A Slow Boil Page 3

  I couldn’t help the audible gasp that escaped my lips as I surveyed the sight before me. The room was dominated by a shiny black grand piano in its center. The walls to the left and right were lined with bookcases that reached up to the ceiling. There were even two of those rolling staircases on each side to access the highest books. The far wall had the same enormous windows as the office and Mr. Hunter’s bedroom but here the curtains were open, flooding the room with afternoon sun. I moved quietly toward the piano and took a moment to absorb some of the atmosphere. This room was giving the kitchen some serious competition for my favorite space in the house.

  “Am I paying you to stare at my piano, Miss Lane?”

  “Mr. Hunter!” I whipped around to the open door behind me. He was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. He didn’t look or sound angry, but I apologized anyway. “I’m so sorry. I swear I was being as quiet as possible!”

  He waved aside my apology and stepped into the room. “I didn't hear you, don't worry. I just came in because there’s a book I need.” He walked over to a shelf by the windows, searched the titles for a moment and then pulled down a volume. “Do you like to read?” he asked as he turned back to me and drew closer.

  “Yes, I love to read.”

  “In that case, feel free to borrow anything that catches your fancy.” By this time he was close enough in front of me that I had to lift my chin to maintain eye contact with him. The bright light seemed to make his eyes even bluer.

  “Thank you. Maybe I'll take you up on that this summer once classes are over.”

  “Please do.” He ran his eyes quickly over my hair and down my body, coming back up with a slightly pursed look. Did he not like my appearance? What difference could it possibly make to him what I wore to work, when I was to be as invisible as possible? But his expression smoothed and the next question he asked me was innocuous. “How is the work going so far?”

  “Fine. Mrs. Sheridan was very thorough although she didn't show me this room. Do you really want me to dust all these books?"

  My question prompted a chuckle out of him as he began to move back toward the door. “Yes. I do. Is that a problem?” He stopped in the door frame again.

  “No, of course not.”

  He merely nodded and turned to leave, adding over his shoulder, “Don't forget the piano, Miss Lane.”

  After he left, I silently closed the doors behind him and turned back to the room, my eyes sweeping across the hundreds, maybe thousands of volumes around me. Glancing at my watch, I saw I had at least three hours before I needed to be in the kitchen to start dinner. “You can do this, Sylvia,” I whispered as I grabbed the feather duster and scooted the staircase to the beginning of one wall.

  Two hours later the books were finally done and I was putting the final touches on the piano, using the feather duster on the keys so as to not accidentally press any into song, and struggling not to leave any noticeable streaks on the glossy surface of the body itself. During this time the house was so silent, I'd never have guessed that another human being was maybe thirty feet away from me. It actually was starting to feel a little spooky, and I was glad to be finished with the library and back on the ground floor. The living room took no time at all, the dining room was a breeze, and before I knew it I was done.

  It was with relief that I put all the dusting equipment back in the utility closet and closed the door. Dusting was not my favorite job, it never had been. Although Mr. Hunter’s house had hardly been dusty to begin with, I still felt a little dirty. I didn't feel at liberty to wash my face in any of the bathrooms, so after transferring Mr. Hunter’s laundry from the washer to the dryer and putting my dirty cleaning rags in the washer to do tomorrow, I retreated back to the kitchen, pulled the door closed, and used the kitchen sink to rinse my face and hands. I drank a glass of water from the tap and felt much better. It occurred to me that not knowing where to wash up meant I didn't know if I could use any of the bathrooms here either. Great.

  By now it was time to make dinner. I heated a pan for the tenderloin and one for the potatoes, adding olive oil to both. The potatoes sautéed while I browned the meat, put it in the oven to finish, and made the salad. It only took thirty minutes to pull it all together and I was ready to serve at six. I opened the door to the dining room just as Mr. Hunter entered from the other end. Mrs. Sheridan wasn’t kidding – he really was a stickler about the time. He sat at the head of the table where I'd set a place for him and I put his dinner down with a smile.

