A Slow Boil Read Online Free PDF Page A

He
stopped in the door frame again.
    “No, of course not.”
    He merely nodded and turned to leave, adding over his shoulder,
“Don't forget the piano, Miss Lane.”
    After he left, I silently closed the doors behind him and turned
back to the room, my eyes sweeping across the hundreds, maybe thousands of
volumes around me.  Glancing at my watch, I saw I had at least three hours
before I needed to be in the kitchen to start dinner.  “You can do this,
Sylvia,” I whispered as I grabbed the feather duster and scooted the staircase
to the beginning of one wall.
    Two hours later the books were finally done and I was putting the
final touches on the piano, using the feather duster on the keys so as to not
accidentally press any into song, and struggling not to leave any noticeable
streaks on the glossy surface of the body itself.  During this time the
house was so silent, I'd never have guessed that another human being was maybe
thirty feet away from me.  It actually was starting to feel a little
spooky, and I was glad to be finished with the library and back on the ground
floor.  The living room took no time at all, the dining room was a breeze,
and before I knew it I was done.
    It was with relief that I put all the dusting equipment back in
the utility closet and closed the door.  Dusting was not my favorite job,
it never had been.  Although Mr. Hunter’s house had hardly been dusty to
begin with, I still felt a little dirty.  I didn't feel at liberty to wash
my face in any of the bathrooms, so after transferring Mr. Hunter’s laundry
from the washer to the dryer and putting my dirty cleaning rags in the washer
to do tomorrow, I retreated back to the kitchen, pulled the door closed, and
used the kitchen sink to rinse my face and hands.  I drank a glass of
water from the tap and felt much better.  It occurred to me that not
knowing where to wash up meant I didn't know if I could use any of the
bathrooms here either.  Great.
    By now it was time to make dinner.  I heated a pan for the
tenderloin and one for the potatoes, adding olive oil to both.  The potatoes
sautéed while I browned the meat, put it in the oven to finish, and made the
salad.  It only took thirty minutes to pull it all together and I was
ready to serve at six.  I opened the door to the dining room just as Mr.
Hunter entered from the other end.  Mrs. Sheridan wasn’t kidding – he
really was a stickler about the time.  He sat at the head of the table
where I'd set a place for him and I put his dinner down with a smile.
    “I hope medium rare is okay.”
    “Yes, that's perfect.  This looks delicious.  Would you
mind making me a martini to go with it?”
    “Of course.”  I moved to the liquor cabinet and fixed his
drink, remembering the three olives, and brought it back to him.  “Is
there anything else you need?”
    “No, Miss Lane.  Please make yourself a plate and eat in the
kitchen.  I'll call you if I need anything.”
    I withdrew to the kitchen and helped myself to some salad. 
The vinaigrette had come out pretty well, if I did say so myself.  I’d
worked up an appetite and was done in a few minutes.  All I had left to do
was fold and put away his clean laundry, clean up the kitchen, set up the
coffee and I was done for the day.  Downing the last bite of salad, I
wondered if it was okay to handle the laundry quickly now while Mr. Hunter was
eating so that I wouldn’t run into him upstairs while putting it away. 
Mrs. Sheridan had told me to wait in the kitchen, but what exactly for? 
Why couldn’t I just run downstairs and take care of the laundry while he
ate?  I was halfway down the stairs when I heard him call loudly for me.
    “Miss Lane!”
    I practically ran back into the dining room.  “Yes, Mr.
Hunter, what is it?”
    “Miss Lane.  Didn’t Mrs. Sheridan explain that you are to
wait in the kitchen while I eat?  I had to call you twice.  Why
didn't you come the first time?”  His tone was level, his