Marlene let out a nervous laugh. “Helen, I don’t think you understand. This restaurant is owned by—”
Wait. Her face changed. “You work here? You’re a cook here?”
“I worked here,” I corrected, “but not as a cook.”
At that moment, as if perfectly orchestrated, Julian came out of the kitchen. He was wearing his immaculate uniform, his posture erect, his expression professional, but with a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. He walked directly toward us, and every eye in the restaurant seemed to follow him.
He stopped in front of me with a slight bow.
“Mrs. Helen,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “pardon the interruption. There’s a matter in the office that requires your attention. Could you please review it before you leave for the night?”
The silence was absolute.
Michael blinked. “Mrs. Helen.”
Julian glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back to me. “Yes, Mrs. Helen—the owner of this establishment.”Marlene’s jaw dropped. Literally. Her jaw fell open and her eyes went wide as plates.