  “I hope medium rare is okay.”

  “Yes, that's perfect. This looks delicious. Would you mind making me a martini to go with it?”

  “Of course.” I moved to the liquor cabinet and fixed his drink, remembering the three olives, and brought it back to him. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, Miss Lane. Please make yourself a plate and eat in the kitchen. I'll call you if I need anything.”

  I withdrew to the kitchen and helped myself to some salad. The vinaigrette had come out pretty well, if I did say so myself. I’d worked up an appetite and was done in a few minutes. All I had left to do was fold and put away his clean laundry, clean up the kitchen, set up the coffee and I was done for the day. Downing the last bite of salad, I wondered if it was okay to handle the laundry quickly now while Mr. Hunter was eating so that I wouldn’t run into him upstairs while putting it away. Mrs. Sheridan had told me to wait in the kitchen, but what exactly for? Why couldn’t I just run downstairs and take care of the laundry while he ate? I was halfway down the stairs when I heard him call loudly for me.

  “Miss Lane!”

  I practically ran back into the dining room. “Yes, Mr. Hunter, what is it?”

  “Miss Lane. Didn’t Mrs. Sheridan explain that you are to wait in the kitchen while I eat? I had to call you twice. Why didn't you come the first time?” His tone was level, his expression blank, but he was rocking his empty martini glass back and forth in agitation.

  “She did, Mr. Hunter, but I thought I’d have time to run downstairs and finish folding your laundry before you needed anything.”

  “You were wrong. I’d like another martini.”

  “I'm sorry – I’ll make you one right now.”

  When I returned to the table I noticed that he was about half way through his meal. As I placed his new drink down he looked up at me, reading my face, which no doubt showed how anxious I was about upsetting him on my first day here.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m sorry about leaving the kitchen.”

  “That’s alright, Miss Lane. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “You know, you can call me Sylvia.”

  “Sylvia.” He said it like a statement, trying it out. “It's a pretty name and it suits you, but I prefer Miss Lane. And I'd like you to call me Mr. Hunter or Sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At this, one side of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. Then he returned to his plate, taking a bite of steak.

  “Do I taste wine in the gravy?”

  “Yes sir. I used a bit of red wine to marinate the steak and made gravy with the leftover marinade.”

  “Delicious. Mrs. Sheridan was a perfectly capable cook, but you, Miss Lane, have just served me the best meal I've eaten in quite some time.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter.” His praise had such an odd effect on me. A surge of happiness that I’d pleased him welled up inside me. I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. What was wrong with me? Professors had praised my intelligence before but I hadn’t reacted like this. And to my cooking? This was ridiculous and I shook my head a bit to clear it.

  “May I return to the kitchen, sir?”

  “Yes, you may. Don’t worry about the clothes in the dryer, you can get to them tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Miss Lane,” he said as I was almost at the door, “I'm already looking forward to tomorrow night's dinner. Good night.”

  “Good
night, sir.”

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday I vacuumed the rugs in the upstairs bedrooms, the library, the living room and the dining room. The vacuum was by far the quietest I’ve ever used, giving off more of a low hum than the usual roar. It was lightweight, too, so I wasn’t too tired when I finally finished around three. I had a whole chicken to roast for tonight’s dinner but it would only take about an hour, so that gave me two extra hours to work on what I hoped would turn out to be an edible rhubarb pie. I hadn’t planned on trying a pie for only my second meal but Southbay’s had been running a special on fresh rhubarb and I remembered that it was my dad’s favorite. He ordered it every time he saw it on a menu. Thinking of him made me feel a little sad; I hadn’t seen him since last August, the longest we’d ever been apart from one another. He’d raised me himself after my mother left him us when I was two, treating me more like a little sister than a daughter. By the time I was a teenager, we’d worked out an arrangement that suited us both; I did the cooking and cleaning, and he pretty much left me alone to my own devices. I missed him.

