Chapter 4 - Water Glasses and Sharp Eyes
I waited in the kitchen until Marta nodded at me. The water pitcher was heavy glass, beaded with cold, and a folded white napkin lay over my forearm. My left hand throbbed under the glove. I tucked it tight against the side of my apron where it would look like posture instead of hiding.
"You good?" Marta asked.
"Yeah," I said. I wasn't. But my voice sounded steady enough.
I pushed back into the dining room. The candles had burned lower. The city lights behind the glass looked smeared and soft. Vanessa was turned halfway in her chair, saying something low to Luca. She stopped when she saw me.
I started with Vanessa's glass first because she was closest to the door. Standard service went ladies first, and I told myself to stick to the rules so no one could say I did anything wrong. I held the pitcher in my right hand and poured slow. The water hit the cut crystal with a clean sound. I kept my left arm pinned to my side.
Vanessa watched my hands. Not the water. My hands.
"Careful," she said. "That one's close to the edge."
"Yes, ma'am," I said. I eased the pitcher back and blotted a drop from the rim with the napkin.
Luca sat across from her, one arm resting on the table. He wasn't looking at the pitcher. He was looking at the way I held myself, my left shoulder pulled in a little higher than my right.
I moved around to refill Luca's glass. He shifted his plate an inch to give me room. His neck tattoo showed dark above his collar when he turned his head.
"You've got a tight grip there," he said lightly.
I realized I was strangling the pitcher handle. I loosened my fingers. "Sorry, sir."
"No need," he said. "Steady is good."
Vanessa picked up her wine glass by the stem and studied me over it. Her eyes dropped to my chest.
"Claire," she read off my name tag. She said it like she was checking the spelling. "How long have you worked here, Claire?"
The question landed harder than it should have. I finished Luca's pour and set the pitcher down for a second to straighten.
"Almost three months, ma'am," I said.
"Three months," she repeated. She glanced at Luca. "I would've guessed three days."
I felt heat climb up my neck. I kept my face down and adjusted the napkin on my arm. "I trained downtown before this, ma'am. Private events."
"Private events," she said. "And they taught you to serve with one hand behind your back?"
My left hand twitched against my apron. I forced a small breath through my nose.
"I sprained my wrist last week," I said. It came out too fast. "It's better if I don't put weight on it."
Vanessa's eyebrows lifted a fraction. "On the job?"
"No, ma'am. At home."
Luca cut in, calm, not looking away from his glass. "Vanessa. Let her pour."
It wasn't sharp. It was even, almost bored. But it stopped her for a second. She leaned back and set her wine glass down.
"I'm just asking," she said. "It's our engagement dinner. I'd like to know the staff knows what they're doing."
"She knows," Luca said. He looked up at me then. "Go ahead."
I picked up the pitcher again. My right palm was damp. I wiped it quick on the napkin when neither of them was looking straight at me, then moved to the far glass near Vanessa's elbow. That glass had been sitting over the candle heat and the ice had melted. Sweat ran down the outside and pooled on the white tablecloth in a dark ring.
I reached in with my right hand to steady the base while I poured. My angle was off because I wouldn't bring my left hand up to help. The glass slid on the wet cloth.
It tipped.
I lunged and caught it with my fingertips before it went over, water sloshing hard against the side but not spilling. The crystal clinked loud against my nail. My heart slammed so hard I felt it in my throat.
For a half second nobody moved.
Then Vanessa exhaled through her nose. "See?"
"Got it," I said quietly. More to myself than to them. I set the glass upright and stood it on a dry spot. My right hand was shaking now. I pressed the napkin around the base to soak up the ring. "Sorry about that, ma'am. The glass was wet."
"It was fine," Luca said. He was still watching my left hand. I could feel it. "Good catch."
Vanessa dabbed at the damp spot with her own napkin and frowned at the watermark left on the cloth. "You should've used two hands," she said. "Sprained or not."
I nodded and tucked the pitcher against my side. "Yes, ma'am."
May you like
I stepped back from the table, pitcher in my right hand, left hand still pinned and useless and aching. Luca lifted his water glass and took a sip, eyes moving from my glove to my face and back again like he was filing it away. Vanessa turned back to him and started talking about the seating chart for Saturday, but her tone had changed, tighter, like she'd decided something about me.
I stood there waiting to be dismissed, embarrassed heat still in my cheeks, listening to the candle wick sputter and the ice settle in the pitcher.
