Chapter 1 - THE THREE WORDS ON THE GUEST LIST
At twenty-two, I knew the difference between a customer who wanted another drink and a customer who wanted to see how much discomfort came free with it.
The men at table seven had begun with expensive Scotch and generous tips. By their third round, they were asking questions I had learned not to answer.
"Just Clara?" the man with the scar above his eyebrow asked. "No last name?"
"Clara is enough to get another drink."
His friends laughed.
He did not.
Behind me, Vincenzo's glowed with amber light, polished mahogany, and bottles that cost more than my mother's monthly prescriptions. Rain darkened the converted warehouse windows. I held the tray against my hip and waited for the silence to become somebody else's responsibility.
"Leave her alone," one of his friends said.
I returned to the bar.
Marco intercepted me before I could put down the tray. He had been impatient with me all evening, correcting small things loudly enough for customers to hear.
Now his voice was low.
"Office. Mr. Moretti wants you."
My stomach tightened.
Three months of wages waited behind every shift I worked there: rent, my mother's treatment, the community-college account I kept promising myself would eventually grow.
I followed Marco through the private hallway, rehearsing apologies for mistakes I could not identify.
The office stood above the rear section of the bar. Through the dark glass behind the desk, I could see the entire floor.
Including table seven.
Enzo Moretti turned from the window.
He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled back. He was thirty-two, according to staff gossip, though nobody spoke about him as if age had anything to do with his authority.
"Sit, Clara."
Marco left.
The door clicked shut.
Enzo glanced toward the men below.
"They made you uncomfortable."
"I handled it."
"That wasn't what I asked."
His attention made me straighten.
"Yes."
"Then next time, tell Marco."
"I need this job. I don't need a reputation for causing trouble."
Something changed in his face.
"Being bothered isn't causing trouble."
I looked at the closed door, then back at him.
"People say that until a good customer complains."
He remained quiet long enough for me to regret the answer.
Then he asked why I worked there.
I told him the practical truth: my mother was recovering from a serious illness, the bills had outlasted the emergency, and I wanted to study hospitality management.
Someday, if someday ever arrived, I wanted a small restaurant where regulars had favorite tables.
"Not a bar?"
"Restaurants usually send people home before they develop terrible ideas."
His mouth moved.
It was almost a smile.
He offered me a permanent position: dependable hours, higher pay, paid leave, and a written benefits package.
Several employees were finishing their trial periods, he explained. Marco would give us the contracts.
Relief rose so quickly that suspicion followed it.
"What's the catch?"
"Standards. Reliability."
"And?"
His gaze held mine.
"The anniversary celebration next month. I want you working the entrance."
"As a hostess?"
"Yes."
He slid a photograph across the desk.
A red dress lay against a pale background, elegant enough to belong to someone whose life contained occasions.
I did not touch it.
"Why me?"
"Because you notice people."
Below us, the scarred man looked up toward the dark office window.
For the first time all night, he looked uneasy.
Enzo followed my gaze.
"Those men won't bother you again."
When I returned to the bar, Marco pushed the employment folder toward me.
Beneath it lay a separate guest list for the anniversary.
Beside my name, in Enzo's handwriting, were three words.
Keep beside me.
I stared at them longer than I should have.
Then I looked toward the office.
Enzo was still standing behind the glass.
And although I couldn't see his expression, I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was watching to see what I would do next.
I folded the guest list.
Put it in my apron.
And decided I would ask him about it tomorrow.
That was my first mistake.
My second was believing I had until tomorrow.
At eleven forty-three, the man with the scar returned.
This time, he came alone.
He approached the bar while I was counting receipts.
"Clara Bennett," he said.
My hands stopped moving.
I had never told him my last name.
"Excuse me?"
"Your mother still lives on Hawthorne Street?"
A terrible coldness spread through my stomach.
"Who are you?"
He smiled.
"Someone who remembers your father."
My father had died when I was eleven.
At least, that was what my mother had told me.
A construction accident.
A closed casket.
A funeral attended by six people.
The stranger placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
"Tell your boss that Victor Sloane says hello."
Then he walked out.
I stood frozen until Marco called my name.
When I finally looked down, I noticed something written on the bill.
Not a phone number.
Not a message.
A date.
November 14, 2015.
The day my father died.
May you like
And underneath it, four words.
Ask who buried him.
