Chapter 7: Table Four

On Friday night the reservation book said "Hubbard, party of seven, table four."

I saw it when I came in from work and stopped dead at the host stand.

"Rosie," said Ewan, from the pass. "It's one table."

"It's Tabitha."

"It's seven people ordering eleven hundred dollars of food."

"They won't pay."

"Then they'll have eaten well."

I put my cardigan on a hook and tied on an apron, and he didn't say a word.

Table four was the round one by the window.

Tabitha sat at the head with her phone propped against the bread basket, and six men in golf shirts sat around her.

I recognized two of them from Dale's lot.

They were the Rotary friends, big and pink, with watches.

"There she is!" Tabitha called. "The chef's wife! Can you bring us the specials?"

She smiled with all her teeth.

"Slowly. We're in no hurry, because we've heard the gas is out."

Two of the men snickered.

The rest of the dining room went quiet.

Maude sat in the corner at her usual table, with a glass of port and her cane across her knees.

She raised the glass at me, very slightly.

I took a breath.

"Tonight there's a short rib, braised two days in red wine," I said.

"A roast chicken with lemon and tarragon. A sole, because the fish man came in with something beautiful."

"And a squash soup that will make you want to move in."

"Soup," Tabitha said, with enormous disgust. "From a chef who can't afford a pilot light."

"The soup is made on a stove that cost more than your car."

"It's rented."

"It's Italian," I said. "Which is the opposite of rented."

One of the men coughed into his napkin to hide a laugh.

They ordered.

Ewan sent the food out in waves, and every plate that went to table four was so beautiful I wanted to cry.

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