“Mr. Hunter will want you to wait in the kitchen while he eats. He'll call you in if he needs anything. You can sit at the island and eat your own dinner until he does.”
“All right. I think I can handle that.” I had the distinct impression she was omitting something.
“Good. After he's finished eating, he'll get up and leave through there.” She pointed to another door on the opposing wall. “Once he's left, you clear his dishes, wipe down the table, clean the kitchen, start the dishwasher, set up his coffee to brew in the morning, and that's it. Then you're done for the day and may leave. He won't expect you to say good-bye. Just make sure you lock the back door behind yourself. Do you have any question thus far?”
“What does Mr. Hunter like to eat?”
“You know, I've never asked him. He's always eaten everything I've made him without a complaint, so I'd have to say he likes simple meals, nothing fancy.”
“Is there anything he doesn't like?”
“Again, I don't know. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that after four years here, but I don't ever remember him complaining about anything I served, or telling me not to serve it again. He prefers healthy foods, so go easy on the fat and salt, but a dessert now and then will get you into his good graces faster than anything else. You know men.”
“Yeah,” I shrugged knowingly, while realizing that the only man I'd ever cooked for had only eaten things you could melt cheese on, douse in barbecue sauce, or slather with mayonnaise and I'd never baked a pie or cake in my life. But I was confident I could learn and given the inspiring kitchen I’d have at my disposal, I found myself looking forward this part of the job immensely.
We went back into the kitchen and Mrs. Sheridan showed me a slim binder that outlined which days I was to do perform which task. The laundry and dinner would be the two things I would do every day. Other than that, each day had its own assigned task. On Mondays I would dust the entire house. Tuesday was vacuuming day. Wednesday was the day I'd clean the office. Thursdays I'd sweep and mop all the wood and tile floors, and Fridays were the days I'd do the bathrooms plus any incidentals Mr. Hunter wanted completed at the end of the week.
“Let me show you the utility closet.” She led me to a door that opened to a descending stairway. As we headed downstairs, she reassured me that Mr. Hunter was a perfectly reasonable employer as long as I completed the work. Even though they were alone together in the house most afternoons, she rarely saw him, even more rarely spoke to him. The key to success, she'd figured out, was silence. “He really values that above all else. If you can be quiet, no matter what you're doing, he'll be happy with the results.”
“Okay, but how am I supposed to vacuum silently?”
Opening the door to a walk-in closet full of cleaning equipment, she pointed to a fancy looking contraption. “This vacuum cleaner is a new model, state-of-the-art, from Europe. It barely makes a sound.”
“That's amazing. But what about when I'm fixing dinner? When the Cuisinart is running, the exhaust fan is blowing, the coffee beans are grinding? How am I supposed to do those things silently?”
“I didn't show you when we were in the kitchen, but there's a sliding door that you can pull closed and it seems to work effectively. I never heard any complaints from Mr. Hunter, so I assume it works.”
Then she led me to the laundry room which was also in the basement, and showed me how to work the machines. She reiterated that Mr. Hunter liked his laundry washed daily, even if there wasn't much.
“Where do I find his dirty clothes and what do I do with his laundry when it's done?”
“That’s next,” she nodded. “Let me show his room.”
She led me up three flights of stairs to the top floor of the house.
“All of these rooms are unused unless Mr. Hunter has company. But this is his room right here.” She stopped and pushed open the door. To say that entering Mr. Hunter's inner sanctum felt like an invasion of privacy was an understatement. While his office had been barren of personal affects, this room was a testament to the man's inner self. The bed was huge and prominent, covered in a deep red silk. Paintings took up all available wall space. The dresser was overflowing with photographs, so many that even more had been pushed up into the frame of the mirror suspended above it.
“Where do I put his clothes?” I asked quietly as I pulled myself away from a particularly fetching photograph of a young tow-headed boy on a swing.
“His boxers and t-shirts go in this drawer. His socks here. Jeans here. Dress clothes go in the closet on hangers. Put newly laundered clothes on the bottom of the pile so that he's always drawing on the oldest washed. Make sense?”
