A Slow Boil

by Karen Winters

  I smiled back at him. “Mr. Hunter, what do you write?”

  “I’m not a writer, technically, more of a translator.”

  “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “I couldn’t find anything about you online. I thought you wrote under a pseudonym, maybe, or were a ghost writer.”

  He chuckled. “Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid.” He took a bite of cole slaw.

  “What do you translate?”

  “I have a contract with the University. If one of the international faculty wants to publish in English, I help them.”

  “They must pay you awfully well.”

  “Fairly well. But I have resources of my own. My parents passed away some years ago, and their estate allowed me to move here and buy this house.”

  “Oh, Mr. Hunter, I’m so sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago, Miss Lane.”

  “Still, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s all right, I assure you, Miss Lane.” He handed me his wine glass with a reassuring smile. “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

  I shook my head. I was curious about so many things, but I wasn’t going to ask him any more personal questions tonight. I felt so bad for him about his parents and didn’t want to risk opening any other old sores. I took a sip of wine and put the glass back down on the table.

  “I have a question for you, Miss Lane. Are there any crab cakes left over for my lunch tomorrow?”

  I smiled. “Yes, sir, two more.”

  “But what are you going to have for dinner?”

  “There’s still some soup and cole slaw, sir. That will be plenty.”

  “All right, if you’re sure. I’ll let you know when I need you.”

  I went back to the kitchen and sat at the island. I’d just learned more about Mr. Hunter in five minutes than I had in the last three weeks. The fact that he was a translator was easy to absorb, but his parents’ deaths were tragic. Even though my mother had left us, I still had her in my life, and even though my father was more of a buddy than a dad, he was still a rock I could rely upon. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose either of them, let alone both.

  “Miss Lane, I’m finished.”

  I pushed the door open and approached Mr. Hunter, who had stretched back with a very satisfied look on his face, his empty plate pushed to the side. I loved seeing him like this, happy and content, and because of me.

  “I made dessert tonight, sir. May I bring you some?”

  “Yes, my dear Miss Lane. I’d love some.”

  I went back to the kitchen, cut a slice of cake and brought it back out with a clean fork.

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

  “Hmm. I’m leaning toward a glass of port. Is this lemon cake?”

  “Yes, sir. I had to try that recipe again to figure out what I did wrong.”

  “And did you?” He looked up at me and I was caught in his blue-eyed gaze, transfixed by his eyelashes that were long enough to be reflecting light from the chandelier.

  “Hmm?”

  “Did you solve the mystery of the murdered cake?”

  I snapped out of my daze. “No, sir. Not a clue.”

  He chuckled and turned back to his plate. “Would you mind bringing me a small glass of port?”

  I found the port near the gin, bent down to fish a small glass out of the lower shelf, poured the drink and turned to bring it back to the table. Mr. Hunter had twisted in his chair to watch me. I suppressed a smile as I brought it back to the table.

  “Here you go, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He took a bite of cake. “It’s very good, Miss Lane. I’m glad you tried it again.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you have some?”

  “I’d love to.”

  He tilted his head toward my chair and I sat. He lifted a forkful to my mouth and I reached forward to take it in. It was good, but I’d expected it to be more lemony.

  “What do you think, my dear?”

  “I’d have liked it to have a stronger lemon flavor.”

  “You like bold flavors.”

  “Maybe. I’ve never thought about it.”

  “And spicy food.”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “What else do you like, Miss Lane?” His eyes were locked with mine and I said the first thing that popped into my head.

  “I like working for you, Mr. Hunter.”

  “You do?” He smiled.

  “Yes, sir, very much.”

  He looked down at his plate and took another bite of cake, passing me his glass of port with his free hand.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I like you working for me as well. Your work thus far has been exemplary, and your cooking goes above and beyond what I expected when I hired you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I smiled and took a sip of port. “I like this, too,” I said, as I gave him back his glass. “I’ve never had port before.”

  “No?” He swallowed his cake and frowned. “You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”

  “Mr. Hunter, I’m twenty-one, a full-grown adult. It’s perfectly legal for me to drink. In some cultures I’d even be considered an old maid.”

  “I find that very hard to believe.”

  “You’ll have to trust me on that one. Anthropology major, remember?”

  “Yes, of course. I bow to your greater knowledge of insane cultures which would consider you an old maid.”

  “How old are you, Mr. Hunter?”

  He put his fork down and took a sip of port. “Thirty-nine. Some cultures would consider me elderly. Right?” He was teasing me again, but there was undertone of seriousness. Did he really think he was old?

  “I suppose some insane cultures might consider you an elder, but luckily not ours. Thirty-nine's not old.”

  “No?” He raised one eyebrow and looked at me sideways.

  “No,” I said emphatically. He smiled down at his plate, forking up another bite and raising it up to my mouth.

  We finished our cake but stayed at the table for another ten minutes, just talking. Finally Mr. Hunter put his napkin on the table, and rose to go. I stood, too, and collected our dishes. He lingered at the table, watching me, then let out a quiet sigh.

