Free The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) by Daniel Arthur Smith Page B

thumbs.  Each time
Cameron’s fingers met the hot foil he blurted a word, “Ta, Ta.”  The first
attempt set free a fold that fastened the foil.  A second strike pulled
the foil back, unveiling a browned loaf of bread.
    Marie and Nicole both clapped.
    “Mister Kincaid,” said Nicole,
“this looks amazing.”
    When Cameron took his seat,
Marie raised her glass to him, “To the chef.”
    “Thank you,” said Cameron, accepting
the toast.
    “Pain frais, how nice,” said
Nicole.
    “How were you able to bake bread
so fast?” asked Marie.
    “It’s a trick I learned in the
Legion.  It is soda bread,” Cameron wagged his finger from side to
side,  “no yeast.”
    “And you had everything you needed?”
    “Yeah sure.  It is
essentially just vinegar, water, flour, and baking soda of course.”
    “Baking soude?”
    “Bicarbonate de soude.”
    “Marvelous,” said Marie.
    “Don’t be so sure, though I
guarantee it’s better then pain de guerre, if you have ever had it.  I
wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
    “Ce qui est du pain de guerre,
Mister Kincaid?” asked Nicole.
    “Pain de guerre, war bread, was
something I ate a few times a day for the first few years of my hitch in the
Legion.  It’s very nutritious,” Cameron looked above the table, his face
crumpled, “but hard as a rock and tastes,” he moved his jaw around pretending
to chew, “like paper Mache might taste.”  He stuck his tongue out and
curled his lips up.  Cameron then smiled and broke off a piece of the soda
bread.  “Claude taught me how to make this.  It’s simple, but
better.”
    “Hard as rock, how could you eat
it?”  Nicole shook her head.
    “Well, the Legion is
French.  We got rations of wine and brandy when they were available. 
That helped.”
     
    * * *
* *
     
     

Chapter 17
    Lake Ontario
     
     
    After dinner, Nicole helped
Marie clear the table then went up to the bedroom.  Cameron put more wood
in the hearth and then joined Marie in the kitchen.
    “I have this Mister
Kincaid.  You already prepared such a fine meal.”
    “It’s part of the process,” said
Cameron.  He scraped what small amount of stew remained out of the tagine
and into a smaller bowl.  As the two cleaned the kitchen, they said
nothing to each other.  The music had stopped after they had sat down for
dinner, not until now did the cabin seem quiet.  Cameron flipped the
cassette tape and pressed play.  “He has such a beautiful voice,” said
Marie.
    “It’s not electric guitar,
that’s for sure.”
    Marie nodded her head in
agreement, “It certainly is not.”
    When the counters were clean and
all of the dishes were in the soapy water of the sink, the two stood side by
side, Cameron washing and Marie drying.  Both stood relaxed, their hands
busy, the music, softer now, accompanying their task.  Marie held a plate
with part of a towel and dried the edge with the rest, rotating the dish in her
hand with each stroke.  She turned away from the plate and gazed at
Cameron standing next to her.  Humming along with Pavarotti, Cameron was
so at peace in the kitchen.
    “Mister Kincaid.”
    “Cameron, Marie.”  He
turned his head to her and arched an eye, “You can call me Cameron.”
    “Mister Kincaid,” said Marie
again.  He sighed and looked back down at a plate next to the sink. 
He put the dish into the hot water.  “Yes,” said Cameron.
    “I only wanted to tell you…”
    “Yes?”
    “Well, you look so natural in
the kitchen.”
    “Thank you, I think.”
    “I mean, you are -- were -- a
soldier.  Now you are a chef.  How does that happen?”
     “You mean, how did I learn
to cook?”
    “No,” said Marie, “though your food
is wonderful, I imagine that you are a different man now than you were as a
Legionnaire.”
    “That is probably true.”
    “So how does that happen?”
    Cameron handed Marie the last
plate to dry and pulled the stopper from the sink to let the water drain. 
Cameron then picked up a