Chapter 18 Table Seven
Sophia wrote breathe first in the margin of her notes before class started, then stared at the words because they no longer felt like school only.
Dr. Miller was talking about support without taking over, about letting a child attempt the task before the adult stepped in.
Useful, normal notes. Bella Luna notes, too.
Marissa brought coffee and told her the column guy didn’t get to ruin her notebook.
Sophia stayed with the lecture anyway, answered a question about helping a child zip a coat without doing the whole thing for them, and wrote one more line: Help should leave the child knowing they tried.
By five-thirty, Bella Luna was busy enough for the front windows to fog slightly, and every time the door opened, the staff felt it.
Windy City Magazine was no longer just in Antonia’s office.
It was in Gia’s sudden silence, Victoria’s sharp watchfulness, Vinny’s focus at the dessert station, and Sophia’s steady hands.
“Quick,” she said.
Gia leaned in. “If this is a speech, I need warning.”
“It isn’t a speech.”
“Good. I’m busy being annoyed.”
Antonia ignored that. “If anyone from a magazine comes in, we don’t change service. We don’t hover. We don’t apologize for things before they happen. We don’t put on a show.”
Victoria folded her arms. “And if they act like a jerk?”
Antonia’s eyes moved to her. “We remain professional.”
Gia muttered, “Internal panic and excellent posture.”
Antonia pointed at her. “That.”
Sophia nodded. Antonia’s gaze landed on her and held for half a second. Not warning. Checking.
Sophia straightened. “I can do my job.”
“I know,” Antonia said.
Two words. No extra. Sophia held onto them. From the kitchen, Vinny looked through the pass. He had heard. Sophia didn’t look at him for too long. If she looked too long, he would know she was nervous, and everyone else probably would too.
Work.
She turned back to the floor. The next thirty minutes went fine.
Table two wanted more sauce. Table five needed another wine list. Table seven was empty because a reservation had canceled late. Table nine had two kids who kept dropping crayons and saying “uh-oh” with absolutely no regret.
Normal. Kind. Then the front door opened.
Sophia was at the host stand, setting down menus.
Victoria looked up first. The man who stepped in was alone.
Dark coat. Charcoal scarf. Neatly combed dark hair.
Sharp cheekbones. Calm eyes that took in the room once, then returned to Victoria.
Sophia knew him from the photograph before he said anything.
Her body went cold in slight, controlled pieces.
Not panic. Recognition. Victoria’s hand tightened around the reservation tablet.
“Evening,” Victoria said, smooth and perfect. “Welcome to Bella Luna.”
The man’s accent was light but there. French beneath steady English. “Evening. Table for one.”
“Of course. Name?”
A tiny pause. Not hesitation. Choice.
“DuPont.”
Sophia looked toward Antonia. Antonia had already seen him.
She stood near the bar with Brett, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the counter.
Her expression didn’t change much. Only her eyes.
Alert. Brett noticed. Of course he noticed.
He looked from Antonia to the door and went still. Victoria’s smile didn’t crack.
“Right this way, Mr. DuPont.”
Sophia stepped back to let them pass. Francois’s eyes moved to her apron, order pad, and face, then returned to the room.
Sophia kept her shoulders straight even though her neck warmed.
Victoria led him to table seven. Empty table seven.
Francois removed his coat and draped it over the back of the chair himself before Victoria could help.
He sat facing the room, not the wall. Critic seat.
Sophia didn’t know why she thought that.
She just did. Victoria returned to the host stand. Her face was calm. Her voice wasn’t.
“Table seven.”
Sophia looked down at the seating chart. Table seven was in her section tonight. Gia appeared at her shoulder without sound.
“No,” Gia said.
Sophia looked at her. “What?”
“Trade with me.”
Victoria shook her head. “Or me.”
Sophia’s pulse jumped. The offer should have felt kind. It did. The silence around her made it harder to move.
“I can serve him,” Sophia said.
Victoria’s mouth tightened. “Sophia.”
“I can.”
Gia looked toward table seven. “He has the face of a man who sends soup back for temperature.”
“Gia.”
“What? Softly.”
Antonia crossed to them before Victoria could answer.
Her voice was low. “Sophia.”
“I know who he is.”
“I was going to tell you.”
Sophia looked at her. Antonia’s expression softened just enough.
“I didn’t want you walking in blind.”
“I am not blind.”
“No.”
Sophia glanced toward table seven. Francois was reading the menu. Not theatrically. Actually reading. His finger paused on a line, moved on, then returned. He knew food. It was worse. Better. No. Worse.
“I can do it,” Sophia said.
Antonia studied her for one second.
“All right.”
