A Slow Boil

by Karen Winters

  My mind was still bubbling with ideas as I cleaned his windows. I’d managed to dust his desk without opening any drawers and felt very proud of my self-control. Then it occurred to me that although these huge windows were in so many of the rooms, the ones in the office were the only ones Mr. Hunter asked me to clean. Ah, that was something else I could do to repay Mr. Hunter, I could clean the other windows on days I had extra time, like today. Not only had I started my work a little earlier than usual, but not having to vacuum the office meant I was finishing up in here at two.

  I wasn’t especially looking forward to doing a whole extra bank of windows, but I carried the stepladder and cleaning supplies into the library and got started. At three I watched as Mr. Hunter drove up. He saw me at the window and raised his eyebrows in a question. I gave him a reassuring smile and wave, and it wasn’t long before I heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  “Miss Lane, what you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m exercising my arms.”

  “This isn’t necessary. I have a service that comes in twice a year and does big jobs like the windows and rugs. I only have you do my office windows because I spend so much time in there and I like them cleaned more often.”

  “Well, I had extra time today and just thought I’d keep working. I’m almost done so is it okay if I finish?”

  “I guess it’s all right, if you’re sure you don't mind.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He strolled around the room for a bit, looking at his books, while I continued working. I was finally down to the lowest tier of panes and had to get down on my knees to reach them. Mr. Hunter continued to linger in the room, eventually seating himself at the piano and lifting the lid. A few notes floated into the air, and I glanced over at him. He was watching me work.

  “Am I bothering you, Miss Lane?”

  “Oh no. Quite the opposite. I’d love to hear you play.”

  He did a few warm up arpeggios and then began a piece I didn’t recognize but sounded difficult to my untrained ears. The music alternated between loud swells of minor chords and delicate passages of a haunting melody. I continued wiping at the windows but was only cleaning in theory as I’d closed my eyes and let myself get immersed in the music. By the time he brought the piece to a poignant conclusion, I’d stopped moving altogether.

  “That was incredible. What was it?”

  “Rachmaninoff.” He shook his head in self-deprecation. “Like I said, I’m a little rusty.”

  “Are you kidding? That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll wash the windows in here any time if you play while I work.”

  He chuckled and looked over at me, still kneeling on the floor. Eventually he rose, closed the piano, and headed toward the door.

  “I may take you up on that. But I assure you, my music is far from being the most beautiful thing in the room.”

  I thought about his comment while I worked on my homemade ravioli (surprise, Mr. Hunter!). He must have been referring to me, right? Did he really think I was beautiful? I knew I was okay, but beautiful? No, he must have meant something else. I replayed the comment in my head a couple times, trying to picture myself. I’d been on the floor, kneeling by the windows, hardly the most becoming position, but then I remembered the time I knelt in his office, when he stood above me without speaking, and the time I fell asleep on the dining-room floor. Did he like seeing me kneel? Was that it? If it was, it should bother me, right? So why didn’t it? I decided not to think about it right now and focus on dinner. It wasn’t like I was going to go around kneeling at his feet. No matter how much I was trying to think of ways to please him, that was not going to happen. Although it already had, and I’d liked it.

  Wednesday’s night dinner was Italian themed, with rosemary and garlic marinated tenderloin, artichoke and cheese stuffed ravioli, and a watercress salad. The ravioli was the only challenging part, as I’d never made it by hand before, but it wasn’t that hard, just time-consuming. I’d never cooked artichokes before either and they took longer to steam than I’d expected. The tenderloin was resting and the salad was ready, but I needed ten more minutes to finish the ravioli when six rolled around. I decided to serve Mr. Hunter his salad first and brought it out on a separate plate.

  “Good evening, Miss Lane.”

  “Good evening, sir. I hope you don’t mind being served in courses tonight.” I put his salad down.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Good. I need a few more minutes to finish the rest of the meal. Would you like a drink with your salad?”

