CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Camp Karma

“This can’t be right.” The car had stopped under the biggest pine tree I’d ever seen.

The driver pointed to the GPS.

“I think he’s telling you to argue with your GPS, then.” Nick was grinning, the rat.

I glanced at the GPS, and then back outside. I’d specified secluded when I spoke to Tina. She’d apparently decided to interpret that as “utter wilderness” when what I’d really meant was “private, with running water.”

Ryan opened the car door and took in a deep breath. “Reminds me of camping with the Scouts when I was a kid.” He looked at me with new respect. “I wouldn’t have thought of you as an outdoor girl.”

I opted for enigmatic. “I’m full of surprises.” One of them being that I had never been camping in my life and was already regretting my impulse. Camping had sounded romantic, with no kitchens around to steal Ryan’s attention from me. I slapped at a mosquito. I hadn’t considered bugs. Or bears.

Ryan stepped out of the car and stretched. His t shirt lifted to reveal a nice view of abs. How could someone who lived to make and eat food look as delicious as his Lobster Ryan?

“Not a happy camper?” Nick wasn’t fooled by my pretense for a moment.

I stuck out my tongue. “I have him to myself, no kitchen in sight.” Or for miles around. “I can make it work.”

“Good attitude,” he nodded briskly. “Why don’t you scout for a good place to dig the latrine pit, since you’re in charge, Madam Girl Scout.” He got out of the SUV and slammed his door shut before I could reply.

Latrine pit. Was he kidding? I had a sinking feeling he might not be.

Ryan and Nick unpacked our gear while I pretended to have a clue as I inspected our little isolated spot on the campground, emphasis on ground.

I stumbled upon a circle of stones with the sooty remains of ash. Our fire pit, I presumed. I knew what to do with a fire pit, I’d been to a friend’s Solstice bonfire out on Long Island.

“I’ll gather some sticks for the fire.”

“Make sure they’re dry,” Nick said absently, as he pulled a huge gray blob of fabric out of a box. “They won’t burn if they’re not dry.”

“Hey. I watch “Survivor”, too,” I joked.

“You only pay attention after the tribes merge.” He shook out the tent until it covered a good part of the ground. I had no idea how it was going to turn into a tent. Before he could ask me to help, I said, “Do you think you can handle that? You look a little lost.”

Just as I expected, both men squared their shoulders and nodded with confidence. “No big deal. We’ll have it up and ready by the time you have a fire going.”

I pretended to believe them, lest they decide they needed help after all. No way was I going to put my lack of camping skills on display for Ryan. He already knew I was incompetent in the kitchen.

There weren’t a lot of sticks on the ground, but I scavenged an armful, and headed back in the direction of our campsite – or what I thought was our campsite. Stands of trees look remarkably similar and don’t make the best landmarks for a woman used to directions like “take a cab to the Rock and then grab the elevator to the 34th floor.”

Fortunately, years of walking around a city forested by skyscrapers, had sharpened my sense of direction and I was able to correct course according to the sounds of creative cursing coming from my camping buddies.

The tent looked like a camel fallen to one knee. Ryan was glaring at it with the scorn he generally reserved for sous chefs who didn’t know the difference between chop and dice.

I dumped the sticks I’d gathered into the circle of sooty stones. “Interesting shape to the tent,” I teased. “Looks like I win.”

Nick bristled. “Hey, I said we’d have it done by the time you got the fire going.”

“I’ve done the hard part. Won’t take me long to get a blaze going.”

He shook his head. “If you watched the first couple of “boring” episodes of “Survivor,” you’d know starting a fire isn’t easy.”

Ryan had stopped scowling at the tent and was now smiling at me with that competitive look in his eye that I remembered all too well. Usually when he looked like that, it meant he was going to spend hours in the kitchen trying to master some difficult technique that a food critic had razzed him about. “Bet you we finish first.”

I looked at the camel, and then at my neat pile of sticks. “Winner gets the best air mattress?”

“Deal.” Almost immediately their work brought the camel up from one knee.

With an air mattress on the line, I started to get nervous. I fiddled with the sticks and some dry leaves, creating something I thought should make a nice fire. If I had a match, or a lighter. Which I did not.

Neither Nick nor Ryan smoked, so I opened up the box of supplies that Tina had ordered. To my relief, there was a box of matches clearly marked. Thank goodness for an assistant who saw to the smallest detail, even if she had a radical definition of secluded campground.

The guys abandoned their now standing camel and came over to watch after I’d tossed five lit matches into the pile of leaves and sticks without succeeding in lighting even one curled up leaf corner.

“Are they wet,” Ryan asked. “Wet tinder won’t burn.”

“Dry,” I said testily. “I wouldn’t gather wet leaves. I know they don’t burn.”

Ryan crouched down beside me, his hand warm and steadying on my back. “I may not know tents, but I do know fire.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Let me give it a try.”

“And give up my shot at the best air mattress?”

