A Slow Boil

by Karen Winters

  A Slow Boil

  By Karen Winters

  Text copyright © 2015 Karen Winters

  All Rights Reserved

  To Kevin

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  “Miss Lane. Come in.” The man was turned away from me, seated behind his desk. I could only see the top of his head and his right hand, which was holding up a piece of paper I recognized as my resume. The hand gestured to the two chairs in front of the desk and I quickly sat down on the one to the right, hoping to get a better view of my potential new employer. He swiveled further away from me, however, bringing my resume closer to his face.

  “Thank you,” I murmured, slipping my purse onto the floor next to me and folding my hands in my lap. I'd worn a knee-length skirt and fought the nervous urge to play with the hem. Mr. Hunter remained silent. I heard him take a deep breath and exhale as I waited for him to begin the interview. I looked down at the Persian rug under my feet, admiring the rich colors and intricate patterns, then drew my eyes up to the heavy oak desk in front of me. I saw a laptop, a lamp, and an array of papers but nothing else. The wall behind the desk was heavily curtained from floor to ceiling in a dark blue velvet that matched one of the colors in the rug. If there were windows behind the curtains they must be huge, but no light permeated them, the lamp on the desk brightening the room on its own. The walls around me were painted in a warm taupe. To my right was a large painting that looked like an original abstract in similar blues and taupes as the rest of the room. I squinted and stretched my neck, trying to make out an artist's signature, wondering to myself if it was possible that I was in the same room as a Rothko.

  “Do you like it?”

  My attention flew back to the man across the desk. He had turned his chair to face me and was leaning back, his head a little to the side. Mr. Hunter was younger than I'd expected, only in his late thirties, if I had to guess, and was the handsomest man I'd ever laid eyes on. He had thick dark brown hair and eyebrows, chiseled cheekbones and a hard, firm jawline. His eyes were blue and his lips full, but his mouth was set in a straight line, with no welcoming smile in evidence.

  He lifted his eyebrows as he waited for my answer.

  “Yes. Yes, I like it very much.”

  “Tell me what you like about it.”

  I turned back to the painting. “Well, even though it's just two rectangles, the more you look at it, the more you sense a relationship between them. There's some tension, some pushing and pulling, as if they're both struggling to dominate the space.” I suddenly felt embarrassed and added quickly, “Or maybe they're in perfect balance. I don't know. It's just my first impression.”

  “First impressions are very important.” He ran his eyes briefly over me. “My first impression is that you are overqualified for this job,” he continued, as his eyes scanned back to my resume. “You're in college, studying anthropology. You've worked a small assortment of desk jobs. There's nothing here that would suggest your ability, let alone interest, in performing more menial tasks. You're obviously an intelligent young woman, even able to speak quite articulately about a painting you've only just seen. So tell me, Miss Lane, why do you want to be my part-time housekeeper?”

  I clutched my hands together a little tighter and debated how to answer him. They tell you to sell yourself in interviews and to flatter the interviewer but somehow I didn't think those kinds of tactics would have much effect on Mr. Hunter. I decided to go with the truth.

  “I need an income for the summer, and I'm not a resident. I have a student visa but not a work permit. I've been at Noble University as an exchange student for the past year, but the term ends in three weeks and unless I can find a way to support myself, I'll have to go home. I'd much rather try to stay here for the summer and apply as a regular student next year. It's true that I don't have any experience as a housekeeper, per se, but I grew up doing housework for my dad, so when Britt told me about this job, it sounded too good to be true, and I applied.”

  He kept his level gaze on mine while I spoke, his eyebrows pulled into a slight frown. When I finished, his frown deepened. “I don't know anyone named Britt.” He sounded disapproving of her name, emphasizing the t’s at the end.

  “Brittney Sheridan, she's a friend of mine at school. She's the niece of your current housekeeper. She knew that her aunt had given notice and that you were hiring a new one.”

  “I wasn't aware that Mrs. Sheridan had a niece.” His tone now implied the subject was closed and he paused, still frowning. “I assume you'd like to be paid under the table, then.”

  I nodded. “Like I said, I don't have a work permit.”

  “You realize that you're asking me to bend if not break the law by doing so.”

  This wasn't going well. His manner thus far had been polite, but not exactly pleasant. I began to wonder why he'd bothered to arrange an interview only to challenge me for applying in the first place.

  “It was my understanding that these kinds of arrangements are made all the time with students and that no one really cares, but if it's a problem then please forgive me for wasting your time.”

  He must have caught a whiff of my confusion as his tone softened. “Since your classes end soon, why aren't you looking for something full-time?”

  “I'm looking for anything at this point, but I don't think I'll have much luck finding something full time without a permit. And part-time hours are fine with me. I just need to earn enough to live on.”

  “Where will you be staying? I assume the university has been providing your housing. Will that continue beyond the term when the exchange program ends?”

