Chapter 5 - He Did Not Touch His Poured Drink
The candlelight had not moved but the dinner felt later than it was. I stood by the side table with the tray against my forearm, the way Mr. Hale had told me to hold it when I had nothing to carry. Stand still. Look ready. Do not draw attention.
I could feel my ankle throbbing inside the shoe. The bandage had warmed to my skin and every time I shifted my weight, it pulled.
Mr. Hale was talking about the foundation dinner in the spring, the guest list, the mayor. His voice filled the space above the plates the way it always did. Mr. Romano was not looking at him.
His glass sat in front of him, full from my second pour. The crystal caught the chandelier and threw a thin line of light across the dark wood. He had not lifted it once.
I told myself not to stare, but I kept checking it. In this house an untouched glass was my fault. It meant I had poured wrong, or served late, or stood too close. Mr. Hale noticed those things even when he pretended not to.
I stepped forward before I could talk myself out of it. My limp made the floor creak under my shoe, a small sound I tried to swallow by moving slower.
“Mr. Romano,” I said quietly. “Can I — can I bring you a fresh glass?”
My hands were shaking. I hated that he could see it. I tightened my grip on the edge of the tray until my knuckles went white, hoping the silver would steady me. It did not.
He looked up then. Not at the tray. At me.
His eyes stayed on my face long enough that I forgot to breathe normally. I tried to look down at the table, at the white flowers between us, but he waited. Then his gaze dropped, just for a second, to my hands on the tray, to the way I favored my left foot without meaning to.
“You poured for everyone else first,” he said. His voice was low, even. Not angry. “Why did you miss me?”
My throat went dry. The question was simple and there was no simple answer I could give with Mr. Hale three chairs away.
“I just — I was moving too fast,” I said. “It won't happen again. I can replace it now.”
I lifted the tray a little higher, an offer. The two empty glasses I had cleared clinked softly. The sound was too loud in my ears.
Mr. Romano did not reach for his glass. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his suit pulling across his shoulders, and studied me the way he had studied the room when he first sat down. Watching for what did not fit.
“You're holding that tray like it's holding you up,” he said.
I glanced toward Mr. Hale. He had stopped mid-sentence. His fork was paused over his plate. I could feel his attention turn toward us, sharp and controlled.
“Emma is still learning our pace here,” Mr. Hale cut in, with a short laugh meant for the table. “She's conscientious. Sometimes too conscientious. Let's not interrogate the service, huh?”
A couple of the other guests smiled politely. The conversation tried to restart around us, about parking and the rain earlier, but it sounded forced.
Mr. Romano did not smile. He kept his eyes on me for one more beat, then finally looked at his full glass and back at Mr. Hale.
“I like to know who's serving me,” he said.
Mr. Hale's jaw tightened. He set his fork down and picked up his own glass, a clear signal. Drink. Move on.
“Then you'll be pleased to know she's one of our best,” he said. “Emma, top off Mr. Hale's water at the end, please.”
He said his own name like that on purpose, making it a joke, making it small. My face burned.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
May you like
I stepped back toward the side table, careful to land on the ball of my left foot first. The tray trembled against my arm no matter how hard I gripped it. Mr. Romano watched me go. He still had not touched his drink.
And I understood, with a sick drop in my stomach, that he was not waiting for a fresh pour. He was waiting to see if I was scared to come close to him again.
