A Slow Boil (14 page)

“What do you think, my dear?”

“I’d have liked it to have a stronger lemon flavor.”

“You like bold flavors.”

“Maybe. I’ve never thought about it.”

“And spicy food.”

“Yes, definitely.”

“What else do you like, Miss Lane?”  His eyes were locked
with mine and I said the first thing that popped into my head.

“I like working for you, Mr. Hunter.”

“You do?” He smiled.

“Yes, sir, very much.”

He looked down at his plate and took another bite of cake, passing
me his glass of port with his free hand.

“I’m glad to hear it.  I like you working for me as
well.  Your work thus far has been exemplary, and your cooking goes above
and beyond what I expected when I hired you.”

“Thank you, sir.”  I smiled and took a sip of port.  “I
like this, too,” I said, as I gave him back his glass.  “I’ve never had
port before.”

“No?”  He swallowed his cake and frowned.  “You are old
enough to drink, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Hunter, I’m twenty-one, a full-grown adult.  It’s
perfectly legal for me to drink.  In some cultures I’d even be considered
an old maid.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

“You’ll have to trust me on that one.  Anthropology major,
remember?”

“Yes, of course.  I bow to your greater knowledge of insane
cultures which would consider you an old maid.”

“How old are you, Mr. Hunter?”

He put his fork down and took a sip of port. 
“Thirty-nine.  Some cultures would consider me elderly. 
Right?”  He was teasing me again, but there was undertone of
seriousness.  Did he really think he was old?

“I suppose some insane cultures might consider you an elder, but
luckily not ours.  Thirty-nine's not old.”

“No?”  He raised one eyebrow and looked at me sideways.

“No,” I said emphatically.  He smiled down at his plate,
forking up another bite and raising it up to my mouth.

We finished our cake but stayed at the table for another ten
minutes, just talking.  Finally Mr. Hunter put his napkin on the table,
and rose to go.  I stood, too, and collected our dishes.  He lingered
at the table, watching me, then let out a quiet sigh. 

“Goodnight, Miss Lane.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Hunter.”

“Thank you for another lovely meal and lovely company.”  Then
he bent down and kissed the top of my head again.

Friday morning I dressed in shorts again since I was biking to
Southbay’s
right after breakfast.  Mr. Hunter was at
the island when I entered the kitchen, and as I poured myself some coffee, I
asked him if he had any special requests for dinner.

“No, I don’t think so.  Anything’s fine.”

I put some bread in the toaster and helped myself to the last
apple.

“Mr. Hunter, I forgot to tell you before now, but Britt and
I
going to
LaPorte
this
weekend.  I hope that’s all right.”

He looked up me, his face registering surprise and maybe a little
disappointment.

“Of course it’s all right, Miss Lane.  Your weekends are your
own.  When are you leaving?”

“We haven’t decided yet.  Maybe tonight after dinner, maybe
in the morning.”

“There’s a wonderful little art museum in
LaPorte
.”

“I know.  It’s the first place I want to go.”

“There’s also a very good restaurant on James Street called
Grand’s.”

“Thanks for the tip.  We’ll check it out.”

“Where are you going to be staying?”

“Britt says she knows a place, but she didn’t tell me where.”

“Ah.”  He drummed his fingers on the side of his mug. 
“May I ask a favor of you, Miss Lane?”

“Of course you may, sir.”

“Will you call me when you arrive to let me know you’ve gotten
there safely?”

“Mr. Hunter, you don’t have to worry about me.  Full-grown
adult, remember?”

I pulled the coffee carafe off its stand and walked over to refill
his mug.  After I was done, he put a hand on mine and held me there.

“I do worry, though.  I can’t help it.”  His thumb
rubbed lightly over my wrist bone.  “You know how I am about your safety.”

“All right, Mr. Hunter.  I’ll call you when we get there.”

“And you’ll call me if anything goes wrong during the weekend and
you need help?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He let go of my wrist and let out a breath, his shoulders
relaxing.

“Thank you.”

I put the coffee pot back and started buttering my toast.

“Miss Lane, I apologize if I seem overbearing.  You must feel
as if you’ve left home only to have gained a new father.”

“It’s okay, sir.  I really don’t mind.  It’s good that
you’ll know where I am this weekend, and that I get there okay.  And no,”
I added, keeping my eyes down, “I definitely don’t think of you as my father.”

He cleared his throat.  “Good.”

