Javier stood at his seating station, impatiently tapping his pen against the wood. His rigid posture reminded her of the music instructor her father had hired when she was twelve. A dictatorial virtuoso who she’d been certain had moonlighted as a prison guard. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t be surprised if Javier moonlighted at the same place.
Smoothing the front of her waitress dress, which was doubling as a hostess outfit for the evening, she excused herself from the diners with whom she’d been talking and headed toward him. He immediately tilted his gel-slicked head toward a corner away from the crowd. “I thought I asked you to seat the last party in section four,” he said, once they were out of earshot.
“I did.” At least she thought she had.
“No, you seated them in section three.”
Section three, section four...what difference did it make? Four people needed a table, so she gave them a table with four chairs.
Apparently, from the maître d’s dramatic sigh, it mattered a great deal. “Did I not tell you that restaurant seating is like a mathematical equation? You make a mistake on one side of the dining room, then the entire scheme is thrown off-balance. Now I’m going to have to redo the entire seating chart. Again.”
Arianna lifted her chin. Perhaps, she wanted to say, if she’d been allowed more than five minutes to study the floor plan before the restaurant opened... Traditionally, memorizing information on quick order wasn’t a problem, but lately it seemed her brain was constantly foggy and sluggish. It did not help that the majority of her energy these days seemed to center on trying not to run to the ladies’ room.
Apparently, Javier wasn’t done lecturing her. “And did you tell a couple they couldn’t sit in one of the back booths?”
“They were walk-ins. You told me the booths were reserved.”
“I also told you customer service is our number-one priority. As the first face they see when they come into the Fox Club, you are in a sense Mr. Brown’s ambassador, and as such, you never tell a customer you cannot accommodate their request.”
“But I thought I wasn’t supposed to disrupt the seating chart.”
Javier glared at her. “From now on, come and get me if there’s a special request. I don’t want you making decisions on your own.” He reached for the reservation book while muttering under his breath. Arianna caught the words empty-headed and useless.
They were enough to make her see red. Raising herself to her fullest height, she stared down her nose at the maître d’. “Listen here, you...”
“Excuse me.” A tall, elderly woman approached them, preventing Arianna from finishing. The newcomer wore a pale green gown that, while dated, Arianna immediately recognized from the stitching as a designer original. She was carrying a leather tote bag and a large brown canister.
“Javier,” she said, in an upper-crust voice to rival the maître d’s. Another time, Arianna would find it amusing that she, the actual royal, had the least affected voice. “It’s five past seven. Mr. Riderman and I distinctly requested a seven o’clock reservation. I mentioned it to this young woman, but she told me I had to wait.”
“The rest of her party hasn’t arrived yet,” Arianna told Javier, figuring that he would appreciate the defense, since he set the rule.
He didn’t, though. He snapped to even greater attention. “My apologies, Mrs. Riderman. She is a new employee. Had I seen you walk in I would have attended to you personally. May I send you and Mr. Riderman a cocktail with our compliments?”
The elderly woman’s hand fluttered at the offer, her gigantic cocktail ring spinning on her thin finger as she did. “Mr. Riderman isn’t drinking this evening. I, however, will have an extra dry martini.”
“Very good.” Arianna had to force herself not to roll her eyes at the bow Javier offered the woman. The palace guards weren’t that effusive. “Now if you follow me, your regular table is ready.”
There was another exception to his rules? If he was going to allow exceptions, then there should be a list for employees.
Javier glared at her when he returned. “You are very lucky, Mrs. Riderman is a forgiving person,” he said.
Oh, no, she refused to let some uptight little man lecture her on this. “You specifically instructed that no party was to be seated unless everyone was present.”
“The entire party was present.”
“No, Mr. Riderman...” She stopped, suddenly remembering the bronze vase. “You mean she is eating with her dead husband’s...?”
“Will you keep your voice down?” he said, almost hissing. “Mrs. Riderman is one of our oldest and best customers. She’s also an influential voice in the New York arts society.”
Who eats with her husband’s ashes? “Does Mr. Brown know about this?”
“Of course he knows.”
“Oh.” And he wasn’t disturbed? “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.” The next time a party arrived carrying a jar of remains, she’d make sure to seat them promptly.
“It most certainly will not,” Javier replied. “You’ve done quite enough damage for the evening.”
Arianna stiffened as he touched her elbow. She still wasn’t used to being touched so casually. In Corinthia, only her family and closest confidants took such liberties.
And Manolo, she added ruefully. He had taken a lot of liberties. But then, she’d been foolish enough to think the words coming out of his mouth were sincere.
“Are you sending me home?”
Javier shook his head. “Only Max can do that.” Arianna was certain she heard a silent “unfortunately” prefacing the sentence. “For now, I just want you out of the way.”
“Doing what?” As if she couldn’t guess.
* * *
Folding tableware. Tucked away at the corner of the bar, with a stack of linen napkins and a silverware tray in front of her, she was quickly becoming an expert at the task.
Take a napkin off the pile, fold the cloth carefully into a triangle and stack a knife and two forks by the fold. Then tuck the corners to keep the silverware in place before rolling them into a cylinder. Within five minutes she’d built a small pyramid. At this rate, the restaurant would have table settings to last until New Year’s.
She should have called home by now. If she was back home, she’d be curled up in her big comfortable bed right now waiting for a servant to bring her a cup of lavender mint tea.
Instead, her feet hurt, her back hurt and her stomach wouldn’t stop lurching from the constant food smells passing by her nose. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep for the next twenty-four hours straight.
Worse, after three days, she was no closer to deciding what she should do.
As if on cue, a wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to press a fist to her lips. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the child inside her was voicing its opinion. Too bad she did not know what side the bambino was on. Then again, how could an embryo know what to do when she herself didn’t?
If only she had not seen Manolo’s true colors. Then perhaps the idea of spending a lifetime with him would not seem so...daunting. Her father, of course, was thoroughly impressed by the man and had been thrilled when she and the industrialist began dating. A wedding and grandchild would send him over the moon.
But wasn’t wanting to please Father what had gotten her into this dilemma? Knowing how happy the relationship made her father, she’d ignored the questions whispering in her ear. If Manolo’s kisses failed to make her head spin, or if there were times when she thought he loved being with the king more than with her, it was her imagination.