Chapter 3 - The Kitchen Is Not Safe
I made it through the swinging door with the empty tray still level in my hands. I didn't drop it. That felt like the only win I had left.
The service kitchen was bright after the dining room. Too bright. Stainless steel on every side, heat coming off the range, the dishwasher hissing in the corner. The soup tureen sat on the pass where I'd left the ladle, and the steam still curled up from it. My left hand throbbed inside the glove in time with my pulse.
Rosa was at the pass checking plates. She's the head housekeeper, fifty-something, hair pulled tight, white shirt pressed even at eight at night. She didn't look up right away.
"Table still happy?" she asked.
I set the tray down. My right hand was steady. My left, I kept curled. "They're eating," I said.
That was when the pain spiked. A hot pull across my palm when I released the tray edge. I sucked air in through my nose and tried to make it sound like nothing.
Rosa glanced at me. "You were in there a long time."
"Mr. Moretti asked about the soup," I said. "I answered."
Her eyes flicked to my left hand. "You kept the glove on."
"Yes, ma'am."
She wiped a rim with a cloth. "Mrs. Delacroix called down before service. Said your appearance should be immaculate. No distractions." She said it flat, the way she said everything that came from upstairs. "Did Miss Vanessa say something?"
I hesitated. I could feel sweat under the glove, the fabric sticking where it shouldn't. "She looked," I said. "She didn't say anything yet."
Rosa nodded once. "Keep it that way."
The dishwasher, Marco, pushed a rack through and didn't look at us. I moved toward the back, past the ice machine, to the narrow prep alcove where we kept the first-aid box and the extra side towels. Nobody used it during service unless they had to. I had to.
I set my back to the room. With my right hand and my teeth, I eased the glove off my left hand.
The burn covered the heel of my palm and ran up between my thumb and forefinger. Two blisters had gone white and tight, the skin around them red and shiny. The gauze I'd wrapped that afternoon had slipped and stuck at the edge. When the glove pulled free, it tugged the gauze with it and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
I breathed the way the urgent care nurse had told me last year for a different burn. In slow. Out slower. The air on the raw skin hurt worse than the glove had.
I hadn't burned myself tonight. That was the part I kept turning over. It had happened two days ago on a sheet pan at the bakery job I wasn't supposed to still need. I'd wrapped it, gloved it, thought I could work through it. Then the agency called about this house, double the hourly, dinner service, possible permanent placement. I'd said yes before they finished the sentence.
Rent was due Friday. My mom's check for the light bill was still on my counter because I didn't want to cash it. I needed this job to stick.
I heard Rosa's shoes on the tile behind me. I moved fast. Fresh gauze from the box, a quick fold into a pad, medical tape torn with my teeth. I pressed it down and pulled the glove back on before she rounded the corner. The pressure made my eyes water. I blinked it back.
She stopped a few feet away, holding a water pitcher and two wine bottles on a tray. "Second course prep in five," she said. "You'll do water and wine."
"Yes, ma'am," I said. My voice sounded normal. I was grateful for that.
She studied my face. "Are you sick? You're pale."
"No," I said. "I'm fine."
"You sure? Because if you drop something in there—"
"I won't."
It came out too quick. She raised an eyebrow.
I forced my shoulders down. "Please," I said. "I need the hours."
That was true, and she knew it. The agency girls talked. Everybody knew who was one complaint away from being replaced.
Rosa looked at the glove, then at my face. For a second I thought she was going to ask to see. My stomach went tight. If she saw the blisters, she'd pull me off the floor. House rule. No open wounds near food. She'd be right to do it. And I'd lose the house.
She didn't ask. She handed me the tray with the pitcher and bottles. "Then be invisible and be perfect," she said. "Refill from the right. Don't speak unless spoken to. And Claire—"
"Yes?"
"If Miss Vanessa complains, I can't protect you."
I took the tray. The weight settled. My left hand screamed under the glove where the glass base pressed, but I locked my wrist and held it level.
"I understand," I said.
May you like
She held the swinging door for me. The warm dining room light spilled in, and with it the low clink of glasses and the murmur I hadn't been able to shake. My breathing went shallow again.
I stepped forward before I could think about the pain. Conceal it. Carry it. Get back out there.
