Eleanor glanced across the restaurant.
"Was I uncomfortable?"
"I don't know."
"Would you like me to tell you?"
"Please."
She considered the question.
"I was disappointed."
Martin lowered his eyes.
"That is worse."
"Sometimes."
"I'm going to speak with Mr. Halston."
"No."
The word was quiet but immediate.
Martin looked up.
"Mrs. Grant, I can't allow—"
"You can allow a great many things, Martin. The question is which of them will accomplish something useful."
He hesitated.
Eleanor placed her spoon beside the bowl.
"Did you hear what he said?"
"Not all of it."
"Then don't act on half a conversation."
"But he questioned your reservation."
"And the reservation was valid."
"Yes."
"Then there is nothing to correct about the reservation."
Martin frowned.
"What about his behavior?"
"That is a separate matter."
"Surely you don't want us to ignore it."
"No, Martin. I want you to understand it before you respond to it."
She looked toward Richard's table.
"Some people are accustomed to being treated as important. When they encounter someone they believe is unimportant, they mistake that person's silence for permission."
Martin listened carefully.
"Should I ask him to apologize?"
Eleanor shook her head.
"If he apologizes because you tell him to, he may learn only that you have enough authority to inconvenience him. I would prefer he learn something about himself."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we will know something useful about him."
Martin glanced at the envelope beside her plate.
"Is that why you're here tonight?"
Eleanor's fingers moved toward it.
"Partly."
"May I ask what it contains?"
"Not yet."
He nodded.
"Of course."
For a moment, the two of them sat in silence.
Then Eleanor asked, "How long have you managed the restaurant now?"
"Seventeen years."
"Seventeen. My goodness."
"Time moves quickly."
"That depends on what you're doing with it."
Martin smiled faintly.
"That sounds like something your husband used to say."
Eleanor's expression softened.
"Samuel said many things that sounded wise when he was alive."
"And afterward?"
"Afterward, I discovered that some of them were wise because he had spent years making mistakes before he said them."
Martin laughed gently.
It was the first time that evening Eleanor had appeared genuinely amused.
He looked around the dining room.
"We've made changes since you last came in."
"I can see that."
"Some necessary. Some less so."
"That happens."
"We're trying to preserve the standards that made this place special."
Eleanor looked at him.
"What standards would those be?"
Martin hesitated.
"Exceptional service. Excellent food. Privacy. Consistency."
"All good things."
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
He thought about it.
"Respect."
Eleanor nodded.
"That one is important."
Martin looked down at the table.
"Mrs. Grant, I sometimes worry that we've become very good at serving people who already expect to be served."
She did not answer immediately.
Outside the window, a bus passed through the intersection, its lights briefly illuminating the glass.
"Tell me something, Martin," she said. "When a guest walks through those doors wearing a beautiful suit, carrying an expensive handbag, and speaking to everyone as if the building belongs to them, what do you assume?"
"That they expect a certain level of service."
"And when a guest walks through those same doors wearing an old coat?"
"I try not to make assumptions."
"Try?"
Martin smiled ruefully.
"After seventeen years, I know that trying is not the same as succeeding."
"Good."
He looked surprised.
"Good?"
"Self-awareness is a useful beginning."
Eleanor picked up her spoon again.
"Now, please go back to work. Your staff need you more than I do."
Martin rose.
"Will you tell me when you're ready to discuss the envelope?"
"When I'm ready."
He nodded and returned to the floor.
Eleanor watched him go.
She had not expected everything to remain unchanged after thirty-one years. Restaurants changed. Cities changed. People changed.
But she had hoped the Grand Aurelia might have preserved one small thing.
The belief that a person deserved to be treated with dignity before anyone knew their name.
She was beginning to suspect that the belief had become a decorative phrase rather than a living principle.
At Richard's table, the conversation had moved on to projected construction costs.
Richard was explaining why Halston Capital should control the development's management structure when a woman approached their table.
She was in her early forties, dressed in a dark green evening gown, with her hair swept into a neat bun. Her name was Claire Donovan, and she had served as the Grand Aurelia's director of private events for nearly a decade.
"Good evening, Mr. Halston."
Richard looked up.
"Claire."
"I hope everything is going well."
"Generally."
She glanced at the half-finished plates.
"Is there anything I can arrange for you?"
Richard considered his answer.
"Actually, there is."
"Of course."
He gestured toward Table Twelve.
"I'd like to understand the reservation policy."
Claire's eyes moved briefly in that direction.
"What would you like to know?"