A Slow Boil (4 page)

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.”

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.

I slowly pushed open the office door, being as quiet as possible
until I confirmed that Mr. Hunter really wasn’t here.  The room was
empty.  I brought in the vacuum and pulled the drapes open to let in more
light. The windows were more of an entire wall of glass, but I didn’t let it
worry me.  Turning around, the painting I’d noticed during my interview
caught my eye.  It was even more powerful up close, and yes, there was
Rothko’s signature in the bottom right hand corner.  I stared at it for a
good five minutes before finally shrugging off the hold it had on me, and got
to work.

Two hours later everything was finished except the windows, which
were taking much longer than I’d anticipated.  I’d found a small
stepladder in the basement when I’d gone down to transfer Mr. Hunter's clothes
to the dryer, so reaching the top of the windows wasn’t a problem.  They
were just so huge.  I was barely half way done and seriously questioning
the necessity of having windows at all, when movement outside caught my
eye.  The view from this room looked out the front of the house, and from
this height I could see a black car coming up the road that I walked every
day.  The car turned into the driveway and Mr. Hunter looked up at me from
the driver’s seat.  He smiled and I gave him a small wave with my
rag.  Then his car left my view and I heard a low rumble, probably the
garage door.  At least this time he wouldn’t be able to sneak up on me, I
thought, but then I worried that I should have finished in here before he
arrived back home.  I returned to the windows, working faster, and soon
heard his footsteps on the stairs.

“Good afternoon, Miss Lane.”

“Good afternoon, sir.  I’m almost done in here, just
finishing the windows.”

“It's no problem. Take your time.”  He glanced around the
room.  “You do very good work.  Everything looks immaculate.”

“Thank you, sir.” After a pause, I turned back to my work. 
Only the lowest panes of the windows were left, so I knelt down on the floor,
sprayed window cleaner on the first one, and began wiping.  Mr. Hunter was
still in the room but as my back was turned to him I hadn’t realized he’d moved
next to me until his shoes appeared in my peripheral vision.  I stopped
wiping and looked up at him, expecting him to say something further, but he
merely stood there looking down at me.  The awkwardness of the situation
grew as I realized I was essentially kneeling at his feet.  After what
seemed like at least a full minute, he finally spoke.

“Stand up for a moment, Miss Lane.”

I rose and Mr. Hunter reached behind me for one of the
curtains.  He pulled it around my body and held it up near my face.