  “Goodnight, Miss Lane.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Thank you for another lovely meal and lovely company.” Then he bent down and kissed the top of my head again.

  Chapter 13

  Friday morning I dressed in shorts again since I was biking to Southbay’s right after breakfast. Mr. Hunter was at the island when I entered the kitchen, and as I poured myself some coffee, I asked him if he had any special requests for dinner.

  “No, I don’t think so. Anything’s fine.”

  I put some bread in the toaster and helped myself to the last apple.

  “Mr. Hunter, I forgot to tell you before now, but Britt and I going to LaPorte this weekend. I hope that’s all right.”

  He looked up me, his face registering surprise and maybe a little disappointment.

  “Of course it’s all right, Miss Lane. Your weekends are your own. When are you leaving?”

  “We haven’t decided yet. Maybe tonight after dinner, maybe in the morning.”

  “There’s a wonderful little art museum in LaPorte.”

  “I know. It’s the first place I want to go.”

  “There’s also a very good restaurant on James Street called Grand’s.”

  “Thanks for the tip. We’ll check it out.”

  “Where are you going to be staying?”

  “Britt says she knows a place, but she didn’t tell me where.”

  “Ah.” He drummed his fingers on the side of his mug. “May I ask a favor of you, Miss Lane?”

  “Of course you may, sir.”

  “Will you call me when you arrive to let me know you’ve gotten there safely?”

  “Mr. Hunter, you don’t have to worry abo
ut me. Full-grown adult, remember?”

  I pulled the coffee carafe off its stand and walked over to refill his mug. After I was done, he put a hand on mine and held me there.

  “I do worry, though. I can’t help it.” His thumb rubbed lightly over my wrist bone. “You know how I am about your safety.”

  “All right, Mr. Hunter. I’ll call you when we get there.”

  “And you’ll call me if anything goes wrong during the weekend and you need help?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  He let go of my wrist and let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing.

  “Thank you.”

  I put the coffee pot back and started buttering my toast.

  “Miss Lane, I apologize if I seem overbearing. You must feel as if you’ve left home only to have gained a new father.”

  “It’s okay, sir. I really don’t mind. It’s good that you’ll know where I am this weekend, and that I get there okay. And no,” I added, keeping my eyes down, “I definitely don’t think of you as my father.”

  He cleared his throat. “Good.”

  When I got to Southbay’s, Pete helped me pick out enough things to get Mr. Hunter through the weekend. Once it was all wrapped and packed, I could barely lift my basket.

  “How are you going to carry all that, Sylvia? Want me to call you a taxi?”

  “Nope. Mr. Hunter gave me a bike.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “It was. He didn’t want me to feel like I was stuck at his house during my off hours.”

  “Stuck at his house? I don’t get it.”

  “I’m living there for the summer. I couldn’t find a decent apartment, so Mr. Hunter offered me one of his guest rooms.”

  “Really? I’m amazed to hear that.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because the housekeeper he had before you, Mrs. Sheridan, did you meet her?”

  “Yeah, she trained me in.”

  “She was always going on about how much he kept to himself, how she never saw him, like he was avoiding her or something.”

  “Well, he’s not like that with me. We see each other all the time, and we even eat meals together.” I was surprised by how quickly I rose to Mr. Hunter’s defense.

  “Wow. I guess she had him pegged wrong then.”

  “Maybe. Well, I’ve got to get going, Pete. Thanks for your help and I’ll see you next week.”

  “Yep. You have a good weekend, kiddo.”

  “You, too.”

  Well, that was interesting, I thought, as I pedaled home. Mrs. Sheridan thought Mr. Hunter avoided her. I felt a lot better knowing that.

  I took a quick shower when I got home, put on my dress, and called Britt. We agreed that since it was a two hour drive, and I couldn’t leave here until eight tonight at the earliest, it would make more sense for her to pick me up in the morning. She wanted to start early so we’d have the whole day in LaPorte; I managed to talk her down from six a.m. to seven, and said I’d see her in the morning.

  I still had a couple of hours before starting work and decided to take it easy. I was going to be on my feet in the kitchen all afternoon, so I took my book down to the library to read for a while. I pulled the curtains open, turned one of the chairs so it was in the sun, and sat down. After a few minutes I kicked off my flats and curled my feet up underneath me, sinking deeper into the chair. Eventually I discovered that the most comfortable position was sideways, with my bare feet hanging over one of the thickly-padded arms. Perfect. I snuggled down with my book propped on my chest and was soon lost to the world.

  Maybe an hour later I heard Mr. Hunter leave his office. He paused at the library door and must have seen my feet hanging off the side of the chair because a moment later he appeared in front of me, standing over my feet, his hands in his pockets.

  “You look like a cat taking a nap in the sun.”

  “I feel like a cat reading a book in the sun.”

  “Cats can’t read.”

  “I can’t nap.”

  “No?”

  I shook my head. “Napping just makes me feel more tired. Weird, I know, for a college student.”

  “Well, unusual maybe.”

  “It’s weird. You can say it.”

  “But are you ticklish like a normal person?” He was eying my bare feet, but kept his hands in his pockets.