“Yes. Perfect sense.” Then I couldn't help myself and I gestured to all the photographs on the dresser. “Who are all these people?”
“Mr. Hunter's family. You might get to meet them if they visit again this summer, although I'm not sure they enjoyed themselves last year.” She stopped herself, realizing she was on the verge of gossiping about her employer, and quickly changed the subject. “The hamper is in his bathroom – that's where you'll find his dirty clothes and towels. And he likes fresh sheets on his bed once a week. I usually change them on Fridays when I'm up here cleaning his bathroom. The linen closet's here.”
We walked back into the hallway. “I think that's about it. I'll give you a key to the back entrance and then we're done, unless you have any more questions.”
“No, I think I've got this. I think I can do it.”
“Good. I'm sure you can.”
But as she descended the stairs in front of me, I realized I had one more question.
“Mrs. Sheridan, there is one more thing I'm curious about. Can I ask why you're leaving?”
She turned around quickly and glanced to her left. I realized we were on the landing just outside Mr. Hunter's office. She took hold of my elbow and pulled me down the remaining stairs, through the hall and into the kitchen. Once there, she pulled a door out of a recess and closed it tightly. Ah, the sliding door.
“Sylvia, I just want you to know that I'm leaving because I want to, not because Mr. Hunter asked me to.”
“Okay, but why?”
“Why? Why does anyone do anything? My time here was up. I need new things to do.”
I nodded, accepting her explanation, but looked at her expectantly, hoping she'd say more.
I watched her debate inwardly whether to go on. Then she sighed and said, “Mr. Hunter is very particular about certain things, dinner being one of them, the way he likes to be waited on.” She folded her hands in front of her, rubbing her fingers together. “I've never liked that part of the job, making dinner and serving it. I don't mind doing housework for a living, but I'm not a waitress. I tolerated it because the hours are easy and the pay is good, but I don't know, this last year it's just been too much. He's gotten more demanding, harder to please. I don't like being made to feel like a servant.” She looked at me carefully. “He's not a bad person, just difficult in some respects.”
“He made you feel like a servant?”
“Not all the time. Like I said, I rarely see him until dinner, but this last year, I don't know, he's started snapping at me, treating me like I'm beneath him. It's gotten to the point that I don't enjoy working here anymore.” She gave me a reassuring smile. “But hopefully you won't have that problem since you're only here for the summer.”
“If he tries to treat me like that, I'm out of here.” She patted my elbow and said that she knew I'd be okay, and I assured her that of course I'd be fine. But there was no denying the tiny frisson of emotion that ran through my body as she waved goodbye to me from the back door and I headed back to town. I tried to identify what I was feeling. Anxiety, yes, nervousness, yes, but it was more than just being apprehensive about starting a new job. I was feeling something else as well, and the closest I could come to identifying it was anticipation.
Chapter 3
“No, this won't do. Not at all.” Britt was in the
living room of the third apartment we'd looked at that morning, her eyes on the street outside the window. “You can't live right off the sidewalk like this. It isn't safe.”
I agreed with her that this place wasn't ideal, but my definition of acceptable living quarters had begun to shift after seeing what was still available in town. Apparently the best apartments had been snapped up much earlier in the spring by other students staying for the summer. All that seemed to be left were the seediest, least safe options. The first place we'd looked at had the moldiest bathroom I'd ever smelled. The second place was as small as my dorm room and didn't even have a kitchen. This one was more spacious, and at least it was clean, but as Britt had pointed out, the front door was mere feet from one of the busiest streets in town.
“It's just for the summer, Britt. I'm sure I'd survive.”
A truck drove past just then, its engine so loud I couldn't hear Britt's response.
“It must get quieter at night, right?” I offered.
A man walked by on the sidewalk. He looked in at me as he passed, so close that if not for the glass between us I could have reached out and touched him. Living here would be like living in a store front.
