Chapter 6: The Transition of Power
The silence in Maison Greer was no longer an absence of sound; it was an active force, pressing against the glass windows and the white linen tables until the crystal drops on the chandeliers seemed to shiver in the draft.
Richard Vance had gone perfectly still by Table 12, his hands flat against the mahogany of his chair back, his eyes fixed on the gray floorboards. He knew the name. Everyone in the loop knew the name. David Vance was the principal director of Blue Lake Capital, the private equity firm that had spent the last eighteen months quietly absorbing the distressed commercial paper of seven major restaurant groups along the midwest corridor. He didn't appear in the papers; he didn't have an Instagram account; he didn't attend the charity galas at the Art Institute. He simply owned the brick and the mortar and the liquor licenses of the places where people went to feel important.
"Mr. Vance," Thomas Greer said, his voice dropping into a register that was almost pathetic. He reached into his pocket for a linen handkerchief and wiped his forehead, though the room had grown cold from the open door. "We can go down to the office. We can discuss the management restructuring. I’m sure we can find a... an amicable arrangement regarding the floor staff."
David Vance stood up then. He stood up slowly, straightening his gray suit coat, his shadow falling across Victoria’s face until she looked very small and very pale beneath her jasmine perfume.
"There’s nothing to discuss, Tom," David said. He didn't look at the contract papers that the regional director was holding like a shield. "The lease agreement for this space has a standard character clause under Section 9. My lawyers put it in because I don't like my properties being used by people who think a diamond ring gives them the right to treat an old woman like garbage."
He turned to the regional director. "Effective eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Blue Lake Capital terminates the management contract with the Greer Group for this location. Arthur Pendelton will remain as general manager under a direct corporate salary. Julian..." He looked toward the host stand, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Julian can find a job at a place that matches his hair."
Victoria looked at her husband, then at her father, her mouth opening and closing like a fish left on a dock. "Daddy... you can't let him do this. This is our restaurant. We... we have the Christmas gala here next week!"
"It’s not our restaurant, Victoria," Thomas Greer said, his voice completely flat as he turned his back on her and walked toward the brass double doors, his leather briefcase looking heavy in his hand. "It hasn't been ours since November. Now put your coat on and get in the car."
Richard Vance followed him without looking back, his phone already out as he dialed someone from the foyer. Victoria stood alone for five seconds in the center of the eastern wing, her emerald-cut diamond catching a final, broken rainbow from the tiered chandelier above, before she turned and scurried after them into the gray Chicago snow, her high heels clicking frantically against the floorboards until the door shut behind her with a heavy, brass thud.
The dining room didn't return to normal. The pianist didn't start playing jazz. The rich people at the center tables slowly sat back down, their faces pale and quiet, their eyes fixed on their plates as if they were suddenly very interested in the texture of their asparagus.
David Vance turned back to Table 14. He looked at Emma, who was still standing by the back of Rose’s chair, her fingers resting on the mended gray wool of the coat sleeve.
"Emma," David said, reaching into his inner vest pocket and pulling out a small, heavy silver fountain pen and a plain white business card. He wrote a single number on the back of the card and handed it to her across the white linen. "That's the direct line to the regional office on Wacker Drive. You’re not a waitress anymore. Starting Monday, you’re the floor director for the corporate hospitality division. Your salary starts at eighty-five thousand, and the health coverage includes dental from day one."
Emma looked down at the white card in her hand. The black ink was still wet, reflecting the light from the tiered chandeliers above. She thought about the pink notice from ComEd in her apron. She thought about the twelve dollars in her checking account. She thought about the six years of swallowed insults and cheap shoes, and for the first time since six o'clock, she felt a hot, stinging tear rise behind her eyelids.
"Thank you, Mr. Vance," she whispered.
"Don't thank me," David said, his face finally softening into a small, dry smile that looked exactly like the one Rose had worn when she first walked through the door. "Thank the queen of the wing. She’s the one who handles the accounts."
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He turned back to his mother, offering his arm with a slow, old-world gallantry that made Rose’s silver head lift with a sudden, beautiful pride. "Come on, Ma. Let’s go get that chocolate torte. I told the kitchen down at the Drake to keep the oven hot for us."
Emma stood by the eastern bay window, watching the two of them walk through the brass double doors into the quiet winter night. The snow was still falling past the glass, heavy and silent and white, but inside Maison Greer, beneath the tiered chandeliers and the gold light, the air finally smelled like rain and winter and home.
