Chapter 18 Table Seven #3
That sounded like something Antonella might agree with. Then he asked Sophia whether she knew the difference between memory and nostalgia. In front of table seven. With his pen near his notebook.
Sophia answered, “Memory is what happened. Nostalgia is what people want to remember.”
He looked at her for a long second.
Then said, “Not bad.”
Not bad. Like she had passed a tiny test he hadn’t told her she was taking. She went to the staff hallway and pressed one hand to the wall. Just for a second. Victoria followed.
“Absolutely not,” Victoria said.
Sophia turned. “What?”
“I can take the table.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to him.”
“I am not trying to prove anything to him.”
Victoria’s eyebrows lifted. Sophia looked away. All right. Maybe a little.
“I am trying to do my job,” Sophia said.
“And if doing your job means letting some man make you feel stupid?”
Sophia flinched. Victoria saw it and immediately softened.
“Soph.”
The nickname slipped out, then Victoria grimaced. “Sorry. I know that’s his thing.”
Sophia let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
“It’s fine.”
“No. It isn’t. None of this is all right.”
Sophia looked toward the dining room. Francois sat alone, writing something in a narrow notebook. Writing. Maybe about the food. Maybe about her. The thought made her stomach twist.
“If you take the table, he will know,” Sophia said.
“So?”
“So then I am the young server who couldn’t handle him.”
Victoria’s face tightened.
“He doesn’t get to decide who you are because he has a notebook,” Victoria said. “You’re skilled at this.”
Sophia swallowed.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Sophia almost smiled. Everyone. Always.
“I’m trying to.”
Victoria looked like she wanted to hug her. She didn’t. Smart.
“Then I will stand nearby,” Victoria said.
“Victoria.”
“Nearby. Not over you.”
That was fair. Sophia nodded.
“All right.”
When Sophia returned to the dining room, Antonia was at table seven. Sophia’s chest tightened. But Antonia wasn’t taking over. She was doing what an owner did. Checking the table. Francois stood when she approached, which surprised Sophia.
“Chef Bartoli,” he said.
“Mr. DuPont.”
“I hoped to meet you before the end of the meal.”
“I am here.”
His mouth curved faintly. “So I see.”
Antonia’s smile stayed polite, but her eyes sharpened. “How has your dinner been?”
“Interesting.”
Gia, ten feet away with a water pitcher, looked like she might swallow her tongue.
Antonia didn’t blink. “Interesting can mean many things.”
“It can.” Francois looked toward the kitchen, then back to her. “The pasta is true. The room is warm. The story is very available.”
Antonia’s eyes sharpened. “The story?”
“Family, grandmother, love, local loyalty, and a fiancé with money. These things attach themselves to food whether the food asks them to or not.”
Sophia stopped near the service station. Brett, at the bar, went very still. Antonia’s expression remained calm.
“Food always comes with a story,” she said. “The question is whether the plate can stand when the story is silent.”
Francois looked at her for a second. Then nodded. A real nod.
“Right answer.”
Antonia’s smile didn’t change. “It wasn’t an answer. It was the truth.”
Something like respect passed over his face. Brief. But there. Then his gaze moved to Sophia.
“She has been attentive,” he said.
Sophia froze. Antonia looked at her. Then back at him.
“She is skilled at her job,” Antonia said.
Francois’s eyes stayed on Sophia.
“She is trying very hard.”
Not exactly an insult. Worse. Something that sounded like praise from across the room and like judgment if you stood close enough. Sophia’s throat tightened. Antonia’s face cooled.
“Sophia doesn’t need to be discussed as if she isn’t present,” Antonia said.
The room didn’t stop. But Sophia did. Francois looked back to Antonia. For the first time, he seemed almost aware he had stepped wrong.
“Fair,” he said.
Antonia inclined her head. “Enjoy the rest of your meal.”
She turned away. Not too fast or angry enough for the room. Just enough. When she reached Sophia, she stopped.
“I didn’t take over.”
Sophia looked at her.
“I know.”
“Do you want to stop serving him?”