Victoria looked like she hated that. Gia looked like she was biting the inside of her cheek.
Antonia continued, “You serve him as you would any guest. If he asks something you don’t know, you come to me or the kitchen. You don’t guess.”
Sophia nodded. “All right.”
“If he is rude, you remain professional.”
“I know.”
“If you need me, you get me.”
Sophia held her gaze. “If I need you.”
Antonia heard the difference. So did Victoria. So did Gia.
Antonia nodded once. “Yes. If you need me.”
Sophia breathed in.
Breathe first.
She picked up a water glass and menu card. Then she went to table seven. Francois didn’t look up immediately. Sophia stood beside the table, not too close.
“Evening,” she said. “My name is Sophia. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
Now he looked up. His eyes weren’t cruel. That surprised her. They were sharp, assessing, and tired in a way the photograph hadn’t shown.
“Sophia,” he repeated, like he was checking how it sounded. “Evening.”
“Can I start you with sparkling or still water?”
“Still.”
“Of course.”
She poured. Her hand was steady. Good.
“Would you like a few minutes with the menu?”
“I have been looking.”
Right. Obviously.
Sophia kept her expression calm. “Do you have any questions?”
His eyes dropped to the menu again. “Several. The cavatelli. Made in house?”
“Yes.”
“By the chef?”
“By our kitchen,” Sophia said.
His gaze lifted. Not impressed or displeased. Waiting.
Sophia continued, “Chef Antonia oversees the pasta program. Vinny, one of our cooks, has been working with her on some of the fresh pasta and dessert items.”
No. Too far? Maybe.
Francois tilted his head slightly. “One of your cooks.”
“Yes.”
“And this is meant to reassure me?”
Heat rose in Sophia’s neck. She kept her face still.
“No. It is meant to answer your question honestly.”
A brief pause. Then something moved in his mouth. Almost a smile. Not warm. But not nothing.
“Decent,” he said. “Honesty saves time.”
Sophia breathed once.
“Would you like to hear the specials?”
“I would like to hear them if they are specials, not simply dishes the kitchen needs to sell before tomorrow.”
The sentence was calm, not loud enough for another table to notice. Still, it landed. Sophia felt the hit. Low. Needle-sharp.
“They are specials,” she said. “The kitchen doesn’t use that word for leftovers.”
His eyes flicked to hers. Again, that almost-smile.
“Proceed.”
Sophia described the specials. Slow enough not to rush.
Clear enough not to sound memorized. She named the roasted branzino with fennel and citrus.
The braised short rib over soft polenta.
The cavatelli with lemon brown butter and mushrooms, still limited because Antonia was treating it like something precious even though she would never admit that.
Francois listened. Too slowly. When Sophia finished, he tapped the menu once.
“You say cavatelli correctly,” he said.
Sophia blinked.
“Thank you.”
“But the description sounds rehearsed.”
Her stomach tightened.
Breathe first.
“It is rehearsed,” she said.
His eyebrows lifted faintly.
Sophia kept going. “I practice descriptions so I can answer guests clearly. But I have tasted it. The lemon keeps the brown butter from feeling too heavy, and the mushrooms make it warm without making it dull.”
His gaze sharpened. This time, he was interested. Actually interested.
“Dull mushrooms are a common tragedy,” he said.
Sophia didn’t know whether that was a joke, maybe.
“I agree.”
He leaned back.
“I will start with the bruschetta. Then the cavatelli.”
“Of course.”
“And a glass of Chianti. Something that doesn’t taste like it was chosen because the label looked Italian.”
Sophia’s hand tightened slightly around her pad. She loosened it.
“I can ask Antonia for the best pairing.”
“You don’t know?”
Not loud or cruel exactly. But there. A modest door opening beneath her feet.
“I know two options that would work,” Sophia said. “But Antonia knows the wine list better than I do, and I would rather bring you the better answer than pretend mine is complete.”
Francois watched her. For one second, something like approval crossed his face. Then he looked back at the menu.
“Acceptable.”
Sophia wrote it down. Not on his head. On the pad. She turned and walked to the service station. Only when her back was to him did she breathe fully. Victoria was waiting.
“His face is annoying,” Victoria said under her breath.
Sophia almost laughed, almost.
“He ordered bruschetta, cavatelli, and Chianti. I need Antonia for the wine.”
Victoria looked toward the table. “He said something.”
“He asked questions.”
“He said something.”
Sophia looked at her. Victoria’s eyes were fierce.
“I’m handling it.”
Victoria’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“Do you?”
That stopped her.
Victoria exhaled through her nose. “Yes.”
Sophia touched her wrist. “Please.”