Gunthar was happy to pick me up on moving day. I had only one
suitcase and two boxes. One box had my baking utensils and the other had
half of my canned fruits and vegetables. Gunthar had convinced me to take
some of my pies too.

When we arrived at his house, I was greeted by a cook and a maid.
I had no idea he was making enough money to hire servants. He said that
he had to hire them after his most recent promotion which added entertaining
out-of-town guests to his responsibilities. He introduced them as Mrs. Bessersmith
and her daughter, Catherine.

That night we went to our favorite restaurant for dinner to celebrate
my moving in and his promotion. It was a family-owned restaurant named
Mayfield's.

When we arrived, Gunthar said, "I am sorry I don't have a reservation."

The greeter said, "No problem, sir. Your table is always ready. The greeter
left for a short time and returned with the Maitre d' who seated us.

I was impressed and asked Gunthar why he had a reserved table. He said
that it was needed for surprise business visitors that he might need to wine and dine
for lunch or dinner. He didn't want to be embarrassed by having to wait. That was
understandable.

The first six months went well. The staff and I got along and we soon had a
schedule set up for me to bake my pies without getting in the way of meal
preparations. Mrs. Bessersmith was happy to teach me how to make jam with
the berries grown in her garden. She was elated that I already knew how to
can fruits and vegetables and was acquainted with the herbs she grew and how to harvest them. At least I learned something from working the garden for Natalie when she was ill.
So, within a few months, I added jams to my product line.

Now that I had no housework or accounts books to keep up, I baked enough
pies and made enough jam to sell on a weekly basis. I always sold out of
both.

When Gunthar saw the money that I was making, he quickly helped me to get
a bank account. He seemed proud I was doing so well. Soon I was able to replace
the ingredients I had borrowed from Mrs. Bessersmith's larder and create a storage area for
my own ingredients and new baking equipment by rearranging her larder to create space for my things. She said the larder was much more orderly and easier to use than it ever had been.

Gunthar was doing well at work too. I was proud because he kept getting promotions
and more power. He seemed humble about it, but I sensed something else beneath that humbleness.

Then one day he came back from work irate. He opened the door so hard it pounded
against the wall and then closed itself, barely missing him as he entered through it. He went directly to the liquor trolley and poured himself a whisky without saying hello. I asked for a glass of Merlot. He grunted but still handed to the glass to me so strongly some spilled. He swore under his breath. I stared at him wide-eyed in surprise because he had never displayed this much anger before.

When I asked him what happened at work, he answered with the question, "Where is my dinner?"

I stared at him saying, "You're an hour early, Mrs. Bessersmith and I were just preparing it for cooking. If you had informed us you were going to be early, we could have had it ready for you."

He just glared and growled some unintelligible slur under his breath. He refilled his drink, returned to the kitchen and glowered as cook and I got his dinner in the oven. His behavior made me fearful and worried that if his dinner didn't come out quickly and perfect something bad would happen. So, Mrs. Bessersmith and I decided to cook his favorite chicken dish at a slightly higher temperature and watch carefully for the correct golden-brown color. Luckily it came out quicker than expected and tasted great.

He seemed to calm down while he ate. He switched his whiskey to wine which seemed to be a good omen. For now a crisis was averted.

In the next few months there were a mixture of normal days and angry days. Not knowing what to expect when he came home made us all tense. No matter how much I tried, he would never discuss his work problems with me. I finally realized by a few of his looks that he thought I couldn't help him in any way. This made me feel more like a a trophy or an employee rather than a part of a loving relationship.

One day he returned from work so mad that I was scared of him. Which turned out to
be a good reaction. For at dinner when he bellowed at me to pass the vegetables and I
did, his hands, seemingly shaking in rage, didn't get a firm hold and he dropped the dish.

Then he screeched, as if it was all my fault, "Now look what you've done you clumsy oaf"
I was so flabbergasted I froze for a minute. I called Mrs. Bessersmith and she began cleaning the mess. Then he reached across the table and slapped me so hard it stung.

I was so angry, I jumped up and said in a menacingly calm voice, "I cannot believe you
hit me. I will not live with a man who beats me and so obviously doesn't love me." I stormed out of the kitchen and out of the house.

I went to my friend Angie's house and when she saw my expression and the hand shaped red mark on my face, she took me in with no other questions. She did tell me that Gunthar had a past history of verbal abuse but as far as she knew this was the first time he'd hit a woman. So, with his past of verbal abuse, his unexpected fits of temper, this one slap was enough for me. I was done with him.