Chapter 11
Saturday afternoon the caterers arrived at three in a white van with the side door rattling.
I had been in the kitchen since noon washing the cut-glass pitcher Bianca requested. I wore my black uniform without the yellow gloves at first, then put them on when Matteo said the stone counters would be cold. The gloves were bright under the kitchen lights.
Matteo checked in at four. He wore a dark suit but no tie. "You good back here?" he asked.
I nodded. "Mia's with Mrs. Dalton in the apartment. She has her backpack and her coloring books."
"She doesn't have to come over at all," he said.
"I told her she doesn't," I said. I was drying the pitcher with a lint-free cloth, turning it slowly so the cut pattern caught the light. It was heavy, the handle cool even through the gloves.
At five, Bianca came through the kitchen in a blush-pink dress, not the champagne one, her hair pinned up. She looked at the pitcher on the drying mat.
"Perfect," she said. "Could you place it on the buffet in the main hall? Just for staging. The caterers want to see the height."
I hesitated. Matteo had said kitchen and back hallway only.
"It's just placement," Bianca said, quickly. "Thirty seconds. Then you're done out there."
The kitchen was busy, two caterers moving trays past me. I didn't want to make a scene before the guests arrived. I picked up the pitcher with both hands, the way Bianca had held it that first day, and walked the short path through the back hallway into the main hall.
The buffet was a long white table under the chandelier. String lights were already hung outside the open French doors. I set the pitcher in the center, adjusting it so the handle faced out.
That's when the side door from the apartment path opened. Mia slipped in, holding Mrs. Dalton's hand, then letting go. She'd wanted to show me her drawing before the party started.
She saw me by the buffet. She smiled. Then she saw Bianca step around the corner from the bar, still holding a clipboard, and Mia's smile dropped.
Bianca said, "Mia, careful, sweetie, that's very expensive glass."
Mia didn't move toward Bianca. She moved toward me, fast, cutting too close to the buffet table to avoid Bianca's side. Her light dress brushed the table leg. Her elbow bumped the edge.
The pitcher wobbled.
I reached, but I was a step too far. Mia's eyes went wide. She threw her hands out, catching nothing, and the pitcher tipped, hit the table, and rolled. It didn't shatter. It thumped onto the polished marble floor with a loud crack and lay there, water that had been inside for staging spreading in a dark sheet across the glossy stone.
The kitchen door swung open from the noise. One caterer stopped. Bianca stared.
Mia froze, her hands over her mouth. Her breathing was fast and shallow.
"It's okay," I said right away, kneeling without thinking, my knees hitting the wet marble. "It's okay, baby, it didn't break."
Bianca didn't yell. She laughed, a short, tight sound. "Well. Just like her mother," she said, loud enough for the caterers to hear. "Some people can't be trusted with nice things."
May you like
Mia flinched and stepped behind me. My gloves were in the puddle now, yellow bright against the water.
Behind us, the French doors were open and the first guests were walking up the lawn.
