“Ooh, well-said. Still. I’d let someone feel me up for a bike like that.”
I laughed again, locked up my bike and we went inside to eat. She asked me about my first night at Mr. Hunter's and I told her about the new furniture in my room. We went back and forth for a while about various things until we were almost done with our pizza.
“I really do wish I could come up with some way to pay Mr. Hunter back for everything he’s doing for me this summer.”
“What do you mean? You said he wouldn’t take any money from you.”
“He won’t. But I was lying in bed last night trying to fall asleep and all I could think of was, here I am in this gorgeous house with my own room, my own bathroom, the use of the library. He offered to have a TV installed in my room. He gave me a brand new bike. And on top of everything else, he pays me way too much. I just wish I could even things out a little bit, but apart from cleaning extra thoroughly, I can’t think of anything else to show my appreciation.”
“You’ve known him for what, a couple of weeks now?”
I nodded, sipping on my soda.
“Do you know any of his likes and dislikes?”
“He likes silence. I could take up mime.”
She laughed. “I’d love to see that and I bet he would too. But what else?”
“Um, he likes art.”
“Can you draw?”
“Yes. Like a child. He could put it on the fridge.”
“Okay, what else then, smart ass?”
“Umm,” I took a deep breath and tilted my head up to the ceiling, trying to remember any of the conversations I’d had with Mr. Hunter when he’d said anything about what he likes, apart from being waited on and obeyed, of course.
“He’s complimented my cooking several times, and in a genuine way, not just being polite.”
“There you go, you can up your cooking.”
“I’m going to have to. I’ve already made him most of the fancier dishes I know. From here on out, all I’ve got is stuff like chili and burgers, fried chicken, tacos, the things my dad likes.”
“You could go online and find recipes, or check out the library for cookbooks.”
“Yeah, I guess I could. In fact, I will. Good idea, Britt.”
“You know what they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“I’m not aiming for his heart.” I made eye contact so she’d know my sincerity. “I’m aiming for his stomach and that’s it.”
Britt laughed off my seriousness. “If you feed him well enough, it’s the same thing.”
The movie got out around three-thirty. Britt and I spent another hour window shopping on Front Street, and then we parted ways for the day after she made me promise to have her out some morning this week to see the house. I got on my bike and pedaled to Southbay’s. Even though Mr. Hunter and I hadn’t discussed our dinner plans this morning when we had our coffee, I thought I would get myself something to fix just in case he wasn’t going to be home or didn’t provide another night of take-out.
I took my time walking through all the aisles, imagining that this was my pantry and these were my ingredients, trying to scout out things I’d never used before, getting ideas for dishes I’d never tried, wishing someone could helpfully tell me what to do with chipotles in adobo sauce or peperonici. Finally, I headed to the produce section, where I tossed a head of lettuce and some other vegetables in my basket, figuring a salad would do for tonight, paid for everything myself, and biked back home.
Mr. Hunter’s car was in the garage so I entered the kitchen quietly. I left my bag of groceries on the island and tiptoed up to my room. The house was silent but I had no idea if he was working or not. It was only a little after five, so I washed up a bit, then decided to send my dad a quick email, updating him on my summer plans. I kept the email fairly brief, just assuring him that I’d finished the term, gotten a great job and found a nice place to live, had seen a movie with Britt that afternoon, and was doing well.
At quarter to six I went downstairs to make my salad. There was still no sight or sound of Mr. Hunter. I took my finished salad into the dining room and was just about to start without him when he came through the door.
“Ah, Miss Lane, good. You didn't wait for me.”
“I didn’t know if I should or not.”
“No, you never need to. You’re having a salad then?”
“Yep.”
“Just give me a minute to mike the left-over Chinese and I’ll join you.”
I waited until he returned with a hot plate he was having trouble holding on to.
“I always leave it in too long,” he explained, sitting down in his usual seat.
“I’ll make the drinks tonight if you want one.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Help yourself, though.”
I declined as well, and we set into our dinners.
“How did the bike work out today?”
“Oh, it’s great. I love it. I really love it.”
“Good.”
“It only takes me five minutes to get to town now. I was thinking that if I got a basket for it, I could still do the shopping every day. That way I can get you the freshest things.”
“I guess that would work. But what if it’s raining and we’re out of food?”
“Then we starve to death,” I answered in my best horror-movie-narrator voice.
“Or one of us eats the other.”
“Gross.”
“Oh, I don't know. I bet you taste pretty good.”
I choked on a piece of lettuce and could feel a furious blush rising to my face.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Mr. Hunter, you like to tease me.”
“I can’t help myself if you set me up like that.”
“You should show more respect for my delicate nature.”
“You’re a confessed cake murderer.”
“That was an accident. It was cakeslaughter.”
“Still, a violent crime.”
“I was under duress. Exhaustion, remember?”
“Yes,” he laughed. “I guess you were. All right, I’ll let you off the hook for that one.” He was smiling at me the way that made his eyes crinkle in the corners, the way that lit up his face.
