Amara had been polite, but she had not seemed frightened.
That interested him.
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and touched a thick envelope containing several documents. Then he looked toward the entrance, where another guest was being escorted to a table.
For the first time that evening, he smiled faintly.
He had come to the Grand Sterling for a reason that had very little to do with dinner.
The first hour passed without incident.
Amara served Whitmore's wine, checked the temperature of his steak, and replaced his water glass before it became empty. She responded to his requests without rushing or showing irritation.
When he asked for the pepper, she brought it.
When he asked for another napkin, she provided one.
When he complained that the music was slightly too loud, she contacted the floor manager, who arranged for the volume to be lowered in that section of the restaurant.
Yet Whitmore seemed increasingly dissatisfied.
He examined the wineglass against the light.
"Is this really the bottle I ordered?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you're certain?"
"Absolutely. I confirmed it with our sommelier before bringing it to your table."
He took a sip.
"Acceptable."
Amara nodded.
"Is there anything else I can bring you?"
"No."
She stepped away.
A few minutes later, Whitmore called her back.
"Excuse me."
She returned immediately.
"Yes, sir?"
"How long have you been working in restaurants?"
"About six years altogether."
"Six years." He considered the answer. "And what do you plan to do with your life?"
The question caught her off guard.
"I'm sorry?"
"You heard me. Do you intend to serve tables for the rest of your life?"
Amara kept her expression composed.
"No, sir. I'm working toward something else."
"What is that?"
"I'm studying hospitality management. Eventually, I'd like to run my own restaurant."
Whitmore raised an eyebrow.
"Your own restaurant?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's an ambitious dream."
"I believe it is."
"And where will you find the money for such an undertaking?"
Amara looked at him.
"I haven't figured out every detail yet. But I'll work toward it."
Whitmore gave a quiet laugh.
"Working hard doesn't guarantee success."
"No, sir. It doesn't."
"Then why bother?"
She took a breath.
"Because not trying guarantees that I won't succeed."
For the first time, Whitmore appeared genuinely surprised.
He studied her for several seconds.
Then he picked up his glass.
"Interesting answer."
Amara smiled politely.
"Thank you, sir."
She returned to the service station, where another waitress, Jessica, was sorting receipts.
Jessica immediately leaned toward her.
"What did he want?"
"To know what I plan to do with my life."
Jessica stared at her.
"Seriously? He paid for dinner, not a counseling session."
Amara laughed quietly.
"Apparently, the steak wasn't enough."
"That man looks like he complains when the sun comes up on the wrong side of the building."
"Don't say that too loudly. He might hear you."
Jessica shook her head.
"I don't care how much money someone has. There is no amount of money that makes it acceptable to treat people like furniture."
Amara glanced toward table twelve.
Whitmore was looking at them.
Jessica immediately returned to her receipts.
Amara said nothing, but she privately agreed.
She had met people with very little money who treated strangers with extraordinary kindness. She had also met people who owned beautiful homes and expensive cars but seemed incapable of offering another human being a moment of genuine respect.
Money could purchase comfort.
It could purchase influence.
It could even purchase silence.
But Amara had never believed it could purchase character.
At eight thirty, the restaurant became busier.
A family celebrating an anniversary needed extra chairs. A customer at table seven had received the wrong side dish. A young couple wanted to change their reservation because the woman had become ill.
Amara handled each request patiently.
Then Whitmore raised his hand.
She approached table twelve.
"Yes, sir?"
"I'd like to speak to your manager."
"Of course. Is there a problem with your meal?"
"I didn't ask you to investigate the problem. I asked for your manager."
Amara nodded.
"I'll get him right away."
Richard Cole arrived less than a minute later.
"Mr. Whitmore, is everything all right?"
"No, it isn't."
The manager's face tightened.
"What seems to be the issue?"
Whitmore pointed toward his plate.
"The steak is perfectly acceptable, the wine is excellent, and the service has been prompt. Yet I'm dissatisfied."
Richard looked confused.
"I see. Could you explain what we can improve?"
Whitmore glanced at Amara.
"Perhaps you should ask your employee."
The manager turned toward her.
"Amara?"
She remained still.
"Mr. Whitmore asked me several personal questions earlier. I answered them respectfully. I don't believe there's been a problem with the service."
Whitmore smiled without warmth.
"You see? That's exactly what I mean."
Richard looked between them.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Your waitress has an answer for everything."
Amara felt her shoulders stiffen.
She had answered every question politely. She had followed every instruction that was reasonable and appropriate. She had done nothing to justify the tone he was using.
Still, she kept her voice calm.
"Mr. Whitmore, if I have done something that has made your experience unpleasant, I'm willing to correct it. But I would appreciate knowing what the problem is so I can address it."
The manager's eyes widened slightly.
Whitmore slowly set down his wineglass.