Chapter 12
The reservation came in at four-thirty for a five o'clock table. I was already on the floor, tying my apron, when Marco came out of the back with the book in his hand.
"Moretti," he said, keeping his voice low. "Early. Just him and the boy. He asked for the same room but early service. Quiet."
I nodded. My hands didn't shake the way they had the first night. The dining room was different at five. The chandelier was dimmed down, the sconces were on but the sun hadn't fully dropped yet, and there were only two other tables set. No suits lined up against the wood paneling. No crowd.
I kept polishing the same water glass and watched the door.
They came in at five on the dot. Ricardo had Leo's hand in his. He was in a dark sweater instead of the suit jacket, black shirt underneath, his watch catching the light. Leo wore his cream cable-knit again, and his little light pants, and in his right hand he held the clear glass half-filled with milk, careful not to spill. I saw the corner of something soft and gray tucked into his sweater pocket. The scarf.
Leo stopped just inside the doorway and looked at the room. His shoulders went up. He didn't cry, but his eyes moved fast from the marble tables to the chandelier to the bar, remembering.
Ricardo crouched down without letting go of his hand and said something I couldn't hear. Then he looked up and found me.
I started to walk over, but he met me halfway, with Leo still holding his hand.
"Hey," he said. It was quiet. "We're early on purpose."
"I saw," I said. "You want the corner? It's quietest."
He nodded, then glanced back at Leo, who was watching my apron like he knew it. "Can I ask you something before we sit?"
"Of course."
He kept his voice even. "Would you just wave to him? From the service station. Don't come over unless I signal you. I want to see if he can stay with me in here."
I felt my throat tighten. It wasn't a demotion. It was the whole point.
"Yes," I said. "I'll be right there by the coffee."
He exhaled once. "Thank you."
We got them to the corner table, the one furthest from the kitchen door. Leo climbed into the banquette next to his dad instead of across from him. He set his milk glass down with both hands in the center of the white cloth and kept his left hand in his pocket, fingers on the scarf. He didn't drink.
Ricardo didn't correct him. He just sat sideways to face him, one arm resting along the back of the banquette, his tattooed hands open on his lap.
I took my position by the service station and gave Leo a small wave. He saw it and his mouth moved, not quite a smile, but he lifted his hand an inch off the table and waved back.
For a few minutes it held. The bussers moved quietly. Ricardo ordered soup for Leo and didn't push when Leo shook his head. He talked low, pointing at the sconces, at the pattern in the wood.
Then the kitchen door swung and a stack of plates clattered on the pass. It wasn't loud to me, but Leo flinched hard. The sound bounced off the marble and he made a sharp, startled noise that turned into a wail, high and sudden. His hand knocked the milk glass and it tipped, spilling a white arc across the cloth.
A couple at the next table looked over. I felt my feet start to move before I thought.
Ricardo was faster.
He slid off the banquette and went to his knees right there on the carpet, at eye level with Leo. He didn't grab him. He didn't shush him. He put one hand lightly on the edge of the table to steady himself, his watch glinting, and leaned in close.
"Hey," he said, and his voice was not his boardroom voice. It was softer, a little rough. "It's too loud, isn't it? Nobody's angry with you."
The words landed in the room exactly as I'd said them that first night. For a second I couldn't breathe.
Leo was still crying but he was looking at his dad now, not at the room. Ricardo stayed at eye level. He didn't wipe Leo's face right away. He just waited.
"Nobody's angry," he said again, quieter. "We're okay. It's just plates."
Leo's crying hitched. He pulled the gray scarf partway out of his pocket and pressed it to his cheek. Ricardo reached, slow, and righted the milk glass with his other hand, then dabbed at the spill with his own napkin, not making it a big deal.
"It's okay if it's too loud," Ricardo said. "You can tell me."
Leo nodded once, his breath shuddering. He pushed the scarf back in and then reached for his dad's hand. Ricardo let him.
From the service station, I didn't move. The couple who had looked over turned back to their conversation. No one stood. No security shifted. The room just held.
Marco came out with a fresh white napkin and a clean glass of milk without being asked. He set it down and, as he passed me, he gave me a single nod. Not pitying. Respectful. Like we were on the same staff again.
Ricardo lifted Leo back into the banquette and sat beside him. Leo picked up the new glass with both hands and took a small sip. His eyes were still wet, but his shoulders had dropped.
May you like
Ricardo looked over at me then, not waving me in, just meeting my eyes for a second over Leo's head. He didn't need to say anything. I'd heard him say it already, in my own words, and he'd meant it.
I stayed by the coffee, hands folded over my apron, and let them have the table.
