Mr. Bowmont walked back through the door, its one closed behind him. Tobias stood in his own kitchen with an empty stockp in his hands. He walked to Grace's open locker, flipped the journal open with one finger, scanned a page. Pencil 1962. He snorted.
What is this? A cookbook for housekeepers? He let it fall shut and walked out without nodding to a single member of his brigade. The cream colored card sat on the counter at Grace's elbow. She did not touch it.
She turned the tap back on and finished washing the terrain. Service ended at 11:18. The line cooks scrubbed down. Hayden Brennan left without making eye contact with anyone. Reginald Sutton stood at the corridor door, hat in his hands.
Tobias did not acknowledge him. Grace washed the last of the stemwear. She dried her hands on a clean towel. She walked to the steel counter where the cream colored business card had been sitting since 8:11 that evening. She picked it up.
The name was embossed in a thin sand serif. Henri Bowmont. Beneath it, a Paris telephone number. Nothing else. No company, no title, no address.
Grace tucked it inside the journal. Between page 64 and page 65. She rode the A train home in silence, 14 stops. Inwood, the fifth floor walk up. She turned the kitchen light on.
She did not eat. She sat at the small wooden table by the window and opened the journal to the dedication page Fedra had written in 1962 in pencil that had not faded in 64 years. For Iet and for Ivet's child and for whoever comes after, what they call worthless, you call inheritance. Grace read it twice. She closed her eyes.
She heard her grandmother's voice the way she had heard it as a child. The rhythm of low country speech. She spoke to no one. To the empty apartment to a woman who had been dead for 19 years. What they call garbage is my grandmother's gold.
She did not call the Paris number. Not that night. Not the next morning. She went back to work on Monday in a gray apron. She washed dishes for 14 hours.
She washed dishes for 14 hours the day after. 3 weeks passed. In those three weeks, Bravo put Hargro's house on what they called a creative pause. The Tuesday night ratings had been sliding for two quarters. The third star verdict for Michelin had not arrived.
The Crown of New York docuer was being rewritten without Tobias as the unofficial favorite. Tobias became paranoid. He could not identify who had put Henry Bowmont in his kitchen. He suspected Reginald. He suspected Hayden.