  He'd touched directly on the second problem of my plan. I needed a place to live. I was hoping Britt would know someone who could rent me a room, but I hadn't gotten around to asking her yet. I thought about hedging the truth because being on the verge of homelessness hardly recommended me as an employee, but again something about the way his eyes held my gaze made me answer honestly. He'd have made an excellent police detective. “I do need to find a place, but I'm resourceful. I'll come up with something.”

  My answer seemed to amuse him as a smile branched across his face. His eyes were a bluish grey, pale, and when he'd been frowning they'd looked steely. But when he smiled they crinkled at the corners, lighting his face, transforming his handsomeness into something closer to beauty. I realized that I was losing focus, and bit the inside of my cheek to get my attention back where it belonged.

  His smile quickly faded and he drummed his long fingers on his desk.

  “Mrs. Sheridan was with me for almost four years and knew her job perfectly. I don't think I like the idea of training someone new only to have them leave in a few months.”

  “I can understand that. But look at it this way – I can be a temporary placeholder. I could start tomorrow. My classes are all in the mornings, so I can be here by noon. The term ends in three weeks and then I can be here any hours you wish. Classes don't start again until early September, so I can work for you the whole summer while you continue your search for a permanent housekeeper. That will give you time to find the perfect person.”


  “Persuasive and resourceful,” he said so quietly it might have been to himself.

  He held my gaze again for a long minute without speaking, his expression inscrutable. Then a change came over his demeanor as if he'd come to a decision.

  “Let me tell you more about the job. I'd want you to come in the early afternoon and remain until early evening. The hours themselves aren't important as long as you finish your work. There are certain tasks to be done on certain days and then there are tasks to be done every day. The most important daily task is making and serving my dinner. Can you cook?” I nodded quickly. “Beyond an ability to make an edible dinner, everything else is routine – laundry, dusting, vacuuming, et cetera. I'm not a neat freak and won't be trailing around behind you looking for missed dust, but I do have one requirement that may take some getting used to. I work at home, in here, and I need absolute peace and quiet. I don't want to hear you or see you while you're here. No banging around, no stomping up and down the stairs, no whistling while you work, nothing. Under no circumstances are you to interrupt me or bother me. The only time I expect to see you is at six sharp in the dining room when you serve dinner. Do you think you can manage that?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “There are no buts.”

  “Yes there are!”

  “Ah, finally a negative trait. You're also argumentative.”

  “No, I'm not!”

  His eyebrows rose again.

  “I'm … inquisitive. How will I clean this room if you're always in it but I'm not to disturb you? And what if there's an emergency, a fire or something, can I interrupt you then?”

  “I'm not sure that inquisitive is better than argumentative.” His expression almost slipped into to another smile. “You will clean this room on Wednesdays as I always go to town Wednesday afternoon. You may interrupt me if it's an emergency but it had better be a real honest-to-god emergency, not something like a spider in the bathtub.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine. Lastly, the pay. I prefer to give you a lump sum each Friday than keep track of your hours. I pay five hundred dollars a week.”

  My eyes widened. “At the risk of sounding argumentative, that seems like too much. We're talking five or six hours a day, five days a week, right? That's only twenty-five to thirty hours, and nothing you described sounds too difficult.”

  “Some weeks you may not feel like you've earned the five hundred, but other weeks you may wish you'd negotiated for a higher salary. I have guests on occasion and will expect you to cook dinner for them as well. And I forgot to mention that I expect you to plan the menus and purchase the groceries. I have an account at Southbay's in town. You can stop by on your way to work and pick up whatever you need for each night's dinner. Trust me, the weeks when I have guests you will definitely earn your salary.”

  I nodded my acceptance of his terms. “Are you willing to give me a chance, then?”

  “Yes, Miss Lane, I rather think I am. As this is Mrs. Sheridan's last week, why don't you come in Friday afternoon, say around three. I'll have her show you the ropes and you can leave before dinner. Then I'd like you to start on your own next Monday.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Hunter.” I scooped up my purse and headed toward the door. “See you Friday then.”

  “No, you won't see me on Friday, just Mrs. Sheridan.”

  “Oh, right. Okay. Goodbye, then, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Lane.”

  Chapter 2

  As I walked back into town, my thoughts were flying a mile a minute. I had actually managed to do it – get a job for the summer, one with reasonable hours and excellent pay. Five hundred a week was more than I could spend, even if I tried. My budgets had always been small and my luxuries things like books and an occasional meal out. Surely with two thousand a month to spend, a place to live would be easy to find. Mr. Hunter's house was two miles out of town, about a thirty minute walk. The closer I lived to him, the easier it would be, so I would start my search on the north side of town. My excitement continued to grow as I imagined being able to afford my own apartment. That would be pure luxury after a year of sharing a tiny dorm room with two other girls.

  Yes, I was in full-on self-congratulatory mode until my mind veered back to Mr. Hunter. His demeanor made him seem older than he looked. He was younger than I'd expected, but so stiff and reserved. He didn't mince words, which I liked, but he clearly was used to giving orders and he obviously didn't get chummy with his employees. That was fine with me, I was looking for a job, not a friend, but still something about him intimidated me. I really hoped I could work quietly enough not to disturb him as it was easy to imagine his temper flaring. I was glad I would only be seeing him once a day, at dinner.

