A Slow Boil

by Karen Winters

  “This is really good, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it.” And I did. I hadn’t been paying attention to what he’d put in it, but it was the perfect combination of crunchy, spicy, and something tangy.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I do manage to feed myself during the day and on weekends even though I don’t particularly enjoy doing so.”

  Third mental note to self: make a big meal on Fridays so that the fridge is full of leftovers for the weekend.

  We finished our sandwiches and Mr. Hunter took our plates to the sink. “You're vacuuming today, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not working on anything important this afternoon so feel free to come in and do my office. That way you won’t have to bring the vacuum upstairs again tomorrow.”

  “Oh, okay. You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Miss Lane. Or I wouldn’t have offered.”

  He gave me one last smile and left.

  I vacuumed the whole house, including Mr. Hunter’s office. I could tell he was watching me work, so I tried to finish as quickly and efficiently as possible. He had to get up so I could reach under his desk, and he stood by the windows, his hands in his pockets, watching me with an odd smile on his face.

  The chicken had come together nicely. I’d flattened the breasts with a mallet, stuffed them with ham and cheese, browned them in a pan and finished them in the oven. The scalloped potatoes looked good too. The vegetables were almost ready to go, and a serving of chocolate mousse was chilling in the fridge.

  Mr. Hunter was putting his napkin in his lap as I entered the dining room.

  “Good evening, Miss Lane.”

  “Good evening, sir. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Well, let’s see. This looks delicious. Something French, obviously. How about a voignier?”

  “Is that a kind of wine?”

  “Yes, my dear, a white wine. You’ll find some in the refrigerator inside the cellar.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.”

  When I returned with the bottle, he’d already started eating.

  I smiled at him as I opened the wine and poured him a glass.

  “I could smell this cooking, Miss Lane. It took all of my will-power not to come downstairs and see what you were making.”

  “You’re always welcome to.”

  “I like to be surprised. Dinner is the only part of my day that I don’t know what to expect.”

  I nodded. “If that’s all for now, sir, I’ll go back to the kitchen.”

  He looked up at me. From this angle his eyelashes looked so long, his cheekbones so sculpted. Without realizing I was doing it, I bit my bottom lip. His eyes moved to my mouth and I quickly released my lip, folding my hands behind my back.

  “Yes, Miss Lane, you may go. I’ll call you when I need more wine.” He took another bite of chicken as I was leaving.

  I helped myself to some potatoes and haricots verts and sat at the island to wait. It was about fifteen minutes before he called me back in to freshen his wine glass and I noticed he only had a few bites left.

  “Miss Lane, wait here beside me as I finish, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not, sir.” I stood like I had before, with my hands behind my back.

  He took the last bite of chicken. “You do realize that fixing such delicious meals only works to my benefit.”

  “That’s the idea, Mr. Hunter.”

  He took a sip of wine and scooped up the last bite of potatoes. “And you really don’t have to exert yourself on my behalf, you do know that, too, right?”

  “I know, sir.”

  “But I won’t stop you. This is the best I’ve eaten in years.” He smiled up at me and forked the last few beans on his plate.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter.” His praise was drawing that familiar surge of elation from me. I tightened my hands and looked down at the floor.

  A moment later he was finished, and pushed his plate to the side. Then he leaned back in his chair, fingering his wine glass. “Now, my dear, I hope tonight’s dessert didn’t fall victim to your violent temper.”

  “No,” I laughed, “I showed mercy today and I think you’ll like it.” I picked up his plate and took it to the kitchen, returning with a small dish of chilled mousse and a dessert spoon.

  I put it down in front of him with a smile. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you.” I started to go but he lifted his hand. “Wait just a moment.” He took a spoonful of mousse. “Extraordinary. You made this yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.” I couldn't help but smile as I could see how much he liked it.

  “Is there enough for you to have some?”

  “I made a whole batch, but the rest isn’t chilled yet.”

  “Sit.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sit.” He gestured to the chair on his left. I pulled it out and sat down. “You have to try this.” He lifted his spoon to my mouth and watched carefully as I closed my lips over it. “Delicious?”

  I nodded as he gently pulled his spoon back and took another helping for himself.

  “I don’t remember the last time I had chocolate mousse.”

  “I’m glad you like it, sir. But I couldn’t have made it without your cocoa retrieval skills, so you should get partial credit.”

  He shook his head. “No, this is all you.” He took another spoonful and lifted it to me. I opened my mouth for his spoon and he eased it in gently, again watching my mouth. This time some mousse escaped his spoon and he reached up to wipe my lip with his thumb. I felt frozen in place as I watched him lick his thumb clean of whatever errant mousse he’d found on my lips. “Too good to waste,” he said with a smile. I smiled back automatically, but was having difficulty maintaining my composure. My pulse had picked up and I surreptitiously clasped my suddenly shaky hands together in my lap. I could still feel his thumb on my lip. There was only a spoonful left and I watched him take half of it, then scoop up the last bit and offer it to me again. I reached for the spoon this time and he watched me eat it. Then he sighed, put the spoon down in the empty dish and stretched back in his chair.

