A Slow Boil

by Karen Winters

  “And then he started chasing me around the dining-room table, until I let him catch me.”

  I could feel him shift his weight toward me. I kept my eyes closed but I was smiling.

  “You let him catch you?”

  I nodded. “He was so old, he’d gotten out of breath. I felt sorry for him.”

  I felt his hand leave my ankle and come to my waist. “That’s very kind of you to take pity on an old man.”

  “That’s what I thought, but it turned out to be a trap.”

  “A trap, Miss Lane?” His voice was closer.

  “He was only pretending to be old. Once he’d caught me, he lifted me up like I weighed nothing and started to kiss me.”

  “Like this?” I felt his lips hover over mine, then lightly press down.

  “No. He kissed me harder than that.”

  “Hmm. He doesn’t sound like much of gentleman.” I felt his lips move down my face to my throat.

  “Oh no, he was. After he put me down, he fed me some scallops.”

  “Were they good?” He’d moved to the other side of my throat and was kissing me softly with his mouth open, tasting me.

  “They were delicious,” I whispered as I put my hand on the back of his neck.

  “You are delicious,” he murmured back, coming back up to kiss my lips lightly again. “You taste like Miss Lane dipped in sunlight, with a touch of -” he kissed me lightly again, “- silly.”

  I opened my eyes. He was inches away and I’d never seen him look so carefree and relaxed. I smiled up at him and smoothed his hair off his forehead. He took his hand off my waist and reached up to run a finger over my bottom lip. “Add yourself to my list of favorites, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl. Now let’s get some lunch.”

  After we were done eating, I went upstairs to change into my dress. I crossed the hall to the bathroom to put on my necklace and took a moment to survey myself. I’d stayed out in the sun this morning long enough to get a bit of a glow without burning. The dark circles were finally gone from under my eyes and my new haircut was much more flattering than my old pony tail. I could see more of my body in this mirror than the one in the powder room, so I turned to the side and looked at myself in my dress. I still couldn’t get a good view of my behind but even from the side, I could see how it flattered my waist and hips. I looked like a completely different person than the student I’d been just a few weeks ago. Still myself, but much improved.

  After making short work of the bathrooms and changing Mr. Hunter’s bedding, I headed to the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, bringing my laptop with me. I was making four dishes I’d never made before, two of which I’d never even tasted, and was going to need my computer to help me out as I went.

  I put on my apron, turned on the radio, and got to work, keeping an eye on the clock. I had just started the risotto around five-fifteen when I heard the sliding door open.

  “Mr. Hunter, you’re making it awfully hard to surprise you,” I said, without turning around. The strawberry tart was in the fridge, the duck was in the oven, and the cream of morel soup was covered on a back burner, but he could easily see the ingredients for a spring vegetable risotto on the counter next to me.

  “Miss Lane, you make it hard to stay away when everything smells so good.” He came and stood right behind me, resting his hands on my waist for a moment before slowly untying and retying my apron.

  “I seem to recall you once telling me you didn’t want to see me or hear me, yet here you are again.”

  He chuckled a little, moving to lean back against the counter.

  “I think I've spent more time with you in the last four weeks than I did with Mrs. Sheridan in four years.”

  “Has it only been four weeks? It seems longer.”

  “In a good way, I hope.”

  “Of course. I mean that I’m already used to your routines and I feel at home.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It is.”

  “Do you need help with anything?”

  “Really?” I looked up at him in surprise.

  “Yes, really, my dear. I didn’t come down just to snoop. It occurred to me that your hands might be sore.” He took the wooden spoon out of my fingers and started stirring the risotto. “I can do this for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. That’s very kind of you.” My palms were actually a little sore after a full afternoon of cooking and forty-five minutes of stirring rice wasn’t going to help them feel any better.

  “So I just stir?” He moved to take my position in front of the stove, and I went around to his left to add ingredients.

  “That’s what the recipe says. I’ve never made risotto before, but you’re supposed to stir the rice as you gradually add the cooking liquid. I guess it makes the rice creamier.”

  “So that’s how they do it. Good risotto is creamier than regular rice.” He kept stirring while I slowly added some white wine, then some vegetable broth. I watched his hand grip the spoon, the muscles in his forearm flexing.

  “Why are you staring at my hands?”

  “I’m not!”

  “Yes, you were. Am I doing this wrong?”

  “No, that’s perfect. Okay, I was admiring your fingers.”

  “My fingers.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are weird.”

  “I’ve already told you that. Several times. Pay attention.”

  He laughed and wiggled his fingers. “You pay attention. You’re the one easily distracted by fingers, not me.”

  “Again, Mr. Hunter, I clearly said ‘admiring,’ not ‘being distracted by.’ Honestly.”

  “I think you’re the first person who’s ever mentioned my fingers since my mother. She made me take piano lessons because she said I had the fingers for it.” He was looking down into the pot of rice.

  “I’m glad she did. She was right.”

  He gave me a bit of a sad smile.

  “What?”

  “I was just remembering how much trouble I used to give her about practicing.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mind.” I added some more broth.