We finished our dinners and carried our plates into the kitchen. He loaded the dishwasher and I set up the coffee.
“Do you want to watch some TV with me? I think I’m done working for the day.”
“Sure, that sounds good.”
We went into the living room and agreed on a PBS documentary.
“It looks like we have similar tastes in TV programs, Mr. Hunter,” I said, sitting down a respectful distance from him on the couch.
“Just tell me you don’t watch any of those awful reality shows.”
“God, no.”
“Good, then we’ll get along fine.”
The program eventually ended, and Mr. Hunter said he was done for the night. I agreed and followed him upstairs. We said goodnight to each other and I entered my room. I wasn’t quite done for the night, though, and booted up my laptop to search for recipes.
A couple of hours later I’d bookmarked enough pages to get me through the rest of the week, tending to like the online chefs who kept things simple, but also adding a few who used more advanced techniques and exotic ingredients. Satisfied, I tiptoed across the hall to use the bathroom, noting that the light was out in Mr. Hunter’s room. Thinking of him asleep so close to me was going to take some getting used to. I brushed my teeth and did my other night time bathroom stuff as quietly as possible.
Monday morning Mr. Hunter was already in the kitchen when I came down around eight-thirty for some coffee. We exchanged good mornings and I started making some toast and helped myself to a banana.
“I’m going to bike to Southbay’s this morning before it gets too hot. Do you need anything while I'm there?”
“That’s kind of you to ask, Miss Lane, but no, I don’t think so.�
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“I’m going to do a few other errands while I’m in town, so if there’s anywhere else I can go for you, I’d be happy to do so.”
“Now Miss Lane, I’m not going to allow you to sneak in extra work as my personal courier.”
“I’m hardly being sneaky by asking outright, am I, Mr. Hunter? Polite is the word you’re looking for, I think.”
I was rewarded with one of his crinkly smiles. “I’d never say otherwise. You’d very politely like me to increase your hours, of that I have no doubt.” He looked at me for a moment, as if weighing an idea. “Actually, Miss Lane, there is something you can do for me in town. A book I’ve ordered at Harland’s has come in. Would you mind stopping by and picking it up? That would save me a trip in to town today.”
“Of course not, I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you. I’ll call and let them know they can give it to you.” He picked up his coffee cup and plate and carried them to the sink. “Today is what, dusting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” He turned to go. “I’ve got quite a bit of work today, so I may not see you until dinner.”
“All right. See you then.”
He nodded and left. I spent the next hour finalizing my grocery list and then headed to town. I did my errands first, stopping by the bank to deposit my pay, and then the drug store where I got my monthly birth control, more shampoo, and on impulse, some new mascara. When I arrived at Harland’s, I told the woman behind the counter that I was picking up a book for Mr. Hunter.
“Ah, yes,” she said with a big smile. “He called not long ago and said you’d be stopping by." She handed me a book that was already bagged, and then held out a small envelope. “He said to give you this.” I frowned in confusion, opening the envelope to find a twenty-five dollar gift card. “He said you were to get yourself something as well.”
“He didn’t!”
“Is that a problem?”
“Can you put this back on his account?” I tried giving it back to her but she shook her head and held her hands out, palms forward. “I’m sorry, it’s non-refundable.”
I sighed in exasperation. I couldn’t even run a simple errand for Mr. Hunter without him doing something generous in return.
“Fine. Thank you.” I gave the saleswoman a quick smile of apology for my ungrateful response and turned to look at the store. I tried to think of a book to get Mr. Hunter, but considering the size of his library I’d probably end up duplicating something he already had. Maybe a self-help book, I thought as I started to wander through the shelves. “How to Stop Being so Generous and Let Others Do Things for You,” would get the message across. Eventually I stumbled into the cookbook section, and realized that was perfect. If I spent on the card on a cookbook for myself, he’d just have to accept it, even if he’d be the ultimate beneficiary. I browsed for a while, finally settling on one that looked just right. I paid for it with the gift card and a few dollars from my purse, and then headed to Southbay’s.
I’d decided to make another fish dinner for tonight because they were quick and I honestly didn’t know if I was ever going to get faster at dusting. I was going to try a balsamic vinegar reduction and was happy to see some Alaskan salmon in the fish section. I asked Pete to wrap me a one-pound filet, then went and hunted down the rest of what I needed. I was getting hungry by the time I’d finished, so I decided to eat in town, grabbing a veggie pita and iced tea at one of my favorite sandwich shops, which was oddly deserted for the lunch hour until I realized that most of the university students had left by now. I kind of liked having the place to myself, I thought, as I leafed through my new cookbook. I could actually hear myself think for once.
When I got back to the house it was early afternoon and already quite warm. I put the groceries away, left the books on the kitchen island and tip-toed upstairs where I washed my face and changed into my dress, which felt deliciously cool compared to my jeans. I decided that instead of socks and sneakers, my flats would be more comfortable as well, so I slipped them on and went down to start work.
