Beyond Reach. Sandra Field
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chicken Wellington, a sweet potato casserole, broccoli with a hollandaise sauce, and a chocolate fondue with fruit. All of these were tried and true recipes of her mother’s that she herself had made at least once. She’d mix the pastry first and put it in the refrigerator to set, then do the two sauces and get the dip in the oven.
An hour later Troy came down the stairs, shrugging into his shirt. ‘How’re you doing? I’m getting hungry.’
The hollandaise sauce had curdled, so she’d had to resuscitate it in the blender; she’d forgotten to get cream for the chocolate sauce and every inch of counterspace was cluttered with dirty dishes and partially cooked food. ‘Fine,’ she said, trying to look cool and collected when she could feel the heat scorching her cheeks and wisps of damp hair clinging to her neck.
‘I wouldn’t want the guests seeing the galley in such a mess,’ he commented.
‘Troy,’ Lucy snapped, ‘I haven’t figured out where everything is yet, I’ve had a long and difficult day, and chaos is a sign of creativity. Didn’t you know that?’
The anger that was so integral to him flared in response. ‘Chaos can also be a sign of disorganization. Didn’t you know that?’
It had been a more than difficult day, and Lucy suddenly realized she was spoiling for a fight. Making a valiant effort to control her temper, she said, ‘The crab dip will be done in fifteen minutes, and I’ll serve it to you in the cockpit.’
‘I’m serious, Lucy… People come on these cruises to relax, to get away from it all. The state the galley’s in is totally unacceptable.’
She should count to ten. She should smile politely and ask him if he’d like a drink. Lucy banged a saucepan on the plastic counter and cried, ‘You may be the skipper—but I’m the cook! The galley’s my territory. Not yours. I’d appreciate your keeping that in mind.’
He leaned forward, his voice honed to an edge as deadly as the pearl-handled switchblade. ‘Don’t think I’m so desperate for crew that I can’t fire you.’
‘Go ahead!’ she stormed. ‘I dare you.’
Her eyes, fueled by rage, were the turbulent blue of the sea under gray skies. In her free hand she was clutching a butcher-knife she’d been using to chop onions; her breast was heaving under her blue knit shirt, her whole body taut with defiance.
Troy said scathingly, ‘You’re behaving like a ten-year-old.’
‘At least I’m capable of emotion!’
‘Just what do you mean by that?’
‘I mean you’re as cold as the refrigerator. You’re frozen, solid as the block of ice in the—’
A man’s voice floated down the companionway. ‘Ahoy, Seawind… Anyone on board?’
Troy’s muttered profanity made Lucy blink. He said furiously, ‘Don’t think we’re through with this—because we’re not. I’m the boss on this boat, Lucy, and you’d better remember it.’ Then he turned on his heel and took the steps two at a time. She heard a stranger’s jovial laugh and then the murmur of masculine conversation.
For two cents she’d follow Troy up those steps, march down the dock and leave him in the lurch. Let him find another crew-member! What did she care? One of the reasons she’d become self-employed was so she wouldn’t have to deal with dictatorial male bosses. Because one thing was clear to her: what she had earlier labeled as Troy’s confidence wasn’t confidence at all. It was arrogance. Downright arrogance.
High-handedness. Despotism. Tyranny.
The buzzer rang on the stove. The crab dip was as perfectly browned as any her mother had ever made, and smelled delicious. Balancing it on top of one of the gas elements on the stove, Lucy heaved a heavy sigh. Tyrant though Troy was, she still wanted to sail out of the harbor the day after tomorrow. She wanted to hear the slap of waves under the prow and feel the helm quiver with responsiveness. She wanted to swim in the turquoise waters of a coral reef…
She reached for the packages of crackers she’d bought, and five minutes later was climbing the steps with a platter on which the crackers and some celery stalks were artistically arranged around the dip. ‘Hello,’ she said, with a friendly smile at the man sitting across from Troy.
‘Jack Nevil,’ he said bluffly, getting to his feet. ‘Skipper of Lady Jane… Is this for us? You’ve lucked out, Troy.’
Lucy smothered a smile. Troy said with a dryness that wasn’t lost on her, ‘I sure have… Want a beer, Jack? Or something stronger?’
‘A beer’d be great… and one for the lady?’
‘The name’s Lucy,’ she said limpidly. ‘I’d love one; it’s been pretty hot in the galley.’
Her eyes, wide with innocence, met Troy’s. He was quite aware of her double meaning, she saw with some satisfaction. He said blandly, ‘Jack, who was that chemist who won the Nobel prize—Prigogine? His thesis was that at a state of maximum disequilibrium, a system will spontaneously create its own order—I think that’s Lucy’s theory of cooking.’
‘If this dip is anything to go by, the theory works,’ Jack said enthusiastically. ‘Have a seat, Lucy.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’d better get back to work. Troy’s a hard taskmaster.’
‘Only that I have a preference for eating before midnight,’ Troy responded equally amiably. ‘Thanks, Lucy…see you later.’
And who had won that round? Lucy wondered as she went back to the steaming-hot galley. If she were an optimist she could call it a tie.
But Jack Nevil and her mother’s crab dip had probably saved her from being fired.
Two hours later Lucy twirled the last strawberry in the chocolate sauce and took another sip of the German dessert wine in her glass. She’d drunk rather more wine than was good for her in the course of the meal. Maybe to hide the fact that Troy had spoken very little as they ate. Or maybe so she’d have the strength to face all the dirty dishes stashed below. ‘What a glorious night,’ she said soulfully.
Jack had left before dinner, having demolished the crab dip and three beers. She and Troy were eating on deck, where the smooth black water was illumined by a three-quarter moon and stars glimmered in the blackness overhead. It was blissfully, blessedly cool.
‘That was an excellent meal, Lucy,’ Troy said brusquely. ‘But entirely too elaborate—I can’t have you spending all day in the galley when you’ll be needed out on deck.’
She took a gulp of wine. ‘Is that what’s called damning with faint praise?’ she said provocatively.
His eye-sockets were sunk in shadow, his irises reflecting the harbor’s obsidian surface. ‘And that’s another thing,’ he said, in the same hard voice. ‘You and I can fight like a couple of tomcats from sun-up till sundown tomorrow. But when the Merritts come on board there’ll be no more fighting. We’ll get along even if it kills us.’
To her horror she heard herself say, ‘You mean you’ll actually be nice to me?’
He banged his clenched fist so hard on the table that the cutlery jumped. ‘I’ve never in my life met a woman as contentious as you! Don’t you ever let up?’
‘I wouldn’t be so cranky if you’d act like a human being,’ she retorted. ‘It’s because you’re so—so unreachable.’
‘Unreachable is exactly what I am, and what I intend to remain,’ he answered grimly. ‘I said no male-female stuff and I meant it. And don’t, if you value living, ask why.’
Any flip reply Lucy might have made died on her lips, because there was genuine pain underlying Troy’s voice and the moonlight lay cold along his tightly held jaw and compressed