Gwen stood up. The entire exchange had taken maybe forty-five seconds. She turned to face Marcus Thorne. The billionaire’s face was a mask of utter, profound shock. The blood had drained from his face, leaving him pale. His mouth was slightly open, his arrogant sneer completely gone, replaced by a look of dumbfounded disbelief. He had just watched a complete stranger have a more meaningful conversation with his son in under a minute than he had likely had in a year. He had not been shut up by a witty comeback or a shouted insult. He had been silenced by a language he could not understand, a connection he could not forge, and a competence that utterly eclipsed his own. Gwen, back in waitress mode, picked up the large menu. “The young gentleman will have the Aurelia burger, extra cheese, bacon, no pickles, and a side of frites,” she said, her voice clear and calm in the silent alcove. “And you, sir. Are you still set on the salmon?” Marcus Thorne just stared at her, speechless.
Gwen glided away from the table, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but her face was a perfect mask of calm. She punched the order into the system, adding a special note to the kitchen. VIP kid. Make it perfect. The head chef, a temperamental Frenchman, raised an eyebrow at the ninety-dollar burger order, but saw the look on Gwen’s face and simply nodded. The moment she was out of the dining room and pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen, Cynthia Davies was on her. “Vance!” Cynthia hissed, grabbing Gwen’s arm, her manicured nails digging in. “What in God’s name did you think you were doing? I saw you. You were making gestures at that poor boy. You humiliated Mr. Thorne. I told you no mistakes.” Gwen wrenched her arm free, rubbing the spot. “I was taking his order, Cynthia. Mr. Thorne mocked me and told me to talk to his son. So I did.” “By flapping your hands around,” Cynthia sneered. “You looked ridiculous. You’re a waitress, Gwen, not a circus performer. You’re here to take orders and be invisible. You are not here to insert yourself into a family’s private medical issues.” “It’s not a medical issue. It’s a language,” Gwen retorted, her voice low and tight. “The boy is deaf. I am fluent in ASL. I communicated with him, calmed him down, and took his order. An order his father was trying to steamroll.”
“I don’t care what it is.” Cynthia was almost vibrating with rage. “You overstepped massively. Thorne is our most important client tonight. If he complains, and he will complain, he always complains, it’s your job, Gwen. Do you understand me? You are on incredibly thin ice.” Before Gwen could respond, the service bell dinged. Leo’s burger was up. It was a work of art, a tower of prime beef, melted Gruyère, and thick-cut bacon, surrounded by a mountain of perfectly golden fries. “I have to take this out,” Gwen said, lifting the tray. “No,” Cynthia said, blocking her. “I’ll have someone else take it. You are to stay in the back. Go polish silverware.” “It’s my table,” Gwen said, her stubbornness flaring. “I took the order. I’m delivering it. That boy is waiting for me.” She pushed past a spluttering Cynthia, balanced the heavy tray, and swung back out into the dining room.
When she arrived at table seven, the scene was tense. Marcus was on his phone again, but he was not looking at it. He was just holding it, staring at his son. Leo was back to his drawing, but he kept glancing up toward the kitchen, his brow furrowed with worry. When he saw Gwen approaching with the tray, his face split into that same brilliant smile. She placed the enormous burger in front of him. “Careful, it’s hot,” she said, articulating the words clearly, and then signing. The guardian’s feast is served. Eat well. Leo giggled and picked up the massive burger, which was almost as big as his head. He took a huge bite, cheese and sauce immediately decorating his face, and gave Gwen a very enthusiastic thumbs-up.