Chapter 2 - The General Manager's Entrance
The silence that settled over our table was far heavier than the ambient clatter of crystal and silver across the room.
My mother’s fork remained suspended an inch above her bowl. My father slowly lowered his knife, his sharp, observant eyes flicking from the dark, crimson wine sitting before me to my face. Cousin Daniel stopped smiling entirely.
Melody’s knuckles turned white where she gripped the edge of the tablecloth.
“Why are you serving her?” Melody demanded, her voice rising half an octave, sharp enough to turn the head of a waiter two tables over. “I am the one who made the reservation. The table is under the name Cole—Melody Cole. She didn’t arrange this dinner. She’s wearing a seven-year-old blazer, for heaven’s sake.”
The sommelier did not flinch. He maintained his posture, hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently as I lifted the glass, swirled the wine once, and inhaled the rich, earthy notes of black currant, cedar, and aged leather.
“It’s opened beautifully, Thomas,” I said quietly, taking a small sip. “Please pour for my parents first.”
“Certainly, Miss Claire.”
“Wait just a minute!” Melody’s chair scraped against the hardwood floor as she shifted forward, her voice trembling with indignation. “This is ridiculous. I want to speak to the manager. Call Monsieur Laurent right now. I work directly with the commercial zoning board in Richmond; my firm holds vendor contracts with this entire hotel chain. I will not be treated like an afterthought at a celebration I personally organized.”
“There is no need to call for Monsieur Laurent, Miss Cole,” a cultured, French-accented voice sounded from directly behind her.
Through the archway leading from the private elevator corridor walked a distinguished gentleman with silver-streaked hair, wearing a tailored midnight-blue three-piece suit with the golden crossed-keys pin of the international hoteliers' guild on his lapel.
Jean-Luc Laurent, the general manager of the Potomac Grand and regional vice president of luxury operations, approached our table with deliberate, unhurried strides.
Melody let out an audible sigh of relief, tossing her hair over her shoulder and casting a triumphant glance across the table at me. “Monsieur Laurent, thank goodness. Your staff seems thoroughly confused. Your sommelier poured an unlisted four-thousand-dollar vintage for my sister, who didn't even know this restaurant existed until I sent the address to the family chat.”
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Monsieur Laurent stopped at the foot of our table. He looked down at Melody, his dark eyes carrying the calm, penetrating scrutiny of a man who had managed prime ministers and corporate monarchs for thirty years.
“Good evening, Miss Cole,” Laurent said evenly. “There is no confusion among my staff. In fact, had it not been for the person sitting across from you, you would not be dining in this room tonight.”