When I got to
Southbay’s
, Pete helped me
pick out enough things to get Mr. Hunter through the weekend.  Once it was
all wrapped and packed, I could barely lift my basket.

“How are you going to carry all that, Sylvia?  Want me to
call you a taxi?”

“Nope.  Mr. Hunter gave me a bike.”

“That was nice of him.”

“It was.  He didn’t want me to feel like I was stuck at his
house during my off hours.”

“Stuck at his house?  I don’t get it.”

“I’m living there for the summer.  I couldn’t find a decent
apartment, so Mr. Hunter offered me one of his guest rooms.”

“Really?  I’m amazed to hear that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  I guess because the housekeeper he had before
you, Mrs. Sheridan, did you meet her?”

“Yeah, she trained me in.”

“She was always going on about how much he kept to himself, how
she never saw him, like he was avoiding her or something.”

“Well, he’s not like that with me.  We see each other all the
time, and we even eat meals together.”  I was surprised by how quickly I
rose to Mr. Hunter’s defense.

“Wow.  I guess she had him pegged wrong then.”

“Maybe.  Well, I’ve got to get going, Pete.  Thanks for
your help and I’ll see you next week.”

“Yep.  You have a good weekend, kiddo.”

“You, too.”

Well, that was interesting, I thought, as I pedaled home. 
Mrs. Sheridan thought Mr. Hunter avoided her.  I felt a lot better knowing
that.

I took a quick shower when I got home, put on my dress, and called
Britt.  We agreed that since it was a two hour drive, and I couldn’t leave
here until eight tonight at the earliest, it would make more sense for her to
pick me up in the morning.  She wanted to start early so we’d have the
whole day in
LaPorte
; I managed to talk her down from
six a.m. to seven, and said I’d see her in the morning.

I still had a couple of hours before starting work and decided to
take it easy.  I was going to be on my feet in the kitchen all afternoon,
so I took my book down to the library to read for a while.  I pulled the
curtains open, turned one of the chairs so it was in the sun, and sat
down.  After a few minutes I kicked off my flats and curled my feet up
underneath me, sinking deeper into the chair.  Eventually I discovered
that the most comfortable position was sideways, with my bare feet hanging over
one of the thickly-padded arms.  Perfect.  I snuggled down with my
book propped on my chest and was soon lost to the world.

Maybe an hour later I heard Mr. Hunter leave his office.  He
paused at the library door and must have seen my feet hanging off the side of
the chair because a moment later he appeared in front of me, standing over my
feet, his hands in his pockets.

“You look like a cat taking a nap in the sun.”

“I feel like a cat reading a book in the sun.”

“Cats can’t read.”

“I can’t nap.”

“No?”

I shook my head.  “Napping just makes me feel more
tired.  Weird, I know, for a college student.”

“Well, unusual maybe.”

“It’s weird.  You can say it.”

“But are you ticklish like a normal person?”  He was eying my
bare feet, but kept his hands in his pockets.

“Mr. Hunter!” I yelled at him, laughing and yanking my feet
away.  My skirt rode up over my knees and half way up my thighs. 
“Don’t you
dare!
”

He just laughed and turned away toward the windows, deliberately
giving me a second to pull my skirt down and sit up.

“Sorry, Miss Lane.”

“I won’t tolerate any tickling.  I’m warning you. 
You’ll end up seriously injured if you ever try.”

“By what?”  He was still grinning as he turned back to
me.  “Your spastic kicks?”

“Oh, worse than that.  I have a whole arsenal.  Flailing
elbows, flapping hands, hip checks, head butts, you name it.”

He laughed out loud, taking one hand out of his pocket to rub his
face.  “My god, I wouldn’t stand a chance, would I?”

“No. You wouldn’t.” I stood up, walked over to him and poked him
in the chest.  “So consider yourself warned.  I’d hate to have to
hurt your pretty face.”

His expression changed a little at that comment but he kept his
smile.

“So would my housekeeper care to join me for lunch?  I was on
my way down when I saw you in here.”

“I’d love to.”  I went back to the chair and started putting
my shoes back on.

“You can leave them off if you want.  I don't mind if you're
barefoot.”

“Yes, sir,
“ I
said with a smile.

We were sitting at the island sharing the left-over crab cakes
when he asked me if I had a busy afternoon ahead of me.

“Not really.  Today I do the bathrooms and they go pretty
quickly.  I’ll be down here the rest of the time.”

“Something special for dinner tonight?”

“If it turns out, yes.  But actually I’m going to be making
some meals for you to have over the weekend.”

