Margaret looked at Anthony rather than Brad. "You needn't put a hand on me. I'm able to walk."
"Of course, ma'am," Anthony said, relieved. "I'm sorry about this."
Brad apparently considered that apology an act of disobedience. He made a note on his tablet, his fingers moving in short, angry taps. Lily recognized the gesture because he used the same screen to record attendance problems, guest complaints, and behavioral warnings for staff. She wondered whether he was documenting both her and Anthony for the simple act of treating an old woman like a person.
"Why are you so determined to remove me?" Margaret asked Brad. "I have not raised my voice. I have not demanded any special favor."
"Because customers are uncomfortable," Brad replied.
"Which customers?"
He hesitated for the first time. "The important ones."
Margaret looked toward the tables where the guests continued eating, and for a moment her eyes shone with something much more painful than anger. She had walked into kitchens as a young widow, accepted criticism she had not deserved, and worked until her hands blistered to give people a good meal. Now a man she had hired was dividing her guests into human beings worth welcoming and human beings who could be discarded.
"And I'm not important?" she asked.
"Not here."
The hostess stopped typing. Lily felt as though the room had lost all its warmth, though the fireplace still burned and the candles still flickered. Anthony stared at a point beyond Brad's shoulder, looking genuinely ashamed. Margaret did not raise her voice; it would have been easy to do so, and no one could have blamed her.
"You seem very confident," she said.
"I am," Brad replied.
"Confidence without character can be dangerous."
He gave a sharp laugh. "Save the philosophy for somewhere else. I'm asking you to leave."
Margaret lifted her handbag. "Perhaps I will."
She turned toward the door, moving carefully across the marble so her damp shoes would not slip. Anthony walked beside her without touching her elbow, more escort than guard, and held the glass door open as another gust of rain swept beneath the awning. Just before she stepped outside, Margaret looked back at the man standing behind the hostess station with his tablet. "Good night, Brad," she said.
"Good night," he answered automatically. Then he seemed to hear the familiarity in her voice and frowned.
Margaret did not wait for him to ask another question. She passed through the door and into the wet night, drawing her coat closer around her shoulders. The restaurant's windows reflected a warm, almost perfect world of candlelight and elegant people, while the pavement outside was cold and shining. For one strange moment she felt as if she were looking through the glass at the business she had created for someone else.
Back in the dining room, Brad checked the time and straightened his tie. "There," he told the hostess. "Problem solved. That's what happens when you establish boundaries before things become a scene."