The sight of Chloe cutting a thick slice of medium-rare steak and sliding it onto the floor for her dog.
I walked away from the head table before my sister could look up from the floor. My heels clicked against the Spanish tile of the main dining room, past the low-lit booths where couples laughed over oysters, straight to the mahogany service station near the kitchen.
The waiter who had ignored our card table was there, stacking heavy pewter bread trays. His name tag read Marcus.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice dropping into the quiet, flat register I used when auditing payroll.
Marcus did not look up immediately. “Yes, ma’am? If you need more bread for the children’s table, I can have a busser bring it.”
“My son is six,” I said, twisting the silver band of my wristwatch twice. “He does not eat stale sourdough for dinner. I want the sixteen-ounce, dry-aged ribeye, medium, with a side of roasted potatoes.”
Marcus stopped stacking the trays. He looked past my shoulder toward the head table, where my father was laughing with a group of retired managers.
