Chapter 1 - The Tray Shook Before He Said Stop
The tray was heavier than it should have been. Two cut-crystal glasses caught the chandelier light and threw it back in my eyes, and the silver underneath them was slick with sweat from my palms. I tried to keep my steps even across the dining room, past the dark wood table with its white flowers and all that stemware glowing in the candlelight, but my right ankle gave a hot pull with every step. I told myself to walk straight. I told myself not to look back. Then I looked back.
Mr. Hale was watching me from his seat at the head of the table, his plate half finished in front of him, his gold ring tapping once against the wood. Mr. Romano sat two chairs down in his black suit and black shirt, beard dark against his throat, his tattoos just visible above his collar. He wasn't eating. He was watching my feet.
My name is Emma. I was twenty-three and on my second week serving dinners in that house.
It was just after eight and the main course was still on the table. The candles had burned low enough that the wax pooled, and I could smell the flowers and the roast and the cleaner they'd used on the glasses. My instructions had been simple. Water and the good whiskey for the guest first. I'd gone to Mr. Hale first by mistake because his glass was empty and he had looked up at me. When I realized, my stomach dropped. I shifted the tray to turn back toward the other end of the table, and the glasses chimed together. That's when Mr. Hale spoke, stern and clear enough that the whole table heard it.
"Emma, you miss Mr. Romano."
I felt the heat climb up my neck under my collar. My apron brushed my knees. I tried to steady the tray and dipped my head a little.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hale."
Mr. Romano leaned forward then, his forearms on the table, the flowers in front of him shaking just slightly with the movement. He didn't look at Mr. Hale. He looked straight at me standing behind him with the tray still in my hands.
"Stop."
I stopped. The word wasn't loud, but it was firm, and it held me there. The chandelier buzzed faintly overhead. Nobody else at the table moved. I could feel my ankle throbbing inside my shoe, the bandage I'd wrapped tight that afternoon already damp and slipping. I'd told myself it was nothing. Walk it off. Finish service.
Mr. Romano's eyes dropped to my right foot, to the way I had shifted my weight left to keep off it. His voice went lower.
"Take off your right shoe."
A small laugh came from the head of the table, too quick. Mr. Hale picked up his fork again like this was a normal interruption he could smooth over.
"It's probably just a blister."
He said it to Mr. Romano, dismissive, almost kind, but his eyes cut to me with a warning in them. Keep moving. Don't make this a thing. My throat went tight. I knew what he wanted. Set the tray down, pour, keep the night perfect.
I crouched beside the small side table to set the tray down because my hands had started to shake and I was afraid I'd drop those crystal glasses. The movement pulled at my ankle and I sucked in a breath before I could stop it. My dress rode up just enough that the white bandage showed around my right ankle, stark against my skin. I stared at it, my face tense, trying not to cry and failing.
"I wasn't asking you."
Mr. Romano said it cold and firm, not looking away from me. I don't think he even glanced at Mr. Hale. The room went very quiet except for the candles and my own breathing, too fast through my nose. I kept my hands on the edge of the side table. The silver tray sat there with the two glasses untouched, trembling slightly because the table wobbled.
Then he asked it, quiet and intense, like he already knew the answer would cost me something.
May you like
"Who are you afraid of?"
Tears blurred the crystal in front of me. My lips were trembling and I pressed them together to stop it and couldn't. Behind me I heard a chair shift and the soft click of the dining room door starting to open, and I knew if I spoke now there would be no taking it back.