  “No, probably not.” He sniffed the air. “What smells so good?”

  I looked at the timer. “Your main course is almost done. You’re going to find out what it is in about five minutes, unless you close your eyes when I pull it out of the oven.”

  “What to do, what to do,” he grimaced.

  I laughed. “There are two other dishes that will still surprise you tonight, if that factors into your decision.”

  He smiled down at me. “All right. I’ll go with fifty percent surprise this evening.”

  A few minutes later he moved aside and I reached into the oven for the duck. It had turned a lovely deep brown, the juices sizzling on the bottom of the roasting pan. It looked pretty good, if I said so myself.

  “Is that duck?”

  “Yes, sir.” I moved it to a cutting board and covered it with foil to let it rest, then skimmed off as much fat from the pan as I could. I then added a little white wine and grated orange zest, and reduced the juices on the burner next to the rice while Mr. Hunter continued to stir and add the broth himself. He watched me work until I had the glaze at the consistency I wanted. I then poured it into a small gravy boat and put the pan in the sink.

  “Okay,” I said, turning back around. “How’s the risotto coming along?” I stood next to him to check. He lifted the spoon up for me to take a quick taste. “I think it’s almost done.” I scooped in the chopped asparagus and fresh peas and poured in one more addition of broth. He stirred them in as I added the grated Parmesan cheese and some salt and pepper. “This can probably sit on low now while I set the table.”

  “Would you like me to carve the duck?”

  “Sure, that would be great. I’m not a very good carver.”

  He chuckled. “After seeing you at work for the first time, I refuse to believe there’s anything you don�
��t do well, my dear.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I smiled to him as I left to set his place in the dining room. I decided to relight the candles and open the curtains to let in more evening light. “Ready when you are, Mr. Hunter,” I said, returning to the kitchen. He’d finished carving and was washing his hands at the sink. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. I handed him a towel to dry his hands and he leaned back against the sink, crossing his long legs and wiping his hands slowly, looking at me with an expression of fondness mixed with something I couldn’t quite interpret.

  He put the towel down on the counter and pushed himself off, coming up to me and cupping my face. His expression unchanged, he looked down at me a moment before bending down and kissing my forehead. “Give me five minutes before you come in, Miss Lane.” On his way out, he grabbed the wine opener out of the drawer.

  Five minutes later, I brought Mr. Hunter his soup. He was standing between our chairs, pouring a glass of wine. I put his soup down and he pulled my chair out with a quiet “Ladies first.” I smiled at him as I sat and got comfortable. He took his seat and took a sniff of his soup. “What is this, Miss Lane?”

  “It’s a cream and mushroom soup, sir, with morels.”

  “Morels?”

  “They’re one of my favorite mushrooms, sir. I hope you like it.”

  He took a taste. “This is wonderful. Amazing. Here.” He lowered his spoon to me. It was good, the flavor of the mushrooms really coming through, only lightly mellowed by the cream.

  “This is one of my favorite wines, my dear, a Côte du Rhône. Tell me what you think.” He handed me his glass and I took a sip.

  “Very nice, sir. It should go well with the duck, but why didn’t you ask me to get it for you?”

  “I didn't realize until this evening just how much work you go to fixing me these exquisite meals. I don’t think I need to send you running off to the wine cellar any longer. You should be resting.” He smiled at me and ran his hand over my hair, cupping my cheek. “Would you like some more soup?”

  “Please, sir. May I please have some more soup?”

  He fed me, his eyes lingering on my face.

  “You got some sun today.”

  “I didn’t burn, though. Thank you for getting me back inside when you did.”

  The candlelight flickered in his eyes. “I was watching you sunbathe from upstairs.”

  “You were, sir?”

  “Yes. I saw you from the landing. You looked so peaceful, so content.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I stayed silent. He returned to his soup.

  “I’m not getting much work done with you in my house, Miss Lane.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve often worked too much just because I had nothing else to do. Now I have a beautiful young woman to keep track of.”

  I blushed. He smiled at me.

  He took another spoonful of soup. “Another to add my favorites, my dear. I hope you make this regularly.”

  “I’m glad you liked it, sir. Fresh morels are only available in the spring, though. I was so happy to find some at Southbay’s today.”

  “Only in the spring,” he seemed to say to himself, his eyes on his bowl. “And we don’t know where you’ll be next spring, do we?”

  “Here, hopefully. I mean, at Noble.”

  He nodded, his face serious, his spoon moving in lazy circles through last of the soup. Then he smiled at me. “Yes, hopefully. Would you like the last bite?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No thank you, sir. There’s plenty more for me later.”

  He finished the soup and pushed his bowl to the side.

  “May I please get up and get your dinner for you?”

  “You may, thank you.” He reached for my hand to help me up.

  I took his bowl to the kitchen and returned shortly with his plate of duck and risotto, and the serving dish of glaze. Before I sat back down, I topped off his wine glass.