Sophia’s heart beat once, hard. The offer was there, real.
Not a trap or proof she was weak. Just a choice.
She looked at table seven. Francois had gone back to his notebook.
She looked at the kitchen. Vinny stood at the pass, eyes fixed on her.
She looked at Victoria, who was standing nearby but not over her.
Gia, who had gone soft. Brett, who looked ready to say something expensive and dangerous but didn’t.
“I can finish,” Sophia said.
Antonia held her gaze.
Then nodded. “All right.”
In the kitchen, Vinny turned away from the pass. Not because he didn’t care. He turned away because staying there would cost him. Sophia saw him pick up his notebook. Saw his thumb brush the line.
Stay in kitchen unless asked.
Then he set it down and went back to the dessert station.
Her throat tightened. She knew how badly he wanted to come out, and watching him turn back to the station hurt more than she expected.
By nine, the dining room had thinned. Francois had finished his cavatelli and ordered espresso.
Sophia brought it with one little almond biscotti because Antonia said it went with espresso and because Gia said if a man was going to ruin the mood, he could at least chew. Francois stirred the espresso once.
“No dessert menu?” he asked.
Sophia’s pulse jumped.
“We have dessert,” she said.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His eyes lifted. “Then tell me.”
She had practiced this. With Vinny. With the dessert committee. With herself in the mirror like a ridiculous person.
“Italian cream cake, but lighter,” she said. “Flaky pastry layered with sweet cream, candied walnuts, crème anglaise, and cream cheese ice cream.”
Francois leaned back.
“Italian cream cake isn’t Italian.”
Sophia had known that might come. She was ready.
“No. It is Italian-American. This version fits Bella Luna’s menu because the restaurant is Italian-American too. It isn’t pretending to be something else.”
From the bar, Gia whispered, “Damn.”
Victoria elbowed her. Francois looked at Sophia for a long second. Then the smallest smile touched his mouth. This one was real, maybe.
“Yes,” he said.
Sophia breathed in.
“Would you like to try it?”
He glanced toward the kitchen.
“Is this from the same cook who made the pasta?”
“Yes.”
“And he is trusted with dessert.”
It wasn’t a question. Sophia thought of Vinny’s face when Antonia said full plate. She thought of his note.
Stay in kitchen unless asked.
She thought of how much this mattered.
“Yes,” she said. “He is.”
Francois looked back at her.
“Then I will try it.”
Sophia nodded.
“Of course.”
She turned toward the kitchen. Her hands were steady, mostly. At the pass, Vinny stood with the dessert plate already started. He looked at her face.
“He ordered it.”
Vinny’s breath left him.
“All right.”
Antonia stepped beside him. “Clean plate. No rushing.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, chef.”
His hands moved through pastry and cream, pastry and cream, then candied walnuts placed around the plate rather than scattered.
Crème anglaise in a clean curve. A slight scoop of cream cheese ice cream tucked beside the pastry, cold and pale and perfect.
Sophia watched. So did Antonia. Vinny finished with one brief breath.
Then pushed the plate forward. Not all the way.
Just enough. Antonia inspected it. For one terrible second, she said nothing.
Then, “Fair.”
Vinny closed his eyes briefly. Sophia smiled.
Antonia looked at her. “Table seven.”
Sophia slid her hands under the tray. The plate wasn’t heavy.
It felt heavy. Vinny looked at her. Not saying be gentle or saying I can do it.
Not saying anything that made the moment his instead of hers.
His jaw was tight. His hands were still.
His eyes were full of every word he was forcing himself not to say. Sophia nodded once.
“I’ve got it,” she said.
He nodded back.
“I know.”
She turned toward the dining room. At table seven, Francois waited with his notebook closed beside his espresso cup.
Victoria stood near the host stand. Antonia stood at the edge of the kitchen.
Gia had stopped moving entirely. Brett sat at the bar, watching Antonia watch Sophia.
Sophia carried the dessert across the room. One step. Then another.
Breathe first.
Her hands stayed steady. For now.