A Slow Boil

by Karen Winters

  “Actually, I think I’ll keep this on. It’s very comfortable.”

  “Fine. I’m glad you like it. It flatters you immensely. Now off to the kitchen with you. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I ate a cup or so of the potato salad. It was okay, nothing great. Ah well, I told myself, every meal can’t be a home run. I put my dishes in the dishwasher, set up the coffee, took off my apron and hung it in the pantry, and somehow managed to fit my jeans and shirt into my already overcrowded bag. I was just wiping down the counter tops when Mr. Hunter came in through the dining room door carrying his own dishes, which he proceeded to load into the dishwasher himself. He stood back up and swept his arms out in a gesture that said, “See, I can do it!” I couldn't help but laugh, and I gave him a little golf clap that said “Amazing!” back to him.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Yep.”

  “Follow me. The garage is through here.”

  He opened the passenger door for me and waited until I was buckled in before putting the car in reverse and backing out of the garage. As we headed down the road toward town, I tried to quit stealing glances at his hand as it rested on the gearshift. Such long fingers should be against the law. Or maybe mandatory. Yes, mandatory was much better. It also didn’t escape my notice that my naked knee was mere inches from said long fingers. Maybe I should have changed back into my jeans just to keep a leash on this inner hussy I seemed to be incubating.

  “Do you play the piano?” I asked impulsively.

  “Not nearly as much as I used to. Why?”

  “No reason,” I answered too quickly and turned to look out the window. I thought I heard him chuckle as he shifted the car into a higher gear.

  I gave him directions to my dorm as we entered the campus and we pulled up a couple of minutes later. As I unbuckled and reached down for my bags, Mr. Hunter asked me what time I’d be leaving for his place tomorrow.

  “I usually leave around twelve-thirty.”

  “Hmm. I can’t pick you up then. Could you come out earlier?”

  “I suppose I could. My last class ends at eleven-thirty, but that doesn’t give me much time for stopping by Southbay’s.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll pick you up here at quarter to twelve. Leave the shopping to me tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Let me get your door.” He got out of the car and came around to my side, opening my door and extending his hand to help me out. With my bag over my shoulder and my laptop in the other hand, I let him help pull me up. His hand felt firm and warm as it closed around mine.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Hunter. Thanks for the ride home.”

  “Goodnight, Miss Lane,” he nodded. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

  I walked up the path to the dorm, taking one last look over my shoulder as I pushed open the front door. Mr. Hunter was waiting on the sidewalk until he was sure I’d made it inside the building. And they say chivalry is dead.

  Chapter 6

  “Yes!” I did a small fist-pump as I hit the save and print buttons on my computer. Another paper down. I had to get through my oral presentation of this paper, then I had the rest of the day and night to finish the big one. Technically it wasn’t due until Friday but I was hoping to pull it together tonight and finish it a day early, which would give me a whole extra morning of apartment-searching. The other roommate-seeker had never called me back and there were no new listings in the Center, so I was resigned to living in a miserable death-trap for the summer. I would just have to spend as much time as possible at work and out with Britt.

  I looked at the clock – an hour until class. Time enough for a quick shower and a bite from the cafeteria. I eased up out of my chair and stretched my arms as far over my head as I could. I couldn’t wait to be done with this week and actually get a normal eight hours of sleep. What a simple, divine luxury - eight hours of sleep.

  Class went well, at least I thought it did. My presentation was better than most of the others and only worse than a few. I still couldn’t get a read on the professor’s reaction to it, but that was par for the course. Ah well, it’s over now, I thought, as I headed back to my dorm. I’d done my best and my fate was out of my hands.

  Anna was packing her suitcase when I arrived. I realized I probably would never see her again and gave her a tight hug good-bye. I liked Anna and wished too late that I’d gotten to know her better, but as usual, there just never seemed to be enough time. I hastily stuffed my folded uniform into my bag, checked to make sure I had all the notes and books I needed to work on my last paper, and with one last wave to Anna, headed downstairs to wait for Mr. Hunter.

  It wasn't long before I saw his car approaching and he pulled up to the curb in front of me. I started to reach for the door, but he made a gesture that I should wait for him. He put the car in park, and got out; coming around, he put my book bag and laptop into the back seat and then opened my door for me.

  “That's really not necessary, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Indulge me. I get very few opportunities to practice my manners.”

  “One wouldn't know it. They're impeccable.”

  “Thank you.” He ushered me into my seat and closed the door behind me.

  Once we were on the road, he asked me how things were going.

  “Great. I got another paper finished this morning and survived an oral presentation. Now I just have the big one that I hope to finish tonight, and then I’m done.”

  “Good. Listen, as far as today goes, I’m just dropping you off at the house now, as I have an appointment shortly. I’ll be back a little later than usual, probably around four, and like I said, I’ll bring home something for dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don't worry about cleaning the windows in my office today. They won’t be opaque with filth if you skip a week.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

  “No problem.”