  Hours later I was in the library finishing my first draft of a final paper due way too soon when my cell vibrated. It was Britt and I wanted to tell her about getting the job, so I packed my books and headed outside, hitting the call back number as I cleared the exit.

  “Britt, I did it, I got the job!”

  “Syl, that's great! I'm so excited! That means you get to stay here this summer! We're going to have so much fun!”

  “I know, I know, but I still have to find a place to live. You don't happen to know anyone with a room to rent, do you?”

  “Not off the top of my head, but I can ask around. We'll find you something, that'll be easy. And fun. We can start looking this weekend.”

  “That'd be great. I appreciate it so much, Britt, your help with all of this, I mean. I couldn't do it without you.”

  “Oh Syl, I won't pretend to be completely altruistic here. I want you here for the summer so we can hang out together. I'm selfish like that.”

  I laughed. “Well, keep being selfish because it's working out great for me.”

  “Will do. Talk to you later.”

  “Bye.”

  I closed my phone and headed back to my room. My roommates were both still out so I did a little more work and then went to bed. My mind kept circling around issues I was working out in my papers, before it finally began to relax and wander off to imagine apartments. It wasn't long before I was again thinking about the handsome Mr. Hunter. He was so … authoritative, more so than most of my professors, but there was something else about him I couldn't quite put my finger on. He'd seemed easily displeased, a frown his normal expression, but I remembered the way his face had lit up when he'd briefly smiled during the interview, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, and thought how much I'd like to see him smile again. I wondered what it was going to be like serving him dinner, if he'd like my cooking, what his behavior would be like. Would he snap out orders at me or not even speak, expecting silence at dinner as well? Or would I see a more pleasant, amusable side of him? I finally gave up wondering and rolled over, pushing thoughts of Mr. Hunter out of my head. I'd find out soon enough.

  Friday came up fast. Finals were approaching and I was busy with papers, papers, and more papers. Noble didn't cut exchange students any slack, that was for sure, and as an anthropology major I didn't get the luxury of memorizing mathematical formulas or tabulating biology lab results. No, I was expected to 'process information,' which meant reading tons of field studies and synthesizing the data into comprehensible, clear language that was wholly backed up by a plethora of footnotes and citations. It was exhausting, the attention to minutiae, and I found myself more than once looking forward to the summer when all I'd have to do was sweep a floor, dust a shelf, scrub a toilet, and I could consider myself done for the day. Housekeeping was looking pretty good at this point.

  It was with that attitude that I headed out to Mr. Hunter's house around two-thirty Friday afternoon. I'd been too nervous my first time out here to appreciate how imposing the house was once it came into view. The facade was mostly stone, but the rooms on the upper floors had such huge windows that almost all I could see was glass. It was bigger than I'd realized, three stories tall, and looked like a daunting thing to keep cle
an. As I rang the doorbell, I wondered if my elation at getting this job had been premature.

  “Sylvia, I'm so happy to see you again. Come in. Obviously your interview went well.”

  “I guess it did, Mrs. Sheridan. It's good to see you again, too.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia. Well, let's get started. I'll show you the kitchen first.”

  I followed her through the foyer, past what looked like a living room and through a hallway into an unbelievably perfect kitchen.

  “Oh my god!” It escaped my lips before I'd even formed the thought, but who could blame me? This was right out of a magazine. I noticed a Subzero refrigerator, Viking gas range, granite counter tops, a huge double sink … I was in heaven. Growing up in a tiny house, I'd had about a foot of counter space, an ancient electric stove, and a decrepit fridge to work with. This kitchen was the kind I'd always dreamed about having one day.

  “Yes, it's very nice, isn't it?” Mrs. Sheridan politely answered my outburst. “You'll find everything you need here to make whatever you want. Let me show you around.”

  After showing me the well-stocked pantry, the storage cupboards of small appliances, the cutlery tools inside the island, as well as providing instructions in starting the dishwasher and setting up Mr. Hunter's morning coffee, Mrs. Sheridan turned toward a door at the far side of the room.

  “Now, through here is the dining room. Mr. Hunter comes down promptly at six every evening and it's important you have his dinner ready to serve then or shortly thereafter. He doesn't like to wait. But don't bring it out any earlier, either.” We walked through the swinging door and into a large room that was furnished with a table and six chairs, a sideboard, and a liquor cabinet. Velvet curtains again lined one wall from floor to ceiling and were drawn closed, allowing in no natural light. Mrs. Sheridan flicked a switch on the wall and a chandelier sparkled to life above the table. She showed me the place settings, napkins, and silverware in the sideboard, and then described how Mr. Hunter liked his martinis, if he should ask for one. I was concentrating on memorizing the number of olives he liked when Mrs. Sheridan's tone changed.