Chapter 2 - Serve Without Spilling
I didn't move at first. I stood there with the tray getting heavier and told myself to pick a spot on the table and walk to it.
The sideboard was clear except for the folded linens. I crossed to it and set the tray down slow enough that the tureen didn't rattle. The porcelain made one soft click against the silver when I let go. My left hand stayed curled under the rim a second too long because my fingers didn't want to open.
I could feel both of them watching me. Luca hadn't moved. Vanessa had her wine glass by the stem and wasn't drinking.
I lifted the lid with my right hand. Steam came up in a straight line and then bent toward the candles. It smelled like onions and butter and something peppery. My left hand throbbed inside the glove with that deep, tight pulse that matched my heartbeat. I kept it at my side while I reached for the first bowl with my right.
"Take your time," Vanessa said. "It's not like it's getting cold."
Her voice was low, meant for the table, not the kitchen. I glanced up just enough to see her mouth. She wasn't smiling.
"Sorry, ma'am," I said. "I'll be quick."
I breathed in through my nose and let it out slow before I picked up the ladle. The handle was warm from the steam. I held the bowl steady with my right hand and ladled with — I had to switch. The tureen was on my left. To serve right-handed, I had to brace the edge with my left.
I set my gloved fingers against the gold rim. The heat came right through the cotton. Under it, the skin on my palm pulled tight. I didn't flinch. I counted while I poured. One. Two. Stop before the edge. The soup settled without a drip.
I carried the first bowl to Vanessa's right side, the way Mrs. Doyle had shown me that morning. Elbow in. Plate flat on my open palm. Don't lean over the guest.
Vanessa didn't look at the soup. She looked at my hand as I lowered the plate.
"Careful," she said.
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
The second bowl was for Luca. That walk felt longer. His plate was empty and centered, fork and knife straight. The candle between us made his eyes hard to read. His neck tattoo showed above his collar when he turned his head slightly to give me room.
I set his bowl down from his right. My left hand hung at my side again, fingers pressed together inside the glove to keep them from shaking.
"Thank you," he said. His voice was even.
I nodded and stepped back toward the sideboard. The worst of it was done. Two bowls, no spill. A thin sheen of sweat was drying along my hairline. I tucked my right hand behind my back and pressed my left thumb into my palm through the glove, just to give the pain somewhere to go.
Luca picked up his spoon but didn't eat yet. He looked at my left hand.
"Did you hurt your hand?" he asked.
It wasn't sharp. It sounded like he was just asking. Like he'd ask anybody.
My breath caught for half a second. I heard it in my own chest.
"It's fine, sir," I said. "Just a — it's fine."
Vanessa set her wine glass down. The crystal made a clean tap on the wood. She glanced at Luca, then at me, and I saw something settle in her face. Like she'd been right to stare.
"See," she said, quiet. "I told you she was struggling."
I didn't answer that. I put my right hand on the edge of the tray to steady myself and kept my left behind my apron where the black didn't show as much against the black of my uniform. The candles pulled. The city lights blurred white and red through the windows behind them. The soup steam kept rising, thin now.
May you like
Luca still had his spoon in his hand. He wasn't looking at Vanessa. He was looking at me, waiting to see if I would add anything else.
I didn't.