He smiled at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “I’ll share.”

I put the box of matches in his open palm. Maybe camping had not been as insane an idea as I’d started to think. Ryan was looking at me, talking to me. And he had no kitchen to distract him.

He did indeed know fire. He formed a little teepee of the leaves, got it lit with one match, and used that to light the rest of the sticks and leaves I’d piled up.

Nick snapped a picture, which made me realize I’d been gaping at Ryan’s rather studly competence in starting a fire.

“Get a few of your camel, too,” I instructed.

They both looked at me, puzzled. I pointed to the tent. They both laughed, but Nick didn’t take a picture, so I used my cell phone to capture it for posterity. Never say I don’t know great blackmail material when I see it.

“You two wrestle that camel into a tent while I rustle up lunch.”

Ryan looked at me warily. “Maybe I should do lunch and you and Nick should deal with the camel.”

“Absolutely not.” I searched through the boxes for the picnic basket I’d specified. “You’re off duty. That’s the whole point of this weekend – you, me, a tent, a fire, and no cooking to get between us.” And Nick. And his camera. And — soon — all The Female Eye readers.

“But –”

“No cooking.”

“Or what?”

“Or you lose the best air mattress to me.” I smiled wickedly. “And I won’t share.”

“I thought you liked my food.”

“Love it.” I tried not to sound accusing. “But if you recall, the reason we broke up was because you stood me up one too many times to rescue a burned Bechemel sauce. This weekend is about you and me. Not you and me and gourmet food.”

I spread out a tablecloth and laid out the food I’d ordered.

Ryan surveyed the prepackaged sandwiches, salad, cheese, fruit and the bottle of wine. “Definitely not gourmet.”

“Hey. I got this all from your restaurant.”

“You should have told me.” He sat down. “Nick, let’s eat.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Tent?”

“We need the food for strength. That is one stubborn camel.”

I laughed.

He reached for the wine. “Am I allowed to uncork?”

I handed him the corkscrew. “I suppose that doesn’t count as cooking.” I set out plastic wine glasses. “But I’ll pour.”

Nick snapped a few shots of our feast before he settled down next to us.

All our hard work had made us hungry, and we ate pretty quickly. Ryan frowned at everything before he took a bite, and I knew he was thinking that he wished he had his personal spice drawer at hand to brighten up the taste, as he always said.

Nick had no such qualms. “Ryan, you are a great chef. I wish I could eat at your restaurant every night.” He finished his food and started rummaging through the picnic basket. “No paté?”

“No.” I glared at him. “Maybe you should gather some more fuel for the fire while Ryan and I finish the tent.”

He looked surprised, but then he glanced at Ryan, whose hand rested on my knee.

He jumped up and saluted me smartly. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He looked at the tent. “Good luck.”

I wasn’t quite sure whether he meant with the tent, or with Ryan. I was hoping for both.

<<>>

Ryan smiled at me. “This was a good idea. I haven’t been out of the kitchen in forever.”

“I know. That’s why we broke up.”

His hand tightened on my knee in a gesture I took as an apology. “I still miss you.”

My heartbeat sped up, but I applied the reality breaks. “When? In the five minutes between when your head hits the pillow and you fall asleep exhausted from cooking every waking hour?”

“You once said you loved a man whose work was his passion and whose passion was his work.”

“That was before I realized that you only have room for one passion in your life.” When I looked into his eyes, I couldn’t help but hold my breath and wish for him to tell me he’d learned he needed to make room for me between the paté and the steak au poivre.

He shrugged. “Business is a tough mistress. If I take my attention away from the restaurant for a moment, it will fail. And then where will I and my passion be?”

I remembered then, why I finally said goodbye. There was no counter for his argument except a woman who loved to cook as much as he did. “Flipping burgers.” I kissed him. On the cheek, all my reignited feelings swirling down into a muddy affection encircled by a permanent hurricane fence with a big yellow caution sign. “You are much too talented for burgers.”

“So, you think we may have a shot, now that you understand?” There was a gleam of hope in his eyes that made my stomach twist in regret. “I really do miss making eggs Diana on Sunday morning.”

I’d been so caught up in my own feelings that I hadn’t thought about his at all. He missed me. He really missed me.

I stood up. “Oops. Fire is going cold.” I poked around in the embers and threw in a few sticks, until the fire blazed up again.

When I turned around, I could see just past the casual smile he gave me to the very lonely and disappointed person inside. I knew that feeling well. It did not make me happy that I’d carelessly reopened the relationship box, only to slam the lid down on his feelings.

“I’m sorry.”

He waved his hand and looked up at the sky. “No need. I knew this was just for an article.” He smiled sadly. “You have your passion, just as I have mine.”

“The piece on your restaurant will be fabulous. I promise.” I vowed then and there that I’d make sure our best food writer would be assigned to it. Marcy was almost as good a cook as she was a food writer. She was guaranteed to appreciate Ryan’s genius, and let the readers know it.