All my mother’s fear.
My father’s name beneath a statement dated after his death.
And the word he chose was embarrassing.
“My father was Daniel Bennett,” I said.
Gideon looked at me.
I kept my voice steady.
“If you have something to say about him, you can use his name.”
His eyes hardened.
“You’ve been given an incomplete account.”
“Then provide the rest to the people reviewing it.”
Enzo’s voice was quiet.
Gideon turned.
“You’re letting a waitress dictate family business?”
Enzo did not look at me.
He did not need to.
“No,” he said. “I’m refusing to let family dictate the facts.”
For a moment, I thought Gideon would strike him.
Instead, he laughed.
It was a poor imitation of ease.
“You think you know what you’re opening?”
“No,” Enzo said. “That’s why I’m opening it.”
Gideon left before dinner.
Victor did not attend.
The evening continued, but the speech changed.
Enzo did not describe the companies as a proud, unbroken tradition.
He acknowledged that an independent review was underway into an old workplace death and the handling of the records afterward.
He did not use my name.
He did not tell the guests I had forgiven him.
He thanked the staff by department and announced the workers’ names would accompany the photographs in future displays.
It was not enough.
It was something he could be held to.
Afterward, I finished my shift.
I checked coats.
Found a lost earring.
Helped an elderly man locate his wife, who was perfectly content at the dessert table.
Nobody transformed my life before midnight.
At one thirty, I changed back into my own clothes.
Enzo waited by the staff exit.
“May I walk you to the bus stop?”
I looked at him.
“It’s raining.”
“I noticed.”
We walked beneath separate umbrellas.
For half a block, neither spoke.
Then he said, “You looked beautiful.”
I kept walking.
“Be careful.”
“I’m trying to.”
“I work for you.”
“I know.”
