A Slow Boil Read Online Free PDF

expression
blank, but he was rocking his empty martini glass back and forth in agitation.
    “She did, Mr. Hunter, but I thought I’d have time to run
downstairs and finish folding your laundry before you needed anything.”
    “You were wrong.  I’d like another martini.”
    “I'm sorry – I’ll make you one right now.”
    When I returned to the table I noticed that he was about half way
through his meal.  As I placed his new drink down he looked up at me,
reading my face, which no doubt showed how anxious I was about upsetting him on
my first day here.
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.  I’m sorry about leaving the kitchen.”
    “That’s alright, Miss Lane.  Just don’t let it happen again.”
    “You know, you can call me Sylvia.”
    “Sylvia.”  He said it like a statement, trying it out. 
“It's a pretty name and it suits you, but I prefer Miss Lane.  And I'd
like you to call me Mr. Hunter or Sir.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    At this, one side of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. 
Then he returned to his plate, taking a bite of steak.
    “Do I taste wine in the gravy?”
    “Yes sir.  I used a bit of red wine to marinate the steak and
made gravy with the leftover marinade.”
    “Delicious.  Mrs. Sheridan was a perfectly capable cook, but
you, Miss Lane, have just served me the best meal I've eaten in quite some
time.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”  His praise had such an odd effect
on me.  A surge of happiness that I’d pleased him welled up inside
me.  I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.  What was wrong with
me?  Professors had praised my intelligence before but I hadn’t reacted
like this.  And to my cooking?  This was ridiculous and I shook my
head a bit to clear it.
    “May I return to the kitchen, sir?”
    “Yes, you may.  Don’t worry about the clothes in the dryer,
you can get to them tomorrow.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And Miss Lane,” he said as I was almost at the door, “I'm already
looking forward to tomorrow night's dinner.  Good night.”
    “Good night, sir.”

Chapter
4
    Tuesday I vacuumed the rugs in the upstairs bedrooms, the library,
the living room and the dining room.  The vacuum was by far the quietest
I’ve ever used, giving off more of a low hum than the usual roar.  It was
lightweight, too, so I wasn’t too tired when I finally finished around
three.  I had a whole chicken to roast for tonight’s dinner but it would
only take about an hour, so that gave me two extra hours to work on what I
hoped would turn out to be an edible rhubarb pie.  I hadn’t planned on
trying a pie for only my second meal but Southbay’s had been running a special on fresh rhubarb and I remembered that it was my
dad’s favorite.  He ordered it every time he saw it on a menu. 
Thinking of him made me feel a little sad; I hadn’t seen him since last August,
the longest we’d ever been apart from one another.  He’d raised me himself
after my mother left him us when I was two, treating me more like a little
sister than a daughter.  By the time I was a teenager, we’d worked out an
arrangement that suited us both; I did the cooking and cleaning, and he pretty much
left me alone to my own devices.  I missed him.
    “Okay, Dad, this pie’s for you,” I whispered as I started chopping
up the rhubarb.  Luckily I’d found a cookbook in the kitchen with a recipe
so it wasn’t long before a reasonable-looking pie was baking in the oven. 
I’d also found an apron hanging in the pantry and decided to wear it, not
trusting myself to make pie crust neatly on the first attempt.  If I
suspected that my t-shirts didn't meet with Mr. Hunter’s approval, I was even
more certain that my t-shirt covered in flour would horrify him.
    I turned my attention to the chicken, stuffing it with whole
garlic cloves, fresh rosemary and lemon slices.  I rubbed it with olive
oil and surrounded it with chopped potatoes and shallots.  Tonight’s
vegetable was asparagus, also on