I’m not surprised he knows who I am. My brothers have been in L.A. for a while, and I’ve been visiting relatively frequently. Once you’re at a certain level at an establishment like this, you make it your job to know who certain people are.
At least my lack of anonymity isn’t going to be so obvious to Jo, if it matters to her. She’s been greeted profusely by everyone we’ve encountered at the hotel so far.
Jo and I follow Dave into the bistro. Nieve is done all in white. Its cool elegance is soothing, but it also reminds me of Mom. She would approve of the sophistication inherent in the simple design and color scheme.
The question about whether Dad is still seeing her pops into my head, and my mood plunges. I know he is. What I don’t know is how far he’s willing to go. Remarry her? Ask that we forget what she’s done for decades because she’s old and alone now?
She seemed a bit more fragile in the photos Linda sent. But I can never let myself forget that Mom employs her beauty and fragility like scythes, mowing down people who don’t give in to her wants.
Our server pulls out a chair for me, while the maître d’ does the same for Jo. I forcibly shove the unpleasant thoughts about my parents out of my mind. I didn’t bring Jo here to brood about that.
After the maître d’ is gone, the waiter hands us white leather-bound menus. I take a glance at mine. A grass-fed Angus beef burger sounds about right.
Soon our server returns with two pitchers—one with ice water and the other with complimentary iced jasmine white tea, which he announces in a slightly self-important tone. Then he pours both into glasses.
I look at Jo. “Ready to order?”
She nods, then turns to the waiter. “Can I have French toast, maple syrup on the side, with extra berries?”
The young man blinks. “Uh. We don’t do breakfast at this hour. How about our grilled salmon? It’s really good.”
Jo purses her mouth, her brows pinching together. Salmon is a poor substitute for French toast.
The waiter turns toward me. “Sir, I can take your order while she’s having another look at the menu.”
Something about his attitude grates on my nerves, the slightly condescending implication that she didn’t look at the menu correctly in the first place. It’s the same kind of snobbery Mom would use to cut someone down, except she’s slicker and more subtle. My irritation surges. I’m furious that he made me think of my mom again after I evicted her from my mind just moments ago.
I pin him with my coldest and haughtiest stare. “She doesn’t need to look over the menu again. She told you what she wanted.”
“Uh…” He licks his lips, and the white pen he’s holding starts to vibrate slightly. Obviously this isn’t going according to his mental script. “It’s just that—”
“I’ll have your beef burger—medium rare—with steak fries and a Coke. Classic.” I turn to Jo. “What do you want to drink?”
“Sparkling pear juice.”
“We don’t do medium ra—”
“Yes, you do. Go ask the chef.”
He clicks his mouth shut. “Yes, sir.”
Holding the menus like a shield in front of him, he retreats. I dismiss him from my thoughts and turn my attention to Jo.
She leans across the table, her brown eyes sparkling. “Okay, that was hot. And hilarious.”
“Was it?” I ask, unsure what’s so amusing.
“Oh yeah. I didn’t think you had it in you. You’re always so proper and polite. But I do enjoy watching men who are very alpha.”
The half-teasing, half-admiring tone makes me want to preen, which is highly uncharacteristic. I make a noncommittal noise. I don’t want to explain the real reason I was much shorter with the waiter than I would’ve been otherwise.
“He’s going to spit in our food, you know,” she says. But from the way she’s grinning, she doesn’t seem too worried about the possibility.
“Then we’ll have Dave fire him.” Rudeness bothers me, but generally not to this degree. But my mood isn’t exactly charitable at
the moment. “If I thought the service would be this lacking, I wouldn’t have brought you here.”
“Oh no. It isn’t bad here, trust me. It’s just that waiter.”