A Slow Boil (13 page)

“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 like 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.”

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.”

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.