  “I'll have another glass of viognier, thank you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I pulled last night’s bottle out of the fridge and brought it back to the dining-room, poured him a glass and left the bottle on the table, then hurried back to the kitchen to boil the pasta and slice the tenderloin. I had his plate ready when he called for me, and carried it in, swapping it for his empty salad plate.

  “What’s this?”

  “Pork tenderloin with artichoke stuffed ravioli, sir.”

  “You made these yourself?” He gestured to the ravioli with his fork.

  “Yes, sir. They took a little longer than I expected. I’m sorry they weren't done right at six.”

  He shook his head, chuckled, and started lifting one to his mouth. “I’m sure they'll be well worth the wait.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. Would you like more wine?”

  He nodded and I refilled his glass, then smiled to him as I began to return to the kitchen. A slight frown crossed his features as I left. I ate some salad as I waited at the island, hoping he was enjoying his dinner. Was the flavor off in the artichoke stuffing, is that why he'd frowned? It has seemed fine but maybe I’d been mistaken. I was just getting up to taste one for myself when he called me.

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter?” I said as I returned to the dining-room and stood beside him with my hands behind my back. His wine glass was still full, his meal only barely eaten. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach that he didn’t like it as he looked up at me with a questioning expression.

  “Miss Lane, this is the best pasta I’ve ever had.” Relief washed over me and I smiled back at him. “Have you tasted it yet?”

  “Before it was cooked, yes, but not the finished result.”

  He lifted a ravioli on his fork for me to try. I took it into my mouth and my eyes widened. They had turned out well, the flavors more combined than when raw.

  “What kind of cheese did you use?”

  “Asiago, sir.”

  “I wish I could give you some tenderloin as well, it’s perfect.”

  “I’m so glad you like it.” The relief I felt was apparent in my voice.

  He looked up at me with a very satisfied expression, then offered me his wine glass. I took a sip, and gave it back to him.

  “Did you make enough for your dinner, Miss Lane?”

  “Oh yes, I made way too much. You can have some for lunch tomorrow if you want.”

  “My god, but you spoil me.” He turned his attention to his plate and took a bite of tenderloin, then offered me another ravioli. “I can afford to be generous since I get more for tomorrow.”

  “You’re already too generous, Mr. Hunter,” I said with a smile.

  “You bring it out in me, my dear,” he said. “You can go and eat your dinner now. I just wanted to pay my compliments to the chef.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter.” I retreated to the kitchen, thinking about his comment. He was becoming a different person at dinner, less authoritative and more affectionate, if that was the right word. He almost seemed to want me to linger with him in the dining-room, asking me to share his dessert last night, calling me back to try the ravioli. It was a bit unusual, definitely, but I didn’t mind at all. I could tell it made him happy and that made me happy.

  He called me back in when he was finished. I picked up his empty plate and asked if he’d li
ke some more mousse for dessert.

  “Absolutely, I would.’ I came back with a bowl of mousse and a spoon, put them down in front of him.

  “You’ll share with me again?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d love to.” I sat in the same chair I used last night.

  “That’s my girl.” He raised the first spoonful to my mouth. I kept my eyes on his as he watched my mouth close over the spoon.

  “Is it as good as it was last night?”

  I nodded, swallowing. It had held up just fine overnight. He took a taste and nodded, too, agreeing with me.

  “Miss Lane, thank you for humoring me.”

  That took me by surprise. Here I’d been trying to puzzle out his behavior when he was perfectly aware that he was asking me to do something a bit odd. We looked at each other and a smile crept up on my face as I said the first thing I was thinking.

  “Mr. Hunter, I don’t mind. In fact, I like it.”

  “You do?” He looked at me intently.

  I nodded and shrugged. It was true.

  “Have some more.” He lifted his spoon, and it wasn’t long before the mousse was finished. He sighed and again seemed reluctant to leave. He put his napkin on the table and then braced his hands on his knees, looking at me.

