"I seem to have caused trouble for you," she said.
"I may have done most of that on my own."
"Does he always look as though someone has misplaced an important document?"
Everett glanced at Bell, who was now conferring urgently with the event coordinator. "Only when the document is still moving."
Serafina gave an unexpected short laugh, then looked surprised by the sound of it. Everett could not remember when he had last made someone laugh without trying, and the moment loosened the tension between them. He offered to leave before his manager found another reason to worry, but she said she would prefer that he remain for another minute. No one had spoken to her normally since she entered, she admitted, and she had forgotten how tiring politeness could be when everyone was afraid.
"Most people are nervous around you," Everett said, choosing the words carefully.
"Most people want something from me. Nervousness is often the beginning of the request."
"I don't know enough about your business to want anything in particular."
"That may be the nicest thing anyone has said to me today."
Her smile faded as she looked beyond him toward the tables. She knew what people said about her, she explained without being asked. In boardrooms, fear was useful because it made people prepare; in public, the same reputation could become a kind of locked door. She had spent years insisting she did not care what others thought, then discovered she had trained an entire world to leave her alone when she did.
Everett thought of the long nights cleaning offices after everyone else had gone home. He did not tell her that he, too, knew how loneliness could turn into a habit. Instead, he asked whether she was enjoying the event. It was an ordinary question, almost absurdly ordinary in a ballroom where everybody else appeared to be composing business introductions in their heads.
"It's a worthwhile cause," Serafina answered. "I'm less certain I'm enjoying myself."
"Maybe the meal would help if it were warm."
She looked down at the untouched plate. "Perhaps. Though I suspect that isn't what's missing."
Another silence followed, not uncomfortable this time. Serafina asked whether Everett worked at the hotel full-time. He told her that he took extra shifts when the hotel needed him, along with repair work and several other jobs. He spoke lightly, and she heard the practiced skill in his tone: the ability to describe an exhausting life without sounding as if he expected someone else to repair it.
"And Christmas?" she asked. "Do you have family waiting at home?"
"One very important person," Everett said. "She's seven and currently in charge of all decisions concerning our Christmas decorations."
He reached for his wallet, partly because he was proud of Marlo and partly because photographs were easier to share than explanations. The wallet was worn smooth at its edges, its stitching repaired with heavy thread where one pocket had torn. He took out the picture from her school celebration, where she wore a crooked paper crown and was smiling toward someone beyond the camera. Clara had once loved taking photographs, and after her death Everett had made a habit of printing his favorites instead of leaving them on a phone that might break.