Chapter 10 - The Table Is Always Set
One year later.
It was another freezing November night in Chicago. The rain was coming down in sharp, icy sheets against the stained-glass windows of North Clark Street, washing the dirty city pavements clean.
Inside Bellamy’s, the warm golden candles flickered peacefully against the white linen table runners, filling the room with the rich, comforting scents of truffle, garlic, and slow-roasted meats.
I was no longer the host standing behind the mahogany podium.
Three months after the incident with Marcus Vance, Mr. Bennett had retired to Florida, selling Bellamy’s to a private investment group managed directly by Moretti Logistics. With Dominic’s full support, I had been appointed the General Manager of the establishment at twenty-three years old.
The restaurant had changed under my direction.
We no longer turned away people who were cold, tired, or hungry. Every evening between four and five o'clock, before the dinner service began, the kitchen prepared forty fresh, hot meal boxes that were distributed to local shelters across the North Side.
And Table Eleven sat in its shadowed alcove, as majestic and revered as ever.
At precisely eight o'clock, the brass bell above the front entrance chimed softly.
Dominic Moretti walked inside, wearing a tailored charcoal overcoat. Walking beside him was Emily, looking radiant in a dark green velvet dress, her arm resting comfortably in his.
Running ahead of them was eight-year-old Sophie, wearing a bright yellow raincoat that looked brand new, carrying a small leather sketchbook under her arm.
“Claire!” Sophie cheered, running over to give me a tight hug around my waist.
“Happy anniversary, Sophie,” I laughed, hugging her back tightly. “Your table is ready.”
I led them down the carpeted aisle toward the rear alcove.
Table Eleven was beautifully prepared. On the pristine white tablecloth sat three glasses of sparkling water, a basket of fresh, steaming focaccia, and a silver bowl of whipped butter.
As Emily and Sophie sat down, Dominic remained standing for a moment, looking at me with a warm, genuine smile that reached his dark eyes.
“Everything looks perfect, Claire,” Dominic said softly.
“It always is, Mr. Moretti,” I smiled back.
As I walked back toward the host stand, the front entrance doors opened again, letting in a quick gust of icy November wind.
A young woman stood on the threshold, shivering in a thin coat, holding the hand of a small boy whose shoes were soaked through with rainwater. She looked terrified, her eyes scanning the opulent dining room, full of hesitation and shame, ready to turn around and walk back out into the freezing storm.
I didn't hesitate for a single second.
I stepped out from behind the mahogany podium, grabbed two warm, dry velvet towels from the coat check, and walked over to them with a wide, welcoming smile.
“Good evening,” I said gently, offering the warm towels to the mother and her shivering child. “Welcome to Bellamy’s. Come inside out of the rain. We have a hot bowl of fettuccine waiting for you.”
The mother stared at me, tears welling up in her tired eyes, unable to speak.
May you like
I led them inside, past the crystal chandeliers and the white linen tables, right toward the warmest booth near the fire.
Behind us, at Table Eleven, Dominic Moretti raised his wine glass in a quiet, silent toast, watching the doors of the great house stay wide open to the world.