“No, absolutely not.  That’s not part of your job.”

“I know it’s not, but I don't want you to have to cook for
yourself or order take-out while I’m gone.”

“I can’t let you do that, Miss Lane, or pretty soon you’ll be
cooking dinners on weekends as well.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?  If I’m here, I don’t mind.”

“But I do.  I could very easily start taking advantage of
your generous nature if you let me.”

“Mr. Hunter, you can’t take advantage of something freely offered,
remember?”

He just cocked his head at me, clearly recalling his words when
he’d asked me to move in.

“Okay, how’s this.  You let me make these dishes for you just
this once.  I mean, I’ve got a fridge full of ingredients that are just
going to be sitting there all weekend otherwise, and when I get back Sunday
night, if you’re still totally opposed to me doing some cooking on weekends,
then I won’t do it again.  I wasn’t going to make anything super fancy,
anyway.”

He hesitated, but finally acknowledged with a nod that he’d agree
to that condition.

“That reminds me.  When you are leaving tonight?”

“I’m not actually.  Britt is picking me up tomorrow morning
at seven.”

“Oh, good.  Then I won’t worry about you driving at night.”

I smiled and rolled my eyes.  “I guess not.”

“Well, in that case, I hope you’re making something I can eat
very, very slowly for dinner.”  He rose with a
smirky
smile of his own, put our plates in the sink and left the room with one last,
“See you at six.”

I finished the bathrooms and changing his sheets in no time and
was soon at work in the kitchen.  I turned on the radio to keep me
company, since I was going to be here for a while.  I worked on the
weekend meals for a while and then stepped out onto the patio to inspect an old
charcoal grill I’d spotted earlier.  It needed a little dusting off but
thankfully looked perfectly workable.  I pulled it out into the center of
the patio, cleaned out the old ashes, dumped in the new briquettes I’d bought
at
Southbay’s
, and went back inside to marinate the steaks. 
Mr. Hunter was getting filet mignon tonight, grilled, with a
roquefort
-shallot sauce.  I was pretty sure he was
going to like it.

At five I lit the briquettes and left the grill open while they
heated.  The steaks were done marinating and I gave them a thorough
dusting of salt and plenty of ground pepper.  By now, with the grill
going, it was time to start the first course.  I went back to the fridge
and pulled out the package of oysters.  Giving them a quick rinse in the
sink, I left them there
unshucked
and prepared a
quick butter and Tabasco reduction on the stove. Once that was done, I checked
the grill.  Perfect.  The oysters went on, the shells began to open,
and the oysters came off.  I carried them into the house and shucked them
open, being careful not to burn myself on the hot shells and leaving each
delectable oyster on the bottom of its shell, immersed in its own beautiful
juices.  I put them aside on a serving platter with a small bowl of the
butter sauce and went back outside to make the steaks.  Once they were
done and resting, I quickly set up Mr. Hunter’s place setting, then hurried
back to the kitchen, where I tightened my apron and straightened my hair. 
At six on the dot I walked in with the oysters.

“Miss Lane.”

“Mr. Hunter.”

“What’s this?”

“An appetizer, sir.  Oysters.”

“Oysters?”

“Yes.  I hope you like them, sir.  Would you like a
drink to go with them?”

“Would white wine go with the rest of the meal?”

“Not tonight, sir.”

“In that case, I’ll have a martini.”

I quickly made his drink and returned to the table, placing his
drink above his plate.

“I’ve never had these before.  What do I do?”

“Spoon some of the sauce on top of one, and then eat it with your
fork.”

He did what I said and put the oyster in his mouth.  He
looked up at me with an almost anguished expression and for a second I thought
I’d made a horrible mistake.

He swallowed, still looking at me.  “That was the best thing
I’ve ever eaten.”

I must have been beaming, I was so happy he liked them. 
Oysters were a staple growing up and I’d been so happy to find some at
Southbay’s
this morning.

“I had no idea these things were so delicious,” he muttered to
himself as he reached for another.  “Are there any extras for you to
have?”

“No, sir.  I only bought a dozen.”

“Sit, please.”

I took my seat.

“Here.”  He slipped an oyster into my mouth and I inwardly
agreed with him.  They’d turned out perfectly.

“Add these to my favorites, Miss Lane.”

“Yes, sir.  I’m glad you like them.”  He offered me
another, this time looking into my eyes as he fed me.

“Imagine, all the time I’ve wasted in my life when I could have
been eating oysters.”