  I watched him while he ate with relish. He declared the duck to be as good as anything he’d ever eaten, but refused to take any credit for the risotto, which I thought was delicious. “All I did was stir. That doesn’t come anywhere near to what you do.” He looked at me fondly. I didn’t realize until we were almost done that he wasn’t touching me as much as he had the previous two nights. He was as affectionate and full of praise as always, but apart from a few strokes to my hair and cheek, he was keeping his hands to himself tonight.

  We finished dinner and I asked if I could get his dessert.

  “Yes, my dear, you may.” He reached down to help me up. “Be careful near the refrigerator, though. You’ve already been injured once today.”

  “Oh, I forgot all about that,” I laughed, and without thinking I reached down and pulled my skirt up to check my knee. The scrape hadn’t bled through the band-aid, so I dropped my skirt and looked down at Mr. Hunter just as he was turning his eyes from my legs back to the table in front of him, that same predatory expression as he’d had last Friday night on his face.

  “I’ll be right back, sir.”

  He nodded.

  I took his plate into the kitchen, thoroughly confused. He wanted me, I knew he did, but he was still holding himself back, even after our conversation this morning. Why? I cut out a piece of strawberry tart and drizzled it with some crème fraiche. I was afraid to throw myself at him, even though I wanted to, because I suspected that Britt was right that he needed to be in control of this. But I was even more afraid that for some unknown reason he’d decided I wasn’t to be seduced, that he’d never cross that line with me. What else could I possibly do to let him know it was okay?

  I brought him his tart and put it down in front of him, asking him if he’d like more wine or a nightcap.

  “Strawberries. Hmm. I’ll have a cognac, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” I went to the liquor cabinet, poured a finger of cognac into a low-ball glass and brought it back to him. Before I sat down, I impulsively kissed the top of his head. He turned to watch me, his face looking so conflicted. When I was seated, he reached down for one of my hands and brought it over to rest on his thigh, his fingers interlaced with mine, holding me tightly to him. He sighed and took a bite of tart, offering me the next. He sipped his cognac and gave me the glass. I told him that I liked the flavors together; he smiled back but didn’t answer, just held my hand tighter, his fingers stroking mine.

  We proceeded to eat the tart and drink the cognac, but for once the focus in the room wasn’t on the meal, but on our hands, Mr. Hunter alternating between caressing me gently and gripping me firmly. I tried my best to understand what he was trying to convey, and almost asked him several times, but something about the set of his jaw and the slight frown between his eyebrows told me to give him more time to work out whatever was troubling him. When we were finished, I was no closer to understanding than when we’d begun. He stood and helped me up, bending down to kiss my cheek, and left without a word.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday morning Mr. Hunter was already at the island when I came down for coffee. We exchanged good mornings and I started making some toast.

  “What are your plans for today, Miss Lane?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. Britt is out of town with her family, so apart from biking into town at some point, I’ll probably just putter around here.”

  “What do you need in town?”

  “Well, we never decided how we’re going to do weekend dinners, but either way it’s going to be way too hot for the things in the freezer, and I need more salad ingredients.”

  “Yes, about that.” He looked up at me. “How about this on weekends. I’ll let you do one night as long as it’s something easy, something you’d make for yourself, and you let me take care of the other night.”

  “That sounds fair, but can you really just have a salad for dinner?”

  “I think I’ll survive. The question is will you survive the nights I’m in
charge.” His telltale smirk made an appearance.

  “As long as you don’t try to sneak any meat into my meals, I’ll be fine.”

  “What would happen if you accidentally ate some?”

  “I’d explode.”

  He laughed. “No, really. I’m curious.”

  “I’d probably just get really bad indigestion, followed by an overwhelming urge for revenge. Don’t forget who cooks your meals, Mr. Hunter.”

  He laughed again. “Consider me warned.” He paused for a moment, smiling at me. “How would you like to drive up to Dixon Point this morning? They have an excellent farmers’ market on Saturdays and you can get whatever you need there.”

  “I’ve never been there. I’d love to.”

  Dixon Point was about ninety minutes north of town, up in the heart of the agricultural region. Mr. Hunter was right, the farmers’ market was exceptional, and I got enough fruits and vegetables to get us through the rest of the week as we wandered through all of the stands, helping ourselves to enough free samples to make a light lunch. After packing the trunk with our purchases, Mr. Hunter said there was a wine store nearby that he wanted to visit. While he browsed through the rows of bottles, I wandered into an adjacent food shop, where he found me some time later in the gourmet section.

  “Finding anything?”

  “I don’t even know what half this stuff is.”

  He looked over the shelves. “I’m not sure I do, either.”

  “I mean, preserved Meyer lemons?” I said, picking up a jar. “How would I make you anything with this?”

  “I can’t help you there.”

  “And what’s fleur de sel? Is it better than regular salt?”

  “I have no idea. Get some. Let’s find out.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” He went to the end of the aisle and picked up a shopping basket. “Get whatever looks interesting. I’m paying, of course.”

  I spent the next several minutes filling the basket with an array of ingredients that sounded good but I wasn't sure how to use.

  “You know I love your cooking, Miss Lane. You don’t have to impress me any further.”

  “Maybe I want to.”