Richard noticed people in the same way he noticed buildings.
He evaluated their usefulness, their condition, their weaknesses, and their potential value.
He had little patience for things he considered sentimental.
And he considered Eleanor Grant sentimental-looking.
"Who's that?" he asked, nodding toward Table Twelve.
Across from him, Leonard Price glanced in her direction.
Leonard was chairman of the Grand Aurelia Hospitality Group, the company that owned the restaurant and four other luxury properties. At sixty-three, he had silver hair, a careful manner, and the weary expression of a man who had spent too many years mediating between ambitious executives and people who had actually built the business.
He followed Richard's gaze.
For a brief moment, Leonard's expression changed.
"Mrs. Grant," he said.
Richard looked at him.
"You know her?"
"I know the name."
"Is she a guest of someone?"
"She's a guest."
Richard gave a faint smile.
"That wasn't my question."
Leonard returned his attention to his dinner.
"Then perhaps you should ask a better one."
Richard's smile faded.
Beside Leonard sat Martin Cole, the group's chief financial officer. Martin was forty-four, precise, cautious, and uncomfortable with conflict. He had spent most of his career making sure that decisions made by other people could be defended in a financial report.
A leather folder rested beside Richard's plate.
Inside were the preliminary documents for a transaction that could change the future of the Grand Aurelia.
Richard had spent fourteen months pursuing it.
His firm had assembled financing to acquire a controlling interest in the hospitality group. The company's properties were valuable, but its management structure was outdated. Its restaurants carried substantial operating costs, and its hotels had not kept pace with newer competitors.
Richard believed he could make the portfolio more profitable.
He also believed that sentiment was an obstacle to progress.
The Grand Aurelia, in particular, had become a symbol of what he considered inefficient luxury. Its staff-to-guest ratio was high. Its kitchen refused to replace certain traditional dishes with cheaper alternatives. Its management employed musicians, retained experienced servers, and encouraged staff to spend time with regular customers rather than focus exclusively on table turnover.
The restaurant had a reputation for being personal.
Richard saw that as an expensive habit.
"We can make the numbers work," he told Leonard, cutting into his lamb. "But only if we agree on the operating changes before closing."
Leonard dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
"You keep saying operating changes."
"Because that's what they are."
"Reducing staff by twenty percent is not a minor operational adjustment."
"It isn't a reduction for the sake of reduction. It's a correction. The current labor model is built around a different era."
"The current labor model is built around the service people come here to receive."
Richard smiled politely.
"People come here because the food is good and the room is beautiful. They don't come because someone remembers how they take their coffee."
Leonard looked at him for a moment.
Then he glanced toward Table Twelve.
"Some people do."
Richard followed his gaze.
Eleanor had opened her handbag and removed a small envelope. She placed it beside her plate, then looked toward the far end of the dining room.
A waiter approached her.
Richard watched the waiter pull out her chair slightly, say something, and wait for her response.
She smiled.
It was a small interaction.
Nothing worth watching.
Yet Richard found himself looking again.
"Do you know her?" he asked.
Leonard turned.
"Who?"
"The woman by the window."
Leonard's eyes moved toward Table Twelve.
"No."
Richard leaned back.
"She has a reservation?"
"Apparently."
"She looks like she walked in off the street."
Martin Cole shifted in his chair.
"Her name was on the reservation list," he said.
Richard looked at him.
"You checked?"
"I noticed when she arrived. The hostess asked the floor manager to confirm the table."
"Why?"
Martin hesitated.
"I'm not sure."
Richard gave a quiet laugh.
"Maybe we have a new category of customer. People who can book the place but don't look like they can afford the menu."
Leonard did not laugh.
"Richard."
"What?"
"Let's stay with the transaction."
Richard lifted his glass.
"Of course."
But his attention remained on the woman by the window.
He had built his career on reading people quickly. He noticed the way a person held a glass, the quality of a suit, the difference between confidence and insecurity. He had learned to identify who was accustomed to wealth and who was merely trying to imitate it.
Eleanor Grant did not look wealthy.
Her coat was old. Her handbag was worn. Her shoes had been repaired.
She did not wear jewelry except for a narrow gold band on her right hand and a small watch with a scratched face.
Richard concluded that she was probably the guest of someone else.