  “Goodnight, Miss Lane, and thank you,” he said, pushing himself up, then reaching out and teasing his long fingers into my hair, his thumbs sweeping once across my cheekbones, as he cupped my face and leant down to kiss the top of my head. “Thank you for everything.”

  Chapter 12

  He kissed me. Maybe not where I wanted him to, but he did kiss me. I lay in bed that night reliving the feel of his fingers in my hair, his thumbs on my cheeks - so gentle, so tender, like the sweep across my lip he’d done with his thumb. I wanted his hands on me everywhere, I wanted him to kiss me everywhere. But I still didn’t know how he felt about me. Kissing the top of my head was hardly a bold declaration of desire, but I wouldn’t expect that of him anyway. He was too reserved, too well-mannered, too self-controlled to show that even if he was feeling it.

  Apart from the evening I’d been in crisis mode over my paper, the only times he’d touched me outside the dining-room had been to help me out of his car and once under my chin. I didn’t count the hug when he gave me my bike because I’d initiated it. But in the dining-room, he’d played with my hair, touched my face, kissed my head, and now he was asking me to sit and share his dessert, which meant more opportunities to touch me. I could only take that as a good sign, I thought, curling up on my side and eventually letting sleep drift over me.

  I slept in Thursday morning past nine, my body finally adjusting to the end of school and lack of morning dorm noises. I stretched and lay still for a few minutes, luxuriating in the silence and the comfort of my bed, then got up and went over the windows. Pulling open the heavy curtains, I had to squint into the bright sunlight. I opened one of the windows and a warm breeze blew in; it was going to be another hot day. My mind wandered over last night’s dinner, my tasks for the day, the dinner I was planning for tonight, and I smiled to myself. I was already looking forward to it.

  I put on some shorts and a t-shirt and went downstairs for breakfast. The kitchen was empty so I assumed Mr. Hunter was already working. He’d left me half a pot of coffee, and set out the bread and toaster. I ate quickly and quietly, put my dishes in the sink, double-checked my grocery list and took off on my bike for Southbay’s.

  On my way there, it occurred to me that I should make a first course or an appetizer. Mr. Hunter seemed to like drawing out dinner, and that was fine by me as well. I was making crab cakes and cole slaw tonight, so another salad was probably too much. What would go well with the rest of the dinner? I got everything I needed for the main course and dessert and then wandered through the produce section, trying to get an idea for the appetizer. The leeks caught my eye and I recalled that the first dish Mr. Hunter had declared a favorite had been the halibut with leek sauce. I grabbed a couple, found some organic potatoes, and headed up to check out.

  Still no sign of Mr. Hunter when I got home shortly after eleven. I put the groceries away and went upstairs to check my emails, shower and change. I dried my hair and put on a little mascara, then went back downstairs to eat a quick lunch. Mr. Hunter had left me a bowl with the last of the ravioli. I smiled as I put in the microwave; this was the second meal today he’d set out for me. After I was done, I put my dishes in the dishwasher, noting that Mr. Hunter had put away last night’s clean ones, and started preparing the cole slaw. The rest of the meal I could make later.

  I spent the next couple of hours sweeping and mopping. When I did my room I put my iPod on, humming along with the music as much as I dared. I didn’t hum at all as I worked in the library, but by the time I was working in the dining-room, I was singing under my breath. I finished the room and turned to take the equipment downstairs.

  “Ah!” I nearly dropped the mop. Mr. Hunter was leaning against the wall just inside the door, his hands in his pockets, watching me with that odd look he’d had when I’d vacuumed his office. I pulled out my earbuds. “You startled me!”

  “I’m sorry. I came down for a glass of water and heard you singing.” He didn’t look at all sorry.

  “You don’t look at all sorry.”

  “I’m relieved, mostly. I thought you were talking to yourself. This –” he gestured toward my iPod, “- at least makes sense.” He smiled and walked up to me, taking an earbud and putting it up to his ear. “Really, Miss Lane, you’re listening to the Rolling Stones?”

