Chapter 2 - The Man in the Tailored Suit
“Of course,” Claire said, her voice dripping with the kind of polished condescension they teach in corporate hospitality seminars. “But I’m afraid I have to ask you to relocate to the bar area. If you decline, I will have security escort you out. You have two minutes.”
She turned her back to us, tapping her tablet.
Sophie’s eyes went wide. She clutched her purple crayon so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Dad?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Are we getting kicked out?”
Before I could answer, the heavy glass doors at the front of the restaurant swung open.
The hostess immediately stood up straighter. Claire’s head snapped toward the entrance, her stern expression instantly melting into a fawning, eager smile.
The man who walked through the door wore a three-piece charcoal suit that cost more than my first car. He had perfectly styled silver hair, a heavy gold Rolex on his wrist, and an air of absolute entitlement.
It was Julian.
My late wife’s older brother. The Regional Vice President of our company.
Julian hadn’t seen me yet. I was seated with my back partly toward the door, obscured by a large potted fern.
“Mr. Vance,” Claire practically purred as she hurried across the dining room to greet him. “We weren’t expecting you tonight. The private dining room is being prepped for your meeting.”
“Is it?” Julian snapped, not looking at her. He wiped a drop of rain from his lapel. “Because from the outside, this place looks like a diner. I saw mud on the entryway rug.”
“I’m handling it right now, sir,” Claire said quickly. She pointed discreetly toward my table. “A walk-in. I’ve already informed him he doesn’t meet our dress code. Security is on standby.”
Julian sighed, a dramatic, weary sound. “Do I have to do everything myself, Claire? The buyers are arriving in twenty minutes. If they see some blue-collar vagrant stinking up my dining room, the deal is dead.”
He marched toward our table, his expensive leather shoes clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.
I didn’t turn around. I reached into my canvas jacket and felt the worn, familiar edges of a leather-bound notebook. Rebecca’s original recipe diary. The foundation of everything we had built.
“Excuse me, buddy,” Julian barked as he stopped behind my chair. “This isn’t a soup kitchen. You need to pack up your kid and get out.”
I slowly picked up my linen napkin, wiped my mouth, and turned around.
Julian’s face froze.
The blood drained from his cheeks so fast he looked physically ill. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Hello, Julian,” I said quietly.
Claire rushed up beside him, crossing her arms. “Sir, I told you—”
“Shut up, Claire,” Julian choked out, his voice cracking.
Claire blinked, stunned.
Julian stared at my muddy boots, then at my rain-spotted jacket, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and calculating panic.
“David,” Julian finally managed to say. “What… what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Chicago until next week.”
“I finished early,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly level. “I wanted to take my daughter to her mother’s favorite table.”
Julian swallowed hard. He looked at Sophie, who was glaring at him with fierce, eight-year-old defiance.
Then, Julian’s eyes darted toward the center of the dining room.
I followed his gaze.
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Above the main fireplace, where a massive, antique silver clock—Rebecca’s prized possession, brought over from Italy for our anniversary—had hung for six years, there was only an empty square of faded wallpaper.
“Julian,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “Where is my wife’s clock?”