  Shortly thereafter we pulled up to the house. Leaving the engine running, he got out and opened my door, then carried my things into the kitchen for me. I started unpacking while he helped himself to a glass of water. My uniform came out of the bag first as I’d packed it on top.

  “Where did you put your other one?” He asked, gesturing to the dress.

  “I hung it up in the utility closet.”

  “And where do you change?”

  “In the powder room near the living room.”

  “From now on you can use one of the guest rooms to get changed and keep the spare in the closet. Pick any room you like.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Miss Lane, even though I’ll be gone most the afternoon, please change right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded and was gone.

  The guest room I chose was two doors down from Mr. Hunter’s room on the same side of the hallway. I’d liked this room the first time I saw it. The walls were a soft green and as it faced the front of the house, it had that same bank of imposing windows. The bed and matching furniture were a deep brown wood, the bedspread and curtains a solid green velvet darker than the walls. What I liked best about the room, however, was the painting that hung above the headboard. While the rest of the room was done in soothing greens, the painting was an explosion of vibrant oranges, another original abstract that seemed to leap off the wall with energy. Like the Rothko downstairs, this painting also pulled me in and I could have stared at it for hours.

  Maybe Mr. Hunter is trying to hypnotize me with his paintings, I laughed to myself as I changed into my uniform. I left my clothes neatly folded on the bed and decided to get to work on the office before tackling my paper. Not having to do the windows meant I was done in practically no time at all. For a writer, Mr. Hunter was extraordinarily tidy. His desk was spotless. I wondered if he put things away before I came and I was tempted to peek into a drawer or two, but restrained myself. Something told me snooping was sure way to incur my boss’s wrath.r />
  My chores done until Mr. Hunter returned with groceries, I was setting up my computer and notes at the kitchen island when my stomach growled loudly. The toast I’d had hours ago had worn off, obviously, and my body was ready for lunch. Could I help myself to something in the fridge? I pulled open the double doors and did a quick assessment. There weren’t any left-overs, I knew that because I hadn't made anything large for dinner since last week’s chicken and I’d already used that up. Surely Mr. Hunter wouldn’t miss an egg or two, but I only found three in the egg bin, and thought he might need them for his breakfast tomorrow. Some afternoons I would find dirty dishes in the sink and could tell that he occasionally made himself eggs for either breakfast or lunch. Finally I settled on an apple as there were plenty in the produce bin. I sliced a bit of cheddar off a large block and found some crackers in the pantry. He couldn't begrudge me any of this, I thought, as I sat my little plate next to my laptop and got to work.

  Working on my paper for the next several hours was frustrating. While I thought I’d found a cohesive base of data on which to build my thesis, I was beginning to second-guess my assumptions. The data just didn’t fit with what I was trying to say, no matter how many times I rechecked my sources. I finally pulled on my hair in frustration and got up to do the laundry, hoping a small break would help clear my mind. No luck. What was supposed to be a fairly easy day of putting on polishing touches was turning into a nightmare of misinterpreted statistics. What was I going to do? I was basically back at square one with this project and it was due in two days. I laid my head down on top of my arms and willed myself to find a way to fix this.

  “Not going well?”

  How did he always do that? I didn’t hear the car, the garage door, or anything. I lifted my head and shook it, not having the wherewithal to answer him.

  He put a pizza box on the counter and stepped closer to me. He must have easily recognized my state of total panic and dismay because he took one look at me and raised his hands to my face. Smoothing his thumbs over my cheekbones, he said, “My dear Miss Lane. You look exhausted.”

  I closed my eyes, partly to enjoy the feeling of his fingers on my face and partly to ensure that no tears slipped out in reaction to his kind words. What he did next surprised me even more than touching my face. His hands moved up to my hair and I felt his fingers comb through where I’d pulled it out of its pony tail. My eyes were still closed when he leaned down and said quietly, “I know you can do it. You are one of the most resourceful, persuasive, argumentative and inquisitive people I know.”

  I couldn't help but smile as I recognized the words he’d used in my interview. I opened my eyes to look up at him and his returning expression was full of confidence. I merely nodded to indicate that I was okay, and he let go of my hair.

  “Are you hungry?” He asked, turning toward the pizza box. “I thought I’d spare you having to cook dinner tonight as well.”

  “I’m starving. And I don’t think I could boil water right now if my life depended on it. Thank you.”

  We ate the island, together. He asked me about my paper and I tried to explain what was going wrong.

  “So basically the data you’re using doesn’t support your thesis.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly the problem.”

  “And it’s too late to find new data.”

  “There’s no way. It took me all term to collect what I have.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to change your thesis.”

  “Change my thesis? How do I that? These are the ideas I’ve been working on for months. I can’t just turn around and start arguing something else.” But even as these words were coming out of my mouth, I recognized that this is exactly what I would have to do. It was basic Anthropology 101, the data must support the thesis. “Ugh,” I moaned, pulling on my hair again in frustration. “You’re right. I have to change my thesis.”

  “Will you be able to do that in two days?”

  “One.”

  “One? I thought you had until the end of the week.”