  “Okay, Dad, this pie’s for you,” I whispered as I started chopping up the rhubarb. Luckily I’d found a cookbook in the kitchen with a recipe so it wasn’t long before a reasonable-looking pie was baking in the oven. I’d also found an apron hanging in the pantry and decided to wear it, not trusting myself to make pie crust neatly on the first attempt. If I suspected that my t-shirts didn't meet with Mr. Hunter’s approval, I was even more certain that my t-shirt covered in flour would horrify him.

  I turned my attention to the chicken, stuffing it with whole garlic cloves, fresh rosemary and lemon slices. I rubbed it with olive oil and surrounded it with chopped potatoes and shallots. Tonight’s vegetable was asparagus, also on special at Southbay’s. I thought I’d sauté it.

  By quarter to six I had a pretty good handle on things. Mr. Hunter’s place was set and I was about to carve the chicken. Everything else was ready to go. I hadn’t seen Mr. Hunter yet today and I found my eagerness to do so growing. I also found myself hoping that he’d like this dinner as much as last night’s. A peculiar nervousness started to overtake me and I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and smoothed my hands down my apron to still their shaking.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Lane?”

  “Ah!” I cried out and must have jumped a foot. “I didn't hear you come in!” He’d entered through the pull-out panel which I now realized I’d forgotten to pull shut.

  “Sorry to have startled you. This is probably the first time in years I’ve come down to dinner early. Something just smelled so good, I had to see what you were making.” He moved and stood next to me, surveying the chicken, vegetables, and finally the pie. His eyes widened and I watched him swallow, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing once. From this angle I could see a line of scruff along his jaw and I wondered whether it felt soft or raspy.

  “May I carve the chicken for you?”

  I handed him over the knife and fork and he took them from me carefully, his fingers touching the backs of my hands. To my utmost shame, I felt myself blushing. What was the matter with me?

  Luckily I needed to wash my hands which gave me enough time at the sink to compose myself. When I’d finished, Mr. Hunter was laying several thin slices of breast meat on his plate, and adding a healthy side of asparagus and roasted vegetables. He then handed me the plate and preceded me out of the room. I followed, placed his dinner before him and asked if he’d like me to make him a martini.

  “Hmm,” he seemed to be debating his answer while spreading his napkin in his lap. “No, I don’t think so, not tonight. Tonight I’d like a glass of wine. Did Mrs. Sheridan show you where the wine cellar is?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Probably because her meals didn’t inspire me to use it, but this is a feast worthy of a nice pinot noir. Go down to the cellar – it’s adjacent to the laundry room – and pick any pinot noir you find, they should be on the right when you go in. There’s an opener in the drawer next to the stove, bring that in too, and then you can open the bottle for me here at the table.”

  “Yes, sir.” I found the pinot noirs right where he said they’d be and was back in less than five minutes. He watched me open the bottle and pour him a glass, which I’d found in the sideboard. I was thankful my hands had stopped shaking.

  When he finally had his wine glass set above his plate, he told me to go eat in the kitchen and stay there this time. I smiled back at him and assured him I would.

  I was half way through a light meal of asparagus and roasted shallots when he called for me.

  “Yes, sir?” I said, entering the dining room.

  “Please pour me another glass of wine.” He gestured to the bottle which was easily within his reach. I refilled his glass without answering him. This was definitely odd. Why couldn’t he pour his own wine?

  “Are you wondering why I don’t pour it myself?”

  “Yes, actually, I am.”

  “Two reasons. First, I like to be waited on. Sue me. That’s why I include serving dinner in my housekeeper’s duties. Second, I like to be obeyed. If I tell you to wait in the kitchen, I expect you to do so.”

  “Okay.” I drew the word out a bit, trying to express that I still didn’t quite get it. He didn’t care to elaborate, however, and instead took another bite of chicken. Swallowing, he said, “Another exquisite meal, Miss Lane.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I’d have another helping if it weren't for that delectable looking pie I assume is for dessert.”

  “Yes. Would you like me to bring you a piece now?”