  “Another wonderful meal, Miss Lane.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”

  He looked at me with half a smile. “Thank you for sharing dessert with me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He rested another minute or two and then put his napkin on the table. “I’m going to do a little more work. I’ll see you in the morning.” He seemed reluctant to go, but finally rose and pushed in his chair. I did the same.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Goodnight, Miss Lane.”

  I cleared his dishes, started the dishwasher, wiped the counter tops and set up the coffee, on auto-pilot while I struggled to comprehend why his feeding me the mousse had affected me so strongly. I replayed the moment in my mind and realized that it wasn’t being asked to sit with him at the table, or sharing his spoon. It was when he’d wiped my lip with his thumb and then put it back in his mouth. Just as I was turning out the light, I finally figured it out.

  I felt like Mr. Hunter had kissed me.

  That night I lay in bed, slowly drawing my fingers over the velvet bedspread. I was imagining what it would feel like if Mr. Hunter really kissed me. I knew his beard felt raspy but his lips looked soft. So soft. I remembered how good he'd smelled when I’d hugged him in the garage, and how strong his arms had felt the night he carried me upstairs.

  I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow with a quiet groan. I had it bad. Really bad. For my boss. I wanted Mr. Hunter. I’d tried to fight it, but every time he called me his dear, every time he complimented my cooking, every time he did something nice for me, my defenses gave a little and tonight when he fed me the mousse, they’d thrown up the white rag of surrender. I wanted him. I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anyone before in my life.

  The problem was I didn’t have a cl
ue what to do about it. I didn’t know if he felt the same way about me. I knew he liked me, cared about my safety and wanted me to be happy. He’d given me signals that I was attractive to him, but I didn’t know how much stock to put into them. Maybe he routinely chose uniforms for his housekeepers that flattered their coloring. But Mrs. Sheridan hadn’t been wearing a dress the two times I’d met her; she’d been in pants and, yes, I remembered, a different top each time.

  But maybe he routinely fingered his housekeepers’ hair, their necklaces, maybe he routinely fed them mousse. I couldn’t imagine it happening with Mrs. Sheridan. No way. But that still didn’t mean he wanted me the way I did him. In his eyes, I might just be a pretty new toy to play with, a young, eager-to-please new housekeeper on whom he could practice his manners, his teasing, his flirting. He was so much better looking than I, it just didn’t make sense.

  Okay, Sylvia, I thought, try to be rational about this. If he doesn’t like you ‘that way,’ what are you going to do? I’m going to continue with my duties, finish out the summer, try not to torture myself too much over him, and move on with my life in the fall, I answered myself. Good. You can do that. And if he does like you ‘that way’ and eventually makes a pass at you? I’m going to grab a hold of him and ravish him on the spot. Really, Sylvia? Really, Sylvia, I answered myself with a chuckle. Obediently, of course.

  I finally began to relax, realizing the silliness of my ‘problem.’ I wasn’t the first girl to ever have a crush on her boss and I wouldn’t be the last. Things would work themselves out, they always did. With that reassuring thought, I finally felt myself begin to drift asleep.

  The next morning Mr. Hunter was already in the kitchen reading a newspaper when I came downstairs. We said our good mornings as I helped myself to coffee.

  “Mr. Hunter, would it be all right if I invited Britt over for a while this morning?”

  “Of course it would. You don’t have to ask me first. Just don't play your records too loud.”

  He looked up at me for the first time and took in the fact that I was wearing my dress and my hair was down.

  “Miss Lane, how many times do I have to warn you about sneaking in extra hours?”

  “Oh, I’m not working, don’t worry. I just decided to put this on now so I don't have to change later.” That wasn’t completely untrue, right?

  “Hmm.” He decided to accept my explanation. “I was thinking of making myself some eggs. Would you like some?”

  “I don’t know what I’m in the mood for yet,” I said, opening the fridge to check out my options. The apples were still there and weren’t getting any fresher. I pulled one out and held it up to him. “Okay if I have this?”

  He nodded with an ‘of course’ expression on his handsome face. Then he got up, came over, and stood just behind me. He pointed to the package that held tonight’s pork tenderloin, and said simply, “Dinner?”

  “Yep. No surprises for you tonight.”

  He reached over my shoulder and pulled two eggs out of the bin.

  “That’s no fun.”

  “Well, the day is young. Maybe I’ll think of something.” I took a bite of the apple.

  He had moved over to the stove and was cracking the eggs into a pan. I watched his fingers deftly handle the shells. Oh, to be an eggshell.

  “When I saw the pork in the fridge, I realized that if you bring home something you don’t want me to eat, let me know. I wouldn’t cook the tenderloin, obviously, but other ingredients might disappear into my lunch if you don't warn me first.”

  “Okay, no problem. Stay away from the artichoke in the produce drawer and don’t go anywhere near the watercress.”

  “And now I know the rest of the menu,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

  “You might think you do.”

  “Are you sassing me, Miss Lane?”

  “What if I am?” I teased back.

  He’d picked up a spatula and was fiddling with his eggs.

  “Don’t make me bend you over my knee and teach you a lesson.” He waved the spatula at me and raised one eyebrow.

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “No,” he laughed, “I would never.”

