She had a skin-care routine more complicated than most tax forms and could turn a compliment about looking young into a twenty-minute conversation about standards.
I called the restaurant that afternoon.
The private room required a deposit and a card to hold the reservation.
Celeste said she was in the middle of an appointment and asked me to handle it.
I used my card because I had done that sort of thing for the Hartwells for years.
I booked airport rides, ordered flowers, remembered anniversaries, confirmed catering, picked up prescriptions, and quietly solved whatever problem the family did not want to acknowledge in public.
They praised me for being dependable right up until dependability required them to treat me as an equal.
The bartender pushed the check folder another inch toward me.
“I can get the manager,” he said.
I opened it instead.
Thirty-one entrées filled the first portion of the bill.