  “Not quite. Go back to the kitchen and I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”

  I returned to my dinner and thought about what he’d admitted to me, that he liked to be waited on and obeyed. I wondered what had happened with Mrs. Sheridan, how his treatment of her had eventually seemed abusive enough for her to quit. I’d only been here two days and although some of his requests were odd, he’d been unfailingly polite and his appreciation of my cooking was certainly sincere and I had to admit much-welcomed. I had a hard time imagining him deliberately causing someone discomfort or even worse humiliating them, just for his own pleasure. I didn’t see that in him at all. Not yet, anyway.

  I was putting my plate in the dishwasher when he called for me.

  “I'm dying to try the pie,” he said, handing me his empty dinner plate.

  “I'll be right back, sir. Should I take your wine glass as well?”

  “Not yet. I might have a bit more.”

  A couple of minutes later I was back with a slice of Sylvia’s-first-time-ever-rhubarb-pie on a smaller plate with a fresh fork. I placed it in front of him and apologized for not thinking to get any ice cream or whipped cream to go with it.

  “Is this rhubarb?”

  “Yes.”

  “My god, I haven’t had rhubarb pie in years, maybe a decade. My mother used to make it.”

  “It's my father’s favorite,” I answered, but he didn't seem to hear me as he took his first bite. He closed his eyes and moaned. I couldn’t have described what that moan did to me if I’d tried, but I almost drew blood biting my cheek. He took three more bites before finally pausing to look up at me. “Miss Lane, you’re spoiling me. Spoiling me rotten. If you keep this up, I just may not let you go come September.”

  I started to laugh, but stopped when I caught no return expression of humor on his face. Was he serious? If this job remained part-time, we could probably work something out around my classes. Well, I thought, that’s a long time from now. Let’s see how the summer goes first. While I was still musing on his comment, he’d finished his pie.

  “If that’s all for tonight, sir, I’ll finish up and go."

  “Yes, Miss Lane, that is all for tonight. Thank you again. Will you be sure to wrap up the rest of the pie and put it in the fridge? I may have to sample it again tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,”
I answered, still biting my inner cheek to quell the irrational pleasure his praise always seemed to bring me. He was on the way out of the dining room and I was almost into the kitchen with his dirty dishes when he stopped and turned toward me.

  “Miss Lane, wear the apron from now on at dinner. I like it on you.”

  Wednesday was one of those days where everything felt off. None of my papers were coming together, none of my classes went well, and I just felt like no matter what I said or did, everything was up in the air about my grades this term. I was used to a lot of praise from my professors in the States but the ones here barely even acknowledged my existence. Had I somehow gone from smart to stupid just by changing time zones? Noble University had the one of the world’s most respected anthropology programs and I was determined to carve a niche in it for myself, but the lack of feedback was wearing away at my self-confidence.

  Arriving at Mr. Hunter’s house that afternoon, I automatically tiptoed in the back door and then remembered that it was Wednesday and Mr. Hunter was out. I took my bag of groceries to the kitchen and put it on the counter. He was getting a pork tenderloin tonight, thanks to Pete helpfully upgrading me from the chops I had originally selected. There was no need to marinate the tenderloin as I was making a separate sauce, so I decided to put it in the fridge until about an hour before I was ready to roast it. Opening the refrigerator, I was greeted with the first positive affirmation I’d had all day … there sat my pie, or what remained of my pie. There was only about a fourth of it left. God help me, but the sight of that pie brought tears to my eyes as I clung to the fridge door. Someone appreciates me, was all I could think.

  My mood having done a one-eighty, I went upstairs to gather Mr. Hunter’s laundry. Bringing it back downstairs, I started the load, remembering to include the apron. Then I entered the utility closet to gather the things I needed to clean the office. I stopped in the kitchen on my way back upstairs to double check the binder’s instructions. I was to vacuum the rug and the curtains, sweep and mop the wood floor around the rug, dust every surface, clean his computer screen and keyboard, and wash the windows. No problem, I thought. I may not be able to pull together a coherent anthropology paper, but I could damn well wash a window.