A Slow Boil
Authors: Karen Winters
A Slow Boil
By Karen Winters
Text copyright © 2015 Karen Winters
All Rights Reserved
To
Kevin
1
“Miss Lane. Come in.” The man was turned away from me,
seated behind his desk. I could only see the top of his head and his
right hand, which was holding up a piece of paper I recognized as my
resume. The hand gestured to the two chairs in front of the desk and I
quickly sat down on the one to the right, hoping to get a better view of my
potential new employer. He swiveled further away from me, however,
bringing my resume closer to his face.
“Thank you,” I murmured, slipping my purse onto the floor next to
me and folding my hands in my lap. I'd worn a knee-length skirt and
fought the nervous urge to play with the hem. Mr. Hunter remained
silent. I heard him take a deep breath and exhale as I waited for him to
begin the interview. I looked down at the Persian rug under my feet,
admiring the rich colors and intricate patterns, then drew my eyes up to the
heavy oak desk in front of me. I saw a laptop, a lamp, and an array of
papers but nothing else. The wall behind the desk was heavily curtained from
floor to ceiling in a dark blue velvet that matched one of the colors in the
rug. If there were windows behind the curtains they must be huge, but no
light permeated them, the lamp on the desk brightening the room on its
own. The walls around me were painted in a warm taupe. To my right
was a large painting that looked like an original abstract in similar blues and
taupes
as the rest of the room. I squinted and
stretched my neck, trying to make out an artist's signature, wondering to
myself if it was possible that I was in the same room as a Rothko.
“Do you like it?”
My attention flew back to the man across the desk. He had turned
his chair to face me and was leaning back, his head a little to the side.
Mr. Hunter was younger than I'd expected, only in his late thirties, if I had
to guess, and was the handsomest man I'd ever laid eyes on. He had thick
dark brown hair and eyebrows, chiseled cheekbones and a hard, firm
jawline. His eyes were blue and his lips full, but his mouth was set in a
straight line, with no welcoming smile in evidence.
He lifted his eyebrows as he waited for my answer.
“Yes. Yes, I like it very much.”
“Tell me what you like about it.”
I turned back to the painting. “Well, even though it's just
two rectangles, the more you look at it, the more you sense a relationship
between them. There's some tension, some pushing and pulling, as if
they're both struggling to dominate the space.” I suddenly felt
embarrassed and added quickly, “Or maybe they're in perfect balance. I
don't know. It's just my first impression.”
“First impressions are very important.” He ran his eyes
briefly over me. “My first impression is that you are overqualified for
this job,” he continued, as his eyes scanned back to my resume. “You're
in college, studying anthropology. You've worked a small assortment of
desk jobs. There's nothing here that would suggest your ability, let
alone interest, in performing more menial tasks. You're obviously an intelligent
young woman, even able to speak quite articulately about a painting you've only
just seen. So tell me, Miss Lane, why do you want to be my part-time
housekeeper?”
I clutched my hands together a little tighter and debated how to
answer him. They tell you to sell yourself in interviews and to flatter
the interviewer but somehow I didn't think those kinds of tactics would have
much effect on Mr. Hunter. I decided to go with the truth.
“I need an income for the summer, and I'm not a resident. I
have a student visa but not a work permit. I've been at Noble University
as an exchange student for the past year, but the term ends in three weeks and
unless I can find a way to support myself, I'll have to go home. I'd much
rather try to stay here for the summer and apply as a regular student next
year. It's true that I don't have any experience as a housekeeper, per
se, but I grew up doing housework for my dad, so when Britt told me about this
job, it sounded too good to be true, and I applied.”
He kept his level gaze on mine while I spoke, his eyebrows pulled
into a slight frown. When I finished, his frown deepened. “I don't know
anyone named Britt.” He sounded disapproving of her name, emphasizing the
t’s
at the end.
“Brittney Sheridan, she's a friend of mine at school. She's
the niece of your current housekeeper. She knew that her aunt had given
notice and that you were hiring a new one.”
“I wasn't aware that Mrs. Sheridan had a niece.” His tone
now implied the subject was closed and he paused, still frowning. “I
assume you'd like to be paid under the table, then.”
I nodded. “Like I said, I don't have a work permit.”
“You realize that you're asking me to bend if not break the law by
doing so.”
This wasn't going well. His manner thus far had been polite,
but not exactly pleasant. I began to wonder why he'd bothered to arrange
an interview only to challenge me for applying in the first place.
“It was my understanding that these kinds of arrangements are made
all the time with students and that no one really cares, but if it's a problem
then please forgive me for wasting your time.”
He must have caught a whiff of my confusion as his tone
softened. “Since your classes end soon, why aren't you looking for
something full-time?”