  “Mr. Hunter!” I yelled at him, laughing and yanking my feet away. My skirt rode up over my knees and half way up my thighs. “Don’t you dare!”

  He just laughed and turned away toward the windows, deliberately giving me a second to pull my skirt down and sit up.

  “Sorry, Miss Lane.”

  “I won’t tolerate any tickling. I’m warning you. You’ll end up seriously injured if you ever try.”

  “By what?” He was still grinning as he turned back to me. “Your spastic kicks?”

  “Oh, worse than that. I have a whole arsenal. Flailing elbows, flapping hands, hip checks, head butts, you name it.”

  He laughed out loud, taking one hand out of his pocket to rub his face. “My god, I wouldn’t stand a chance, would I?”

  “No. You wouldn’t.” I stood up, walked over to him and poked him in the chest. “So consider yourself warned. I’d hate to have to hurt your pretty face.”

  His expression changed a little at that comment but he kept his smile.

  “So would my housekeeper care to join me for lunch? I was on my way down when I saw you in here.”

  “I’d love to.” I went back to the chair and started putting my shoes back on.

  “You can leave them off if you want. I don't mind if you're barefoot.”

  “Yes, sir, “ I said with a smile.

  We were sitting at the island sharing the left-over crab cakes when he asked me if I had a busy afternoon ahead of me.

  “Not really. Today I do the bathrooms and they go pretty quickly. I’ll be down here the rest of the time.”

  “Something special for dinner tonight?”

  “If it turns out, yes. But actually I’m going to be making some meals for you to have over the weekend.”

  “No, absolutely not. That’s not part of your job.”

  “I know it’s not, but I don't want you to have to cook for yourself or order take-out while I’m gone.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Miss Lane, or pretty soon you’ll be cooking dinners on weekends as well.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that? If I’m here, I don’t mind.”

  “But I do. I could very easily start taking advantage of your generous nature if you let me.”

  “Mr. Hunter, you can’t take advantage of something freely offered, remember?”

  He just cocked his head at me, clearly recalling his words when he’d asked me to move in.

  “Okay, how’s this. You let me make these dishes for you just this once. I mean, I’ve got a fridge full of ingredients that are just going to be sitting there all weekend otherwise, and when I get back Sunday night, if you’re still totally opposed to me doing some cooking on weekends, then I won’t do it again. I wasn’t going to make anything super fancy, anyway.”

  He hesitated, but finally acknowledged with a nod that he’d agree to that condition.

  “That reminds me. When you are leaving tonight?”

  “I’m not actually. Britt is picking me up tomorrow morning at seven.”

  “Oh, good. Then I won’t worry about you driving at night.”

  I smiled and rolled my eyes. “I guess not.”

  “Well, in that case, I hope you’re making something I can eat very, very slowly for dinner.” He rose with a smirky smile of his own, put our plates in the sink and left the room with one last, “See you at six.”

  I finished the bathrooms and changing his sheets in no time and was soon at work in the kitchen. I turned on the radio to keep me company, since I was going to be here for a while. I worked on the weekend mea
ls for a while and then stepped out onto the patio to inspect an old charcoal grill I’d spotted earlier. It needed a little dusting off but thankfully looked perfectly workable. I pulled it out into the center of the patio, cleaned out the old ashes, dumped in the new briquettes I’d bought at Southbay’s, and went back inside to marinate the steaks. Mr. Hunter was getting filet mignon tonight, grilled, with a roquefort-shallot sauce. I was pretty sure he was going to like it.

  At five I lit the briquettes and left the grill open while they heated. The steaks were done marinating and I gave them a thorough dusting of salt and plenty of ground pepper. By now, with the grill going, it was time to start the first course. I went back to the fridge and pulled out the package of oysters. Giving them a quick rinse in the sink, I left them there unshucked and prepared a quick butter and Tabasco reduction on the stove. Once that was done, I checked the grill. Perfect. The oysters went on, the shells began to open, and the oysters came off. I carried them into the house and shucked them open, being careful not to burn myself on the hot shells and leaving each delectable oyster on the bottom of its shell, immersed in its own beautiful juices. I put them aside on a serving platter with a small bowl of the butter sauce and went back outside to make the steaks. Once they were done and resting, I quickly set up Mr. Hunter’s place setting, then hurried back to the kitchen, where I tightened my apron and straightened my hair. At six on the dot I walked in with the oysters.

  “Miss Lane.”

  “Mr. Hunter.”

  “What’s this?”

  “An appetizer, sir. Oysters.”

  “Oysters?”

  “Yes. I hope you like them, sir. Would you like a drink to go with them?”

  “Would white wine go with the rest of the meal?”

  “Not tonight, sir.”

  “In that case, I’ll have a martini.”

  I quickly made his drink and returned to the table, placing his drink above his plate.

  “I’ve never had these before. What do I do?”

  “Spoon some of the sauce on top of one, and then eat it with your fork.”

  He did what I said and put the oyster in his mouth. He looked up at me with an almost anguished expression and for a second I thought I’d made a horrible mistake.