A Slow Boil Read Online Free PDF Page B

special at Southbay’s . 
I thought I’d sauté it.
    By quarter to six I had a pretty good handle on things.  Mr.
Hunter’s place was set and I was about to carve the chicken.  Everything
else was ready to go.  I hadn’t seen Mr. Hunter yet today and I found my
eagerness to do so growing.  I also found myself hoping that he’d like
this dinner as much as last night’s.  A peculiar nervousness started to
overtake me and I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and smoothed my hands down
my apron to still their shaking.
    “Is everything all right, Miss Lane?”
    “Ah!”  I cried out and must have jumped a foot.  “I
didn't hear you come in!” He’d entered through the pull-out panel which I now
realized I’d forgotten to pull shut. 
    “Sorry to have startled you.  This is probably the first time
in years I’ve come down to dinner early.  Something just smelled so good,
I had to see what you were making.”  He moved and stood next to me,
surveying the chicken, vegetables, and finally the pie.  His eyes widened
and I watched him swallow, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing once. 
From this angle I could see a line of scruff along his jaw and I wondered
whether it felt soft or raspy.
    “May I carve the chicken for you?”
    I handed him over the knife and fork and he took them from me
carefully, his fingers touching the backs of my hands.  To my utmost
shame, I felt myself blushing.  What was the matter with me?
    Luckily I needed to wash my hands which gave me enough time at the
sink to compose myself.  When I’d finished, Mr. Hunter was laying several
thin slices of breast meat on his plate, and adding a healthy side of asparagus
and roasted vegetables.  He then handed me the plate and preceded me out
of the room.  I followed, placed his dinner before him and asked if he’d
like me to make him a martini.
    “Hmm,” he seemed to be debating his answer while spreading his
napkin in his lap.  “No, I don’t think so, not tonight.  Tonight I’d
like a glass of wine.  Did Mrs. Sheridan show you where the wine cellar
is?”
    “No, she didn’t.”
    “Probably because her meals didn’t inspire me to use it, but this
is a feast worthy of a nice pinot noir.  Go down to the cellar – it’s
adjacent to the laundry room – and pick any pinot noir you find, they should be
on the right when you go in.  There’s an opener in the drawer next to the
stove, bring that in too, and then you can open the bottle for me here at the
table.”
    “Yes, sir.”  I found the pinot noirs right where he said
they’d be and was back in less than five minutes.  He watched me open the
bottle and pour him a glass, which I’d found in the sideboard.  I was
thankful my hands had stopped shaking.
    When he finally had his wine glass set above his plate, he told me
to go eat in the kitchen and stay there this time.  I smiled back at him
and assured him I would.
    I was half way through a light meal of asparagus and roasted
shallots when he called for me.
    “Yes, sir?” I said, entering the dining room.
    “Please pour me another glass of wine.”  He gestured to the
bottle which was easily within his reach.  I refilled his glass without
answering him.  This was definitely odd.  Why couldn’t he pour his
own wine?
    “Are you wondering why I don’t pour it myself?”
    “Yes, actually, I am.”
    “Two reasons.  First, I like to be waited on.  Sue me. 
That’s why I include serving dinner in my housekeeper’s duties.  Second, I
like to be obeyed.  If I tell you to wait in the kitchen, I expect you to
do so.”
    “Okay.” I drew the word out a bit, trying to express that I still
didn’t quite get it.  He didn’t care to elaborate, however, and instead
took another bite of chicken.  Swallowing, he said, “Another exquisite
meal, Miss Lane.”
    “Thank you.”
    “No, thank you.  I’d have another helping if it weren't for
that delectable looking pie I assume is for dessert.”
    “Yes.