“I'm looking for anything at this point, but I don't think I'll
have much luck finding something full time without a permit. And
part-time hours are fine with me. I just need to earn enough to live on.”
“Where will you be staying? I assume the university has been
providing your housing. Will that continue beyond the term when the exchange
program ends?”
He'd touched directly on the second problem of my plan. I
needed a place to live. I was hoping Britt would know someone who could
rent me a room, but I hadn't gotten around to asking her yet. I thought
about hedging the truth because being on the verge of homelessness hardly
recommended me as an employee, but again something about the way his eyes held
my gaze made me answer honestly. He'd have made an excellent police detective.
“I do need to find a place, but I'm resourceful. I'll come up with
something.”
My answer seemed to amuse him as a smile branched across his
face. His eyes were a bluish grey, pale, and when he'd been frowning
they'd looked steely. But when he smiled they crinkled at the corners,
lighting his face, transforming his handsomeness into something closer to
beauty. I realized that I was losing focus, and bit the inside of my
cheek to get my attention back where it belonged.
His smile quickly faded and he drummed his long fingers on his
desk.
“Mrs. Sheridan was with me for almost four years and knew her job
perfectly. I don't think I like the idea of training someone new only to
have them leave in a few months.”
“I can understand that. But look at it this way – I can be a
temporary placeholder. I could start tomorrow. My classes are all in the
mornings, so I can be here by noon. The term ends in three weeks and then
I can be here any hours you wish. Classes don't start again until early
September, so I can work for you the whole summer while you continue your
search for a permanent housekeeper. That will give you time to find the
perfect person.”
“Persuasive and resourceful,” he said so quietly it might have
been to himself.
He held my gaze again for a long minute without speaking, his
expression inscrutable. Then a change came over his demeanor as if he'd
come to a decision.
“Let me tell you more about the job. I'd want you to come in
the early afternoon and remain until early evening. The hours themselves
aren't important as long as you finish your work. There are certain tasks
to be done on certain days and then there are tasks to be done every day.
The most important daily task is making and serving my dinner. Can you cook?”
I nodded quickly. “Beyond an ability to make an edible dinner, everything
else is routine – laundry, dusting, vacuuming, et cetera. I'm not a neat
freak and won't be trailing around behind you looking for missed dust, but I do
have one requirement that may take some getting used to. I work at home,
in here, and I need absolute peace and quiet. I don't want to hear you or
see you while you're here. No banging around, no stomping up and down the
stairs, no whistling while you work, nothing. Under no circumstances are
you to interrupt me or bother me. The only time I expect to see you is at
six sharp in the dining room when you serve dinner. Do you think you can
manage that?”
“Yes, but ...”
“There are no buts.”
“Yes there are!”
“Ah, finally a negative trait. You're also argumentative.”
“No, I'm not!”
His eyebrows rose again.
“I'm … inquisitive. How will I clean this room if you're
always in it but I'm not to disturb you? And what if there's an
emergency, a fire or something, can I interrupt you then?”
“I'm not sure that inquisitive is better than
argumentative.” His expression almost slipped into to another
smile. “You will clean this room on Wednesdays as I always go to town
Wednesday afternoon. You may interrupt me if it's an emergency but it had
better be a real honest-to-god emergency, not something like a spider in the
bathtub.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Lastly, the pay. I prefer to give you a lump
sum each Friday than keep track of your hours. I pay five hundred dollars
a week.”
My eyes widened. “At the risk of sounding argumentative,
that seems like too much. We're talking five or six hours a day, five days a
week, right? That's only twenty-five to thirty hours, and nothing you
described sounds too difficult.”
“Some weeks you may not feel like you've earned the five hundred,
but other weeks you may wish you'd negotiated for a higher salary. I have
guests on occasion and will expect you to cook dinner for them as well.
And I forgot to mention that I expect you to plan the menus and purchase the
groceries. I have an account at
Southbay's
in
town. You can stop by on your way to work and pick up whatever you need
for each night's dinner. Trust me, the weeks when I have guests you will
definitely earn your salary.”
I nodded my acceptance of his terms. “Are you willing to give me a
chance, then?”
“Yes, Miss Lane, I rather think I am. As this is Mrs.
Sheridan's last week, why don't you come in Friday afternoon, say around
three. I'll have her show you the ropes and you can leave before
dinner. Then I'd like you to start on your own next Monday.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Hunter.” I scooped up my purse and
headed toward the door. “See you Friday then.”
“No, you won't see me on Friday, just Mrs. Sheridan.”
“Oh, right. Okay. Goodbye, then, Mr. Hunter.”
“Goodbye, Miss Lane.”