  “I do, technically, but I really need to hand this in tomorrow so that I have Friday morning free.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I still don't have a place to stay and I need an extra day to look at apartments.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized it. Damn it, Sylvia!

  “You don't have a place yet?” Maybe I was more exhausted than I thought but his words sounded slower and clearer than usual, like he was talking to a foreigner, or an idiot, or a foreign idiot.

  “No. Britt and I have been looking but all the decent ones seem to be taken already. I’m sure there’s still something reasonable out there, so I just wanted to give myself a little extra time Friday to look.”

  “Hmm. I hope you’re right. But right now, your priority is finishing this paper. Would it help if you worked here tonight or would you like me to drive you home?”

  “I could work here?”

  “You can work here as late as you’d like. You can have the kitchen or the dining room, or wherever you’d be most comfortable. I’ll drive you home whenever you say, although I can’t promise to stay awake much past midnight.”

  “I’d love to stay a bit longer, if you’re sure that’s all right.”

  “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.” He got up from his stool and took our plates to the dishwasher. Then he put the rest of the pizza in the fridge. “Help yourself to anything in here that you want,” he gestured to the open fridge before closing the door. “I’ll be in my office for the next few hours and then my bedroom. Come and get me at any time if there’s anything you need. I’m going to stay upstairs and won’t be down to interrupt you.”

  “You can interrupt me if there’s an emergency.” I gave him a sideways smile.

  His face broke into the widest smile I'd seen on him yet. “Don't worry, Miss Lane. I’ll take care of any vagrant spiders on my own.”

  The next few hours flew by as once I had made the mental switch about my thesis, the paper began to come together. At first it was difficult writing the exact opposite of everything I’d been thinking all term but eventually, with the data backing me up, my writing grew more confident and began to flow. I’d stayed in the kitchen and was glad I’d done so, as with the door pulled closed, I could talk to myself freely as I wont to do when hashing out ideas; also the left-over pizza in the fridge called me back for a slice or two as the night wore on. By eleven, I was a good third of the way done. I knew I had to ask Mr. Hunter to drive me home soon if I was going to return to my dorm tonight, but I was sorely tempted to stay. Surely it would be all right to sleep in “my” guest room tonight – I mean, I’d be the one changing the sheets tomorrow, right? And I could walk back to town in the morning before Mr. Hunter awoke, so staying here tonight wouldn’t be a bother to him at all.

  My decision made, I went back at my paper and got in three more hours of solid work before finally calling it at night at two. I judged myself to be about half way done, which meant that if I got up at six, walked back to town and started working again by seven, I could be done by noon, in time to come back to work. I sighed, saved my work and powered down my laptop. I crept up the stairs and collapsed on the bed of the guest room, too tired to change out of my uniform and having nothing to change into, anyway. Sleep came fast.

  There was a bird. No, lots of birds. A whole flock. Crows or something and they were screaming at me. What did I ever do to you, I tried to yell back, and then realized that it was my phone’s alarm going off. Ugh, what was that, a mere four hours of sleep? Better than nothing. I laid back for another minute taking in my surroundings. Green walls. Green curtains. Where was I? Oh right. I’d decided to crash at Mr. Hunter’s house in his guest room. And I had to get out of here before he woke up. And I had a huge-ass paper to finish today, preferably before noon. Time to roll.

  I sat up and was immediately surprised by two things. First of all, there was a blanket on me that I knew hadn’t been in h
ere before. I pushed it aside and considered the other surprise: my socks and shoes were laying on the floor just underneath my bare feet. Okay, tired brain, process this. Someone must have come in here after you’d fallen asleep, which was at two in the morning, covered you with a blanket, and taken off your socks and shoes. That was easy, I consoled myself. My brain could still function. Now, who could it have been? Mr. Hunter. Also easy. Thank you very much, my brain told itself in its best Elvis accent. Oh God, you are tired, I told myself. Yeah, duh.

  I hauled myself off the bed and made my way across the hall to the nearest bathroom. I splashed my face with cold water, used the toilet, and then hurried back to my room. I changed back into my jeans and t-shirt, left my dress on the bed, slipped on my socks and shoes and tiptoed down to the kitchen. I packed up all of my things and scrambled around looking for a notepad. I finally found one and jotted off a quick note to Mr. Hunter thanking him for letting me crash here and assuring him that I’d be back at one. At the last minute, I thought to give him my cell number, and told him he could call me if he wanted to. With that, I was gone.

  I finished the paper. I did it. I set forth irrefutable proof that everything I’d been arguing in class all semester was wrong and even explained why. I was done. I was done! I WAS DONE! If I never saw another anthropological field study again in my life, I didn’t care. I. Was. Done.

  I printed it out and pushed it into my professor's inbox at the Center. It was eleven forty-five. The rest of the day would be a breeze and in just a few short hours, I could finally get the rest I needed.

  I was still running high on adrenaline when I got to Southbay’s. I’d had enough time to dump my stuff off and take a quick shower at my dorm, which had refreshed me to no end. I felt like a hundred pound weight had been lifted my shoulders and I practically skipped my way back to the meat counter.