A Slow Boil Read Free

elation at getting this
job had been premature.
    “Sylvia, I'm so happy to see you again.  Come in. 
Obviously your interview went well.”
    “I guess it did, Mrs. Sheridan.  It's good to see you again,
too.”
    “Thank you, Sylvia.  Well, let's get started.  I'll show
you the kitchen first.”
    I followed her through the foyer, past what looked like a living
room and through a hallway into an unbelievably perfect kitchen.
    “Oh my god!” It escaped my lips before I'd even formed the
thought, but who could blame me?  This was right out of a magazine. 
I noticed a Subzero refrigerator, Viking gas range, granite counter tops, a
huge double sink … I was in heaven.  Growing up in a tiny house, I'd had
about a foot of counter space, an ancient electric stove, and a decrepit fridge
to work with.  This kitchen was the kind I'd always dreamed about having
one day.
    “Yes, it's very nice, isn't it?”  Mrs. Sheridan politely
answered my outburst. “You'll find everything you need here to make whatever
you want.  Let me show you around.”
    After showing me the well-stocked pantry, the storage cupboards of
small appliances, the cutlery tools inside the island, as well as providing
instructions in starting the dishwasher and setting up Mr. Hunter's morning
coffee, Mrs. Sheridan turned toward a door at the far side of the room.
    “Now, through here is the dining room.  Mr. Hunter comes down
promptly at six every evening and it's important you have his dinner ready to
serve then or shortly thereafter.  He doesn't like to wait.  But
don't bring it out any earlier, either.”  We walked through the swinging
door and into a large room that was furnished with a table and six chairs, a
sideboard, and a liquor cabinet.  Velvet curtains again lined one wall
from floor to ceiling and were drawn closed, allowing in no natural
light.  Mrs. Sheridan flicked a switch on the wall and a chandelier
sparkled to life above the table.  She showed me the place settings, napkins,
and silverware in the sideboard, and then described how Mr. Hunter liked his
martinis, if he should ask for one.  I was concentrating on memorizing the
number of olives he liked when Mrs. Sheridan's tone changed.
    “Mr. Hunter will want you to wait in the kitchen while he
eats.  He'll call you in if he needs anything.  You can sit at the
island and eat your own dinner until he does.”
    “All right.  I think I can handle that.”  I had the
distinct impression she was omitting something.
    “Good.  After he's finished eating, he'll get up and leave
through there.”  She pointed to another door on the opposing wall. 
“Once he's left, you clear his dishes, wipe down the table, clean the kitchen,
start the dishwasher, set up his coffee to brew in the morning, and that's
it.  Then you're done for the day and may leave.  He won't expect you
to say good-bye.  Just make sure you lock the back door behind
yourself.  Do you have any question thus far?”
    “What does Mr. Hunter like to eat?”
    “You know, I've never asked him.  He's always eaten
everything I've made him without a complaint, so I'd have to say he likes
simple meals, nothing fancy.”
    “Is there anything he doesn't like?”
    “Again, I don't know.  I'm a little embarrassed to admit that
after four years here, but I don't ever remember him complaining about anything
I served, or telling me not to serve it again.  He prefers healthy foods,
so go easy on the fat and salt, but a dessert now and then will get you into
his good graces faster than anything else.  You know men.”
    “Yeah,” I shrugged knowingly, while realizing that the only man
I'd ever cooked for had only eaten things you could melt cheese on, douse in
barbecue sauce, or slather with mayonnaise and I'd never baked a pie or cake in
my life.  But I was confident I could learn and given the inspiring
kitchen I’d have at my disposal, I found myself looking forward this part of
the job immensely.
    We went back