Chapter 7 - Dessert Service Made Me Walk Again
The main plates were dying in front of them. I could see it from where I stood by the side table, the way Mr. Hale's knife had stopped moving and the woman to his left had folded her napkin over half her chicken. The candles had burned lower and wax was starting to crown around the holders. My right ankle throbbed inside the shoe with every heartbeat.
Mr. Hale dabbed his mouth and didn't look at me when he said it. "Emma. Clear for dessert."
It wasn't a request. Luisa was already at the far end with a bus pan, and Marco nodded at me to take the east side. That meant the long walk. Past the chandelier, around the dark wood table with the white flowers still shedding a petal or two onto the runner, all the way to the kitchen doors.
I picked up the silver tray. Empty this time, which should have made it easier. It didn't. Empty meant they could hear me better.
I started at Mr. Hale's right. Plate, plate. I stacked with my left hand doing most of the work, keeping my right foot planted. The crystal stemware chimed softly when my sleeve brushed it. I kept my eyes down. Don't count steps, I told myself. Just make them even.
By the third setting the limp gave me away.
I tried to hide it by pausing between chairs, pretending to adjust my grip, but the distance between the chairs was too open. My right shoe hit the hardwood a half-beat late and my hip dipped. I heard a fork stop against china. Someone at the middle of the table whispered something I couldn't catch.
My face went hot. I kept moving because stopping would have been worse. The tray grew heavier with each plate. The bandage felt too tight now, like my ankle had swelled against it during dinner.
"Careful," Mr. Hale said, low. Not kind. A warning to be invisible.
I nodded and shifted the tray higher against my forearm. On the next step my shoe caught just slightly and I sucked in a breath through my teeth before I could stop it. The woman in the gray dress looked up at me then, really looked, down at my hem and back to my face.
I made it to the side table and set the stack down as quiet as I could. My hands were shaking. Marco passed me with his own load and murmured, "Take the glasses after. Then you're done for this round."
That meant another crossing. Just the two cut-crystal dessert glasses, empty and catching the light. I slid them onto the silver tray and turned back toward the table.
Mr. Hale was watching me now. I could feel him willing me to hurry, to get across and get out before anyone else noticed. He gave a small flick of his fingers. Faster.
I started back. Halfway across, my ankle flared so sharp my vision blurred at the edges. I slowed without meaning to, then tried to speed up to make up for it, which made the limp harder. The tray tilted. One of the glasses slid an inch and rang against the rim.
That was when Mr. Romano stood up.
He didn't push his chair back loud. He just rose from his seat at the end, black suit and black shirt absorbing the candlelight, and stepped half a pace into the aisle between me and the table. His shoulder blocked Mr. Hale's line of sight. He didn't touch me. He didn't touch the tray.
He just stood there, solid, so I couldn't rush past him even if I tried.
For a second nobody moved. The room was all candle hiss and someone's held breath.
I understood what he was doing. If I hurried, I'd fall. If I stopped, everyone would stare. He'd taken the hurry away from me.
So I walked slow. Deliberately slow. Right foot, pause, left foot. Right foot, pause, left foot. I let them see it. My cheeks burned and my eyes stung, but I kept my chin level and looked at the space just past his arm, not at his face, not at Mr. Hale.
Step by step, the floor stopped swimming. The glasses settled. My breathing evened out.
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When I reached the end of the table, Mr. Romano sat back down without a word. The woman in gray glanced from him to me and then quickly away. Mr. Hale's jaw was tight, his gold ring tapping once against his glass. He was embarrassed, I could tell, not for me but for the table, for the perfect dinner with a limping maid in the middle of it.
I set the tray down on the side table and gripped its edge for one extra second until the pain dulled enough to stand straight. I didn't look up, but I felt the whole room had registered it now. There was no hiding after that walk.
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