Margaret smiled. "Braised short rib. I haven't had a good one in a long time."
It was a half-truth. Margaret had helped develop Golden Harbor's original short-rib recipe when the first chef was a young man with talent but little patience. She knew exactly how the meat ought to taste, how long the stock should simmer, and why Peter had insisted on serving bread warm enough to melt butter. Tonight, however, she was hoping to discover whether it was still possible to sit in her own restaurant without needing to explain who she was.
"She is not dining here," Brad said.
Lily froze with the menu in her hands. Margaret did not look up immediately, giving him a final chance to reconsider. Then she closed the leather cover and placed it gently on the hostess stand.
"I believe I am," she replied.
Brad gave a brittle laugh. "You've misunderstood the situation. That table is reserved."
"There's no reservation card," Margaret observed.
"Because I said it's reserved."
The words came too quickly. For the first time Brad's certainty looked less like authority and more like a man reaching for whichever explanation might work next. A couple who had arrived behind Margaret exchanged an uncomfortable glance, and one of them stepped out of line to check a phone. Lily watched the woman's shoulders draw inward, just slightly, as though she were preparing to retreat before she could be pushed.
"Then I'll move," Margaret said.
"You shouldn't have to," Lily answered before she could stop herself.
Margaret touched her forearm briefly. "Peace is sometimes worth more than winning an argument. That doesn't mean the argument was right."
Brad seized on the first half of the sentence. "Exactly. Lily, clear that table and return the menu."
"Yes, sir," Lily whispered, moving toward the window.
"No, Lily," Margaret said, a shade more firmly than before. "Leave it."
Brad smiled in victory. "Finally, some common sense."
Margaret met his eyes. "Don't mistake patience for weakness, Mr. Coleman. They are not the same thing."
He blinked at the use of his name. His badge was visible, and she could easily have read it, but the directness of her gaze made him feel as though she knew more than he had told her. He brushed the feeling away and reminded himself that the restaurant would seat two important guests within the next fifteen minutes. One of them was a financial executive whose photograph Brad had seen on a city business magazine.
"I have paying customers to attend to," he said. "I'm sure you understand."
"I had hoped to become one," Margaret replied. "Perhaps you'll allow the possibility to remain open."
Brad left without answering and went to greet the couple from the business magazine, who had just passed through the doors. His whole posture changed as he approached them. The irritation vanished, replaced by warmth, eye contact, and a gracious little bow that made the couple laugh with delight. Margaret watched him take their coats personally, lead them to the prime window table, and assure them that they would be looked after like family.