggs when they hit the pan. That crucial moment of sprinkling the sausage and cream cheese filling after the bottom was gelled but before the top began to set so that the fillings were integrated right into the eggs. Regulating the production so that they never sat on the line for more than moments, yet no one was kept waiting.
Omelettes were labor intensive, but that didn’t scare her, though it nearly killed her staff. It took until mid-service before they’d settled into the nearly silent state that chefs found when everything was in perfect intense flow. When the end of service was in sight, they’d moved to the next level where they could laugh and joke with each other because there was no need to worry about the actual production of the food any longer. They needed more eggs? Someone else had already placed them in just the right spot. A fresh round of sausage? It was sizzling to finished perfection on the griddle at this very moment.
When the last omelette was served, she told the crew she needed a dozen more.
Two minutes later they were flying out of the pans.
By the time the line had them made she’d cleared a space down the center table and spread a dozen plates. She slid toasted slices of the fresh-baked whole wheat bread out of the oven and onto each plate. Three flavors of jam down the middle.
In moments, the meal was set and her staff looked confused.
“Sit,” she told them simply. “About time we ate together.”
Christmas at Steel Beach Page 8