Chapter 4 - Mr Hale Counted The Glasses
I made it back through the swinging door with the tray balanced level in both hands. The dining room heat hit first, candle wax and roast meat and the white lilies going too sweet in the warmth. My rewrapped ankle throbbed inside my shoe with every step, but the wrap held tighter now and I could keep my weight on the outside edge if I went slow.
Mr. Hale was already standing.
He wasn't at his chair. He was at the side table, where I'd left the second set down earlier, his plate half finished behind him. When he saw me he lifted one finger just off his thigh, a small come-here. I crossed to him and stopped where the rug met the hardwood because the rug would show an uneven step less.
He didn't look at my face first. He looked at the tray.
Two glasses. He counted them without touching, eyes moving left to right. Then he looked past me to the big table, the line of stemware catching the chandelier light, the white flowers low enough to talk over.
"You missed Mr. Romano on the first pass," he said. His voice stayed low, under the talk at the table. "Don't miss him again."
"No, sir," I said. "I won't."
He nodded once, then his gaze dropped. Not long. Just to my hem, to my right shoe and the way I was standing with that foot turned out.
"You're favoring it," he said. "Anyone watching can see it."
My throat went dry. I shifted the tray a fraction to keep my arms from shaking. "I'm sorry. I'll be careful."
He stepped half a step closer so his shoulder blocked me from the table. I could smell his aftershave and red wine. His gold ring tapped once against the edge of the side table.
"Listen to me, Emma," he said. "This is a good dinner. These men expect good service. They don't want a story. They don't want to feel sorry for anyone. You understand me?"
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good." He reached out and straightened one of the glasses on my tray by a quarter inch, the crystal ringing faintly. "Mr. Romano watches things. Don't give him something to watch. Pour clean, keep your eyes down, and don't chat."
I swallowed. "I wasn't trying to—"
"I know," he cut in, quiet but fast. "That's why I'm telling you now. Stay here by this table. Don't cross the room unless I call you. You'll refill from here. Less walking, less chance of a spill."
It wasn't kindness and it wasn't cruelty. It was placement, like moving a vase out of a walkway. My chest tightened because part of me was relieved not to have to make the long walk around with everyone staring, and part of me hated how easy it was to put me in a corner.
"Thank you," I said, because I didn't have anything else to say.
He studied me another second. "Fix your face before you turn around."
He went back to his seat then, napkin back in his lap, picking up his fork like he'd only gotten up to stretch his legs. I set my shoulders back and stared at the white flowers until my eyes stopped stinging.
I took my spot beside the side table, tray held low against my apron, my bad foot tucked just behind the good one where the table leg hid it. The candles along the wall threw soft light over the silver and made twin bright spots dance on the ceiling.
From there I could see the whole table without looking directly at it. And I felt it before I saw it.
Mr. Romano was watching.
He hadn't picked up his conversation again. His hands were flat on the white cloth on either side of his unused glass, his beard catching the candlelight, his eyes on me in the mirror of the sideboard and then direct. Not angry. Seated very still, like he was waiting to see if I would obey and stay put.
May you like
I held the tray tighter and kept my eyes down the way Mr. Hale had told me. My ankle pulsed under the bandage, steady and hot, and I locked my knee so I wouldn't sway.
I would stay where I was told. I would pour when I was told. I would not limp where they could see.