Britt shook her head. “We'll keep looking. There must be some place decent left. Let's go get lunch and look through the ads again.”
We found a bistro down the street and Britt pored over the rental ads while we ate, rattling off descriptions. I paid attention for as long as I could but found my mind eventually wandering. When I realized she was no longer speaking, I looked up and she was watching me with a smile on her face.
“Earth to Sylvia.
“Sorry, Britt. I guess I'm done with apartments for the day.”
“That's okay. We still have time. Two more weeks, right? We'll find you something.”
We continued eating in companionable silence for a while before I gave into an impulse that had been digging at me all morning.
“Britt, do you know anything else about Adam Hunter? Besides what you told me before, I mean.”
“No, I really don't. I think he's a writer. He keeps to himself, doesn't socialize, so no one knows very much about him.”
“I asked your aunt why she was leaving and she said that in the last year or so he started treating her like a servant, like she was beneath him. Did she ever mention that to you?”
“No, but like I said, she never talked about her job much.” She paused and I could see her mind working. “There was one time, though, when she and Uncle Ernest came over for dinner about six months ago. We were all at the table and I guess the conversation must have been too loud because she didn't hear the first time he asked her to pass him something. The second time he had to raise his voice and it came out sounding more like a command than a request. She yelled at him, ‘Don't you ever speak to me like that!’ And she left the table in tears.”
“Whoa. Was she okay?”
“Yeah, my mom went after her, and I guess calmed her down. I'd forgotten all about it until just now when you asked about her job.” She looked at me carefully. “Are you worried about working for Mr. Hunter? I never would have mentioned the job to you if my aunt had given me any indication that he was difficult.”
“No, I'm not worried, just puzzled. He was perfectly nice during the interview.” The waiter came to clear our plates and give us the check. While we were divvying up the bill and sorting out cash from our wallets, I shrugged off my concerns with a laugh. “Besides, I'm only going to be seeing him once a day at dinner, how awful could he get?”
“Awful enough for my aunt to quit, apparently,” Britt said under her breath. “But you're right,” she added as we left the restaurant started our walk back to campus. “Just like we might not find the perfect apartment, no job is ever perfect either. Let's just concentrate on getting through finals and not worry about things that may or may not happen. Two weeks from now, we'll be free of school and can start having some fun. We should plan a weekend trip. Where's the first place we should go?”
The rest of the weekend flew by. Britt and I both had too much schoolwork to look at apartments on Sunday, so we spent most of the day in the library. Monday morning one of my professors decided to change the final paper requirements to include an oral presentation. There were only twelve students in this seminar, but we were scheduled for half-hour presentations beginning next week. Great, I thought, just what I need. More work.
Before I knew it, the class had ended and it was time for me to head out for my first day at Mr. Hunter's. I dropped off my books in my room, ran a quick brush through my hair and put it up in a pony-tail, decided my jeans and t-shirt were fine, and grabbed my purse. Southbay's was the nicest grocery store in town and luckily only a few blocks from campus. I knew the deli section well as this was often where I came to indulge myself in real food when I needed a break from the cafeteria, but today I grabbed a hand basket and set off for the meat section at the back. I didn't have a recipe in mind, but figured I couldn't go wrong with steak, fried potatoes and a salad. Nothing exciting or gourmet, but easy enough for my first day.
Looking through the case at the various cuts, I realized I didn't know how much to spend. The tenderloins were fifteen dollars a pound, the flank steaks on sale for eight. I decided to err on the side of caution and asked the man behind the counter to wrap up a flank steak for me.
“Can I get you anything else?” He asked as he affixed the price sticker and handed me the wrapped bundle.
“No, that's it, but I'm supposed to put this on Mr. Hunter's account, and I don't know if I do that through you or up at the checkout stand.”
“Oh! You must be the new housekeeper! I'm Pete.” He stretched his arm over the top of the case and took mine in an energetic shake.
“I'm Sylvia. It's nice to meet you. Today's my first day, so I'm still learning how this goes.”