  “Then why would you say that?” I was half laughing, half indignant.

  He came and stood in front of me, putting one finger under my chin. “Because I haven’t seen you blush yet this morning, and we can’t have that, can we? Ah, there it is.”

  Chapter 11

  Britt was duly impressed with the house.

  “My God, this guy must be filthy rich!” She exclaimed as I showed her the library.

  “Sh. He’s working right down the hall. He might hear you.” Mr. Hunter’s door was closed, and I’d closed the library doors behind us, but Britt was by far the loudest thing I’d heard in the house since I started working here.

  “What exactly does he write? Best-sellers?” She asked in almost a whisper.

  “I don’t actually know. I’ve never asked him.”

  “Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia.” She shook her head in dismay as if dealing with a slow child. “There’s this thing? It’s called Google? It’s on the internet. Do you know what the internet is?”

  “Shut up, Britt. I’ve just never thought to look him up. Sue me.”

  “No, sue this guy. Get him to sexually harass you or something. Then all of this could be yours.” She spun around with her arms extended.

  “He lets me use it whenever I want already. And he’d never harass me. He's too much of a gentleman.”

  “Lure him in, girl. Show some skin.”

  “Will you stop?”

  “What’s this you’re wearing, anyway?” She fingered my sleeve.

  “It’s my uniform.”

  “Uniform? It looks like a normal dress.”

  “He didn’t like me in my regular clothes. He said he wanted me to look more like an employee and not a student, so he got me this to wear. Since I wear it for work, it’s a uniform.”

  “Turn around.”

  I gave her a spin.

  “It fits you perfectly.”

  “I know. And it’s comfortable, so I didn’t make an issue out of wearing it.”

  “That color looks really good on you, too.”

  “He chose the color. It’s the same as the curtains in his office.”

  “Why do you have it on now if you’re not technically working yet?”

  Britt’s questions were starting to make me feel a little squirmy. “I could tell yesterday morning when I was in my jeans and t-shirt that he didn’t like it, so I just decided to wear this all day from now on. It’s no big deal.”

  She came even closer and peered into my eyes. Then she lifted my hands and examined my palms. Finally she picked up a strand of my hair and gave it a sniff.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking you for signs of zombie-ism.”

  “Good lord, Britt, you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Probably. But you can’t be too careful around zombies, especially ones in pretty dresses that enhance their natural features. Do you have any idea how good this dress makes your ass look?”

  “What?” My voice came out almost as loud as hers had been before.

  “That’s what I thought. You never look in the mirror, do you? You are rocking this dress. You're making me want one.”

  “Jesus, Britt, are you sure?” I craned my neck over my back but of course couldn’t see anything. Suddenly the way Mr. Hunter watched me vacuum his office yesterday started to make sense. Had he been checking me out? Why did I hope that maybe he had? Oh right, the ‘problem.’

  “Of course I’m sure. I never lie.”

  “It’s just a coincidence it fits me well. It’s not like he took my measurements.”

  She gave me an odd look. “I’m not talking about the fit, I'm talking about how it looks. That was no coincidence.” Then she finally took pity on my discomfort and changed the subject.

  “So, I was thinking about a weekend trip to L
aPorte. Do you want to?”

  “This weekend?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Sure, that sounds good. I can leave Friday night after dinner.”

  “Good. I’ll call you Friday and we’ll work out the details. I already know a place where we can stay, and my dad said we could use his car.”

  “I can’t wait. There’s an art museum there I’ve been dying to visit.”

  “I’ll do art museums with you during the day if you come out to clubs with me at night.”

  “Deal.”

  “Deal.”

  Britt left around eleven, and Mr. Hunter left at twelve. As I fixed myself a light lunch, I wondered what his Wednesday appointment could be. And I wanted to know more about why Mrs. Sheridan had quit. I’d heard her version of it, but I wanted to hear his. Had he tried to touch her hair? I felt nauseous at the thought of it. He’d told me I was the only employee he’d ever wanted to touch and I wanted to believe him. Oh, I so wanted to believe him. Dwelling on the things I didn’t know about Mr. Hunter eventually led me to Britt’s question this morning about what he wrote. Now there’s something I can solve, I thought, putting my plate in the sink and hurrying up to my room.

  I got my laptop up and running and typed his name in my search bar. The first page of results were a couple of athletes, a musician, a dentist, but no writer. I scrolled through a few more pages of increasingly obscure Facebook accounts and then tried my search again, this time specifying author, writer, co-author, anything I could think of. Still nothing. I even checked to see if he was affiliated with Noble and sighed in frustration as I continued to sort through non-results. The closest I got was a Hunter College in New York, which I was amused to see housed the Culinary Institute of America. Even Google was linking Mr. Hunter to cooking.

  The urge to snoop was almost overwhelming as I cleaned his office that afternoon. I’d decided after a fruitless fifteen minutes on my computer that Mr. Hunter must write under a pseudonym or maybe he was a technical writer or a ghost writer. Or maybe his money came from somewhere else altogether, and he merely dabbled in writing and hadn’t published yet. Or maybe he didn’t write at all; he’d never said he did. Britt was the one who told me that and although she never lied, she was wrong on occasion.