Two younger guests passed me while I was brushing snow from my shoulders, and the employee holding the door greeted them as though their arrival were a special occasion.
He gave me a much shorter glance.
I had not yet decided whether that meant anything.
I stepped into the lobby, where the warmth immediately fogged the edges of my glasses.
A faint scent of fresh bread, polished wood, and expensive perfume drifted through the room.
Everything was exactly as elegant as the photographs in the restaurant's brochures suggested.
Crystal chandeliers glowed over neatly arranged tables, polished silverware caught the winter sunlight, and servers moved almost silently between guests.
A businessman in a charcoal suit was speaking into his phone near the windows.
Two women wearing expensive jewelry were laughing over glasses of white wine.
At the hostess stand, a young woman with perfectly styled dark hair was studying a computer screen.
Her name tag read MADELINE.
I waited until she looked up.
Her eyes moved over my coat, paused on my boots, and settled briefly on the leather handbag I had carried for years.
I knew that look.
I had seen it directed at other people, especially in places where elegance was confused with superiority.
The difference was that this time it was directed at me.
Madeline smiled without warmth.
"Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon," I answered.
"Do you have a reservation?"
"I do."
She glanced at her screen.
"Unfortunately, we're completely booked for Saturday lunch."
I removed one glove.
"My reservation is for twelve-thirty."
Her expression changed slightly.
"Under what name?"
"Brooks."
She tapped several keys while keeping her attention divided between the screen and the entrance.
I watched the movement of her fingers.
I also noticed that she had not asked for my first name.
After a few seconds, she shook her head.
"I'm afraid I don't see anything."
I could have produced more information immediately, but something about her certainty made me slow down.
"Table seven," I said.
She looked up.
"Excuse me?"
"By the north window."
For the first time, her expression showed genuine surprise.
I turned slightly and looked past her toward the dining room.
The table stood exactly where I remembered it, beneath the tall windows overlooking the snow-covered avenue.
Its white tablecloth was smooth, its silverware precisely arranged, and its two chairs had been set at the proper angle.
It was empty.
"Table seven," I repeated.
Madeline gave a small, uncomfortable laugh.
"Perhaps you're thinking of another restaurant."
"No."
I turned back toward her.