Chapter 1 - The Sommelier’s Greeting
Melody set down her gold-plated cocktail fork with deliberate precision, her gaze lingering on the worn fabric of my left cuff. She opened her mouth to deliver another polished barb about vintage thrift shops, but before the words could leave her lips, the quiet hum of the dining room shifted.
A tall man in an immaculate charcoal suit and a silver tastevin hanging from a silk neck ribbon approached our table. He moved with the quiet grace of a sommelier whose presence alone usually signaled a four-figure addition to the tab. Behind him, an assistant carried an antique silver wine cooler resting on a mahogany stand, within which sat a dark, unlabelled bottle dusted with the faint chalky residue of a private cellar.
Melody straightened immediately, smoothing the lapel of her designer jacket and glancing toward Daniel with an expression of vindicated triumph.
“See?” Melody whispered across the table, loud enough for our mother to beam with pride. “I told you the concierge here takes care of executive bookings. When I gave them my firm’s corporate account number, they assured me we’d receive premium table service.”
The sommelier reached the edge of our table. He did not look at Melody. He did not look at Daniel or our father.
His eyes found mine, and he offered a slight, deeply respectful bow from the waist.
“Good evening,” the man said softly, his voice measured and warm. “Monsieur Laurent asked me to personally deliver this to your table. A 1982 Château Margaux, brought up from the owner’s private reserve vault ten minutes ago. It has been breathing at sixteen degrees as requested.”
Melody’s smile froze midway between satisfaction and bewilderment. She cleared her throat, waving one manicured hand. “Excuse me. I ordered the house Cabernet reserve. There must be a mix-up with the table numbers. We didn’t order a Margaux.”
The sommelier finally glanced at Melody, his expression polite, detached, and entirely unruffled.
“There is no error, madame,” he said smoothly. “This bottle is not on the public wine list. It is served exclusively at the personal discretion of the executive floor.”
Daniel leaned forward, his eyes wide as he recognized the vintage. “A 1982 Margaux? That’s easily four thousand dollars a bottle. Melody, did your company really authorize that kind of corporate perk for an anniversary dinner?”
Melody blinked rapidly, her cheeks warming beneath her makeup. She looked between the sommelier and Daniel, visibly calculating whether she could claim the credit without getting caught in a lie when the final bill arrived. Her ambition won out over caution.
“Well,” Melody said, letting out a breathy, self-satisfied laugh, “my managing director did say he would speak to the hospitality director on my behalf. I suppose they wanted to make an impression on my family.”
The sommelier did not contradict her aloud. He simply stepped forward, uncorked the bottle with practiced silence, and poured a small tasting measure into a crystal glass.
He did not set the glass before Melody.
May you like
He placed it directly in front of my salad plate.
“Whenever you are ready to approve it, Miss Claire,” the sommelier said quietly.