I wasn’t getting any faster at dusting. I just couldn’t figure out any shortcuts and although I could probably get away with not being thorough, I was determined to do a good job for Mr. Hunter. I finished right at four again, washed up, and headed into the kitchen to get organized on dinner. The fish would probably take thirty minutes, same with the sauce, but I wasn’t sure if the mashed sweet potatoes would take longer to boil than regular potatoes, and wasn’t completely decided on how to make the Swiss chard. I poured myself a glass of water and sat down at the island, pulling out a few of the household cookbooks and even checking my new one but finding nothing helpful. I tiptoed back upstairs and brought down my laptop to see what I could find online. I had a recipe for braised chard pulled up and was comparing it to something I’d found in the stack of cookbooks when I heard Mr. Hunter come in.
“Miss Lane, here you are.” He opened the fridge and pulled out a sparkling water. “I didn’t hear you return from town and I must say you work very quietly. I wasn’t sure you’d made it back.”
“I did, thank you. And thank you for the gift card at the bookstore, but doing things like that is a sure way to get me to stop offering to do your errands.”
“Is it now,” he chuckled, knowing full well it would be.
“Here’s your book, by the way.” I pulled it out from under a cookbook and set it down in front of him.
“And what did you get for yourself, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“This.” I held up the cookbook I’d chosen, and he noticed all the cookbooks then, including the recipe on my laptop. “I’ve decided to improve my cooking.” I couldn’t help but smile, knowing I’d managed to outsmart him.
“That isn’t necessary. Your cooking is fine, more than fine.” His tone was stern but he was trying hard not to smile back at me.
I shrugged. “It’s my new summer hobby, what can I say. Now,” I got up and started closing books and clearing off the island, "I need to get started, so unless you don’t want to be served promptly at six, you should let me get to work.”
“Yes, Miss Lane. See you at six.” I snuck one last look at him before he left. He’d given up trying not to smile and looked as happy as I’d ever seen him.
Chapter 10
Monday night’s dinner had been a big success. Mr. Hunter loved the salmon and declared the mashed sweet potatoes one of his favorites. I made a mental note to start writing them down.
After a quick breakfast Tuesday morning, I biked into town. Tonight’s dinner was going to be kind of French, chicken cordon bleu and scalloped potatoes. I asked Pete to wrap up some chicken breasts and also another pork tenderloin as I was going to going to ask Britt if she wanted to come out tomorrow, and this would save me a trip back into town. I picked up the rest of the things I needed and started pedaling back. It wasn’t until I was almost home that it occurred to me to make a dessert. I wished I’d thought of that before I went shopping, but there was time to bike back to town if I had to.
I hurried into the kitchen when I got back and pulled out a couple of cookbooks. Madeleines looked easy but required a specific pan. A tart would be nice, but I hadn’t bought any fruit this morning and Mr. Hunter was down to only a couple of apples. Crème brȗlée sounded tricky and had to be browned at the last minute. Finally I turned the page to a chocolate mousse recipe. I scanned the ingredients and hoped I could find some baking chocolate or cocoa powder.
I was digging around in the pantry when I heard Mr. Hunter come into the kitchen.
“Mr. Hunter?” I stuck my head out the pantry door. “Do you know if you have any baking chocolate or cocoa?”
“I have no idea.” He came and stood next to me. “Ah, it’s up here.” He reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a small tin.
“Being six two has its advantages,” I smiled up at him.
“Yes. For a while I considered a career in cocoa retrieval, but the competition w
as too fierce.”
“Not enough demand?”
“Not the right kind. But that seems to have changed. I may have to rethink my career options.”
We had moved back out to the kitchen by this time. He quickly took in the fact that I was in jeans and a pony tail, but he didn’t say anything. I made another mental note to change into my uniform as soon as I got up in the morning. Wait, what? Why would I do that? Well, what difference would it make? The dresses were comfortable and I didn’t mind wearing my hair down. He obviously preferred me to look a certain way, and I was looking for ways to please him.
Interrupting my internal debate, Mr. Hunter opened the fridge and asked me if I’d like a sandwich for lunch.
“Sure, that sounds great. No meat, though, remember.”
“Right, no meat. I’ll see what I can do.”
He started pulling various things out of the fridge and placing them on the island, where he saw the cookbooks out.
“Miss Lane, you aren’t officially at work until this afternoon. You’re not trying to sneak in extra hours, are you?”
“Of course not, but I had an idea for a special treat for tonight and I needed to see if you had the ingredients.”
“Cocoa being one of them?”
“Yep.”
“Are you taking your hostilities out on another cake?”
“Very funny. Just for that, I’m not telling you. You’ll have to wait until dinner to find out.”
He snorted a bit of a laugh and started assembling a sandwich. “Miss Lane, since you started working for me, I feel like that’s all I do. Wait for dinner.”
It took me a second to catch his meaning and I just looked down, fighting back the perpetual blush.
“Is Swiss cheese okay?”
“Sure.”
After a few more toppings, he sliced my sandwich in half, put it on a plate and handed it to me, sitting down across the island with his own.
A Slow Boil Page 9