“Elliot, isn’t that your tray?” The maître d’ nodded to the tray sitting on the old pine sideboard.
“What’s the big deal? We’re just trading.”
“No we’re not,” said the other waiter, yanking the tray away and spilling some coffee.
“That’s it, that’s enough. Get a fresh tray and coffee,” Pierre ordered the waiter, “and you come with me.”
He took Elliot into a far corner of the kitchen. They couldn’t escape the darting stares, but they could escape the ears.
“What’s this about? Is there something going on between you and Madame Martin?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why cause this commotion?”
“I just can’t stand Mrs. Morrow, that’s all.”
Pierre hesitated. He could understand that. He didn’t much like her either. “She’s still our guest. We can’t just serve the ones we like.” He smiled at the young man.
“Yes, sir.” But Elliot didn’t smile back.
“Bon,” said Pierre. “I’ll take that.”
He took the refreshed tray for Julia Martin from the surprised waiter and left the kitchen.
“What’d the old man want?” a waitress asked Elliot as he picked up his tray and prepared to take it to Sandra Morrow, who’d no doubt complain it was late and cold.
“He doesn’t want me to serve Julia Martin,” said Elliot. “He wants her to himself. Have you seen the way he looks at her? I think he has a crush on her,” he sang in a childish falsetto.
The two took their trays through the swinging doors. Elliot’s words had a larger audience than he realized. Chef Véronique wiped her hands on a tea towel and watched as the door clacked back and forth until it was finally still.
,“Home tomorrow,” said Clara to the Gamaches as they walked into the library from the terrasse. She could go to bed soon, sleep eight hours, have breakfast with her in-laws then head back to Three Pines. Really, only a couple more waking hours with these people. She looked at her watch for the umpteenth time. Only ten? How could that be? My God, could the Morrows stop time too? “When do you leave?”
“Couple of days yet,” said Reine-Marie. “We’re celebrating our wedding anniversary.”
“That’s right,” said Clara, embarrassed that she’d forgotten. “Congratulations. When?”
“It’ll be thirty-five years on July first. Canada Day.”
“Easy to remember,” said Peter, smiling appreciatively at Gamache.