“Well, as far as putting things on Mr. Hunter's account, that's handled up front once you have everything that you need. What I can help you with specifically now that I know this steak is for Mr. Hunter is that you should get the tenderloin instead of the flank.”
“I was wondering about that but didn't know how much I should spend.”
“Mrs. Sheridan always bought the best available fish and meat. She told me once that Mr. Hunter didn't care what he ate as long as it was the best we had.”
“Good to know,” I said, handing him back the flank steak. “Do you mind exchanging this for a nice tenderloin for me then?”
“Not at all, Sylvia.” He quickly made the exchange and winked at me when he handed me the new package. “I’m looking forward to seeing you here often.”
I headed over to the produce section and added a bag of small red potatoes, some mushrooms and a head of lettuce to my basket. I wondered if Mr. Hunter would have salad dressing, but I could whip together a vinaigrette if he didn’t. I should marinate the steaks in something … red wine? I grabbed a bottle, this time not choosing anything too expensive since it was for marinating, not drinking. That ought to do it, I thought, as I headed up to the cashiers, where checking out was quicker than actually paying. Southbay’s obviously had had this arrangement with Mr. Hunter for a long time.
The walk to Mr. Hunter’s was uneventful although the bag of groceries had grown uncomfortably heavy by the time I arrived. It occurred to me that walking to work wasn’t going to be pleasant if I ever had to bring a gallon of milk or bag of flour. Well, I could get a backpack or something, I supposed. At the back door I put the groceries down gently, careful of the wine bottle, and fished the key out of my purse. The door opened noiselessly and I found myself tiptoeing in. The house was so quiet it was almost unnerving. You’d never haven known there was anyone here. I made my way to the kitchen and pulled the sliding door closed, exhaling for the first time. I took in the beautiful kitchen for a moment and again felt a little pulse of excitement at having the use of this gorgeous room.
I quickly shook off the feeling, admonishing myself to f
ocus on my work. First I fished out a casserole dish in which to marinate the steak. Then I washed the potatoes, cut them up and put them in a pan to simmer on the gas stove, which I couldn’t help but caress. Oh, I did love this kitchen. I didn’t care how many times I needed to admonish myself.
The lettuce and mushrooms went into the fridge, which I happily noticed was well-stocked with milk and other heavy items. I put the half-empty wine bottle in the pantry, where I found an assortment of unopened salad dressings, along with a variety of flavored oils and vinegars. I guessed I’d decide later how to make the salad.
The meal underway for the time being, I pulled the task binder out of its drawer and reviewed my duties for the day. Monday was dusting day. I would find a feather duster, clean rags, a spray bottle of mild cleanser, glass cleaner, and whatever else I needed in the utility closet in the basement. I was expected to dust every surface in every room except the office, as well as clean all TV and computer screens. Clear enough, I thought, and made my way downstairs.
Armed with my equipment, I decided it made more sense to work from top to bottom, so I headed up to the third floor, being careful to tiptoe as I crossed the landing outside the office. I couldn’t hear a thing from inside.
Once on the top floor I started in on the guest rooms. Nothing was very dusty but I made sure to get every surface just in case. Mr. Hunter’s room was the biggest challenge. I ran my cloth over all the frames on the walls and even did the photographs on the dresser, carefully cleaning his mirror around all the photos wedged into the sides. His hamper only had a few things it but I gathered them with me and made my way down to the laundry room, started the load, then reentered the kitchen to drain the potatoes. I tiptoed back to the second floor. Apart from Mr. Hunter’s office, there was only two other rooms on this floor. Mrs. Sheridan hadn't shown them to me and I remembered the haste with which she’d pulled me downstairs after I’d asked why she was leaving. The question must have flustered her so much that she’d forgotten, but I assumed I was to clean them as well. The first room was a smallish powder room, so I’d wait until Friday to clean it. The second had a rather imposing set of double doors. I gently eased them open and stepped inside.
A Slow Boil Page 2