  “I like them.”

  “I would have thought you’d prefer something newer, hip-hop or something.”

  “I have some on here. I listen to a lot of different things.”

  “Different music for different chores?”

  “No, this is the first time I’ve used it, but that’s a good idea. I should put some Rachmaninoff on for when I’m working in the library.” He handed me back my earbud. “And some death metal for when I’m making dessert.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, his face lighting up the way it did when he was really amused. I wished I could stop time, that he would always look this happy, this relaxed, this handsome, and that I could look at him forever.

  The rest of the afternoon I spent in the kitchen. Dinner tonight was relatively easy, but I had an extra first course and a dessert to make, so time passed quickly. At six I brought Mr. Hunter his bowl of soup and a spoon.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening, Miss Lane. What’s this?”

  “Vichyssoise, sir.”

  “Vichyssoise. I’ve heard of it, but don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure.”

  “I hope you like it, sir. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Will a white wine go well with the rest of the meal?”

  I thought about the crab cakes and cole slaw, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Please bring me a bottle of whatever you like. I’ll let you choose tonight.”

  I went down to the wine cellar and looked through the whites. I had no idea how to pair wines with food, so I just grabbed one whose label caught my eye and brought it back upstairs. I opened it at the table and poured Mr. Hunter a glass.

  “Tell me, my dear. What exactly is vichyssoise?” He lifted a spoonful to his mouth.

  “It’s potatoes, leeks and cream, served chilled, sir.”

  “Mmm. Remarkable. That’s all that’s in it?”

  “Pretty much. A little seasoning.”

  “Have you tasted it yet?”

  “Just briefly.”

  “Here, try some more.” He lifted his spoon up to me and I bent down to take a taste. I nodded and swallowed. It was really good, simple and refreshing.

  He took a sip of wine, and then reached for the bottle, turning it to read the label. “A sauvignon blanc, perfect. What made you choose this one?”

  “I liked the label.”

  He chuckled and
handed me the wine glass. I took a sip and gave it back to him, nodding my approval. There was something flinty about the wine that balanced the cream and potatoes of the soup.

  “Thank you, my dear. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter.”

  I went back to the kitchen and prepared his dinner plate. I was just finishing when he called. I carried in his plate and swapped it for his soup bowl.

  “Would you like more wine, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you. Are these crab cakes?”

  “Yes, sir. The sauce is a caper-lemon butter.”

  “Did you make the cole slaw yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Such a treat.” He poured some sauce on a crab cake and took a bite. “Mmm, delicious. Here, tell me what you think.” He lifted his fork to me and I took the bite, smiling and nodding in agreement.

  “You’re really an excellent cook, Miss Lane. Have you ever thought of taking classes?”

  “Thank you, but no I haven’t.” I laughed a little, remembering my futile google search yesterday. “I did come across one the other day online, though. Maybe it's a sign.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “I don’t remember the name, just that it was in New York.”

  He took another bite and smiled. “I’d hope you could find something closer.”

  “And cheaper.” I smiled back. “It was attached to Hunter College and I assume cost as much to attend.” My smile froze. Damn it, Sylvia!

  “Hunter College.” He said the words slowly, emphasizing the first one, and his smile widened. “What, or whom, were you googling?”

  I looked down at him and bit my lip. He looked at my mouth and then raised his eyebrows and his eyes as he waited for my answer.

  “I googled you, sir. I wanted to know what you write.”

  “What I write?” He took another bite of crab, not seeming at all bothered that I’d admitted to snooping into his background.

  “Britt told me you’re a writer and I was curious.”

  “You can ask me anything, my dear. I don’t talk much about myself but that’s out of habit, not because I have any secrets.” He smiled at me fondly. “I’m just surprised my inquisitive housekeeper hasn’t asked me before now.”