Chapter 13 - The Side Table Drawer Would Not Stay Shut
The dinner had thinned enough that I could hear the ice melt in the water pitchers. I went back to the side table with a damp cloth because my tray had left a ring and I didn't want Hale to see it later and use it as another reason.
I wiped in a slow circle. The top drawer wasn't latched and it slid open about two inches every time I bumped the table. I pushed it shut with my hip. It rolled right back open.
I crouched to fix it, which I shouldn't have done because my ankle burned when I bent it. That was when I saw the leg up close. Low on the inside of the side table leg there was a fresh black scuff, about as long as my thumb. The finish was scratched through to pale wood.
I stared at it. I knew that kind of mark. My right shoe had left it.
I sat back on my heels and lifted my foot just enough to look. I hadn't really looked at my shoe since the kitchen. The outside edge near the heel was torn. The black leather was peeled back in a little flap and the stitching had pulled white. There was pale dust in the tear that looked like plaster or old paint from the service stairwell.
It matched. The angle of the tear matched the height of the scuff. I had hit that table leg, or one like it, hard enough to take the finish off. No, not that leg. The back stairs. I remembered the kick of the step against my ankle when I tried to catch myself.
My hands were shaking a little, so I set the cloth down. I pushed the drawer shut again and this time it stuck. Something was caught behind it. I pulled it open wider and reached in.
There was a folded slip of paper wedged in the back track. Ticket stock, the kind Hale used for seating changes. It must have fallen off my tray earlier and slipped down behind. I only recognized my name because it was written in his quick block letters.
EMMA — back stairs — hold main pour til —
The rest was smudged where something wet had gotten to it. I could make out the word Romano and the number two, and an arrow pointing away from the main table diagram. I didn't need the rest. I remembered being waved toward the kitchen door instead of the direct path around the table. I remembered trying to hurry because I was already late for the pour.
That was the route change. That was why I came at Mr. Romano from the wrong side. That was why I missed him.
I turned the note over. On the back there was a time. 7:42. That was right before service. Right before Hale told me to keep everything perfect and stay out of the way.
For a second I just crouched there with the drawer open and the cloth going cold in my other hand. It wasn't a blister. It wasn't me being careless. I had been sent down the narrow stairs with a full tray and two heavy crystal glasses and told to double back and still make the pour look smooth.
I heard a chair scrape in the dining room and Hale's low laugh at something someone said. I folded the note fast, smaller and smaller until it fit in my palm.
Normally I would have thrown a scrap like that in the bus bin. Loose paper drew attention. Hale hated clutter more than anything. Part of me wanted to drop it and shut the drawer and pretend I hadn't seen it, because keeping it felt like I was accusing someone.
I looked at the scuff again. Then at my shoe.
May you like
I slid the note into my apron pocket, deep, under the seam where the pocket met the waistband. I felt the paper crinkle against my thigh when I stood. It was light, but I could feel it with every step.
I pushed the drawer shut one last time. This time it stayed.
