Chapter 3 - The White Handbag On The Right
The check never came. That's what I waited for after Mark said it, but our busser had disappeared into the kitchen and our manager was still by the host stand talking to a couple about a reservation. The silver cloche was still on my tray. My arm had started to ache from holding it at waist height, but I didn't set it down.
Vanessa's hand had moved to the white handbag. Not casual. Her palm flat over the top handles, fingers curled around the clasp as if someone might grab it. The leather was structured, cream-white, the kind that holds its shape even when empty. Hers wasn't empty. I could see the bulge where the inner pocket zipper pulled.
Mark had asked for the check and then looked back at me. I needed a reason to stay at the table without looking like I was hovering, so I reached for the wine bottle in the ice bucket beside them.
"Let me top that for you," I said.
Vanessa's glass was still half full of red. She gave me a sharp look.
"I didn't ask for more," she said.
"I know," I said. I tipped the bottle anyway, just a half inch, the wine catching the warm light. "On the house while you wait."
It gave me ten more seconds at the table. Ten seconds to watch her other hand. While I poured, her left hand slipped inside the handbag. I heard the faint metallic whisper of a zipper. She didn't take anything out. She pushed something down deeper and zipped the inner pocket closed. Her fingertips lingered on the zipper pull for a beat too long before she let go and smoothed the front flap.
That was the second phone. She'd just buried it.
Mark watched me pour. He wasn't watching his wife's hand. He was watching my face.
"You've been very steady," he said, his voice lower than before. His hands were still clasped on the white tablecloth. "Most people would have walked away by now."
I set the bottle back in the bucket. Water dripped onto the tablecloth and I blotted it with the edge of my tray cloth without being asked.
"It's my table," I said.
He tilted his head a fraction. His stare had changed from focused to searching.
"Have we met before?" he asked. "You look at me like we have."
That stopped my breathing for half a second. I kept my smile small and controlled, the same cold knowing one from before but softer now, more careful.
"I don't think so," I said.
"You sure?" he said. "You haven't blinked much since you came over."
Vanessa cut in. "Mark, stop. She's a waitress. You don't know her."
But he didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on me, waiting for me to correct him or lie.
I lifted the cloche tray a little higher to steady my arm. "I just remember faces well," I said. It was not quite a lie. I remembered his face from the photos on Ethan's phone, the ones Ethan thought he'd deleted from the cloud. Mark in a suit at some charity gala, arm around Vanessa. Mark and Ethan shaking hands at a golf fundraiser. I had studied that face for weeks before I applied for this job.
Vanessa pushed her chair back, the legs scraping softly against the dark wood floor. She grabbed the white handbag and pulled it into her lap, then onto her shoulder. The handles left a faint crease in her white blazer sleeve.
"I need the restroom," she announced. It wasn't to Mark, it was to the room, a performance of dismissal. She stood, smoothing her blazer with her free hand. The diamond necklace caught the light and threw a sharp spark against her throat. "Don't let her bother you while I'm gone."
She looked at me once, hard, a warning to stay away from her things, her husband, her table.
Mark didn't stand when she did. He just watched her go, then looked back at me.
Vanessa took two steps toward the hallway that led to the restrooms at the back of the dining room. The hallway was narrow, cream walls, low warm sconces. She held the white handbag tight against her side, the inner pocket zipped. If she went in there, the phone went with her. If she locked that stall door, I would have no reason to follow her that wouldn't get me fired or escorted out.
May you like
She paused at the edge of the table, waiting for me to move my tray and let her pass.
I had to decide whether to step aside and let the evidence walk, or find a reason to follow her down that hallway.
