I watched Madeline's confident expression begin to falter.
There was no pleasure in it.
I would have preferred the entire exchange never to have happened.
"Mr. Ortega," I said, "would you please come here?"
"Of course."
"And bring the reservation register."
His breathing changed.
"Is something wrong with the booking?"
"I believe something is wrong with the way it was handled."
Madeline took a step toward me.
"Ma'am, you cannot stand here making calls forever."
I raised one finger.
She stopped speaking.
I finished the conversation.
"Tell whoever needs to know that Lena Brooks is being escorted out of her own room."
I closed the phone.
The dining room had become almost completely silent.
Madeline stared at me.
"Your own room?"
I slipped the telephone into my handbag.
"That's what I said."
The businessman lowered his fork.
Daniel shifted beside me.
I could hear the distant clatter of plates from the kitchen and the faint music playing through the ceiling speakers.
Madeline tried to laugh.
"Surely you don't mean that literally."
I did not answer.
She looked toward the hallway.
"I don't understand what you think you're proving."
"Neither do I," I said quietly.
Her expression brightened for half a second.
Then I continued.
"I don't understand why a person should have to prove anything beyond having a valid reservation."
A door slammed open somewhere behind the dining room.
Footsteps sounded along the corridor.
They were fast enough to make two servers step aside.
Madeline turned.
A tall man with thinning dark hair, a perfectly pressed suit, and an expression of unmistakable alarm appeared near the kitchen entrance.
I had known Rafael Ortega for many years.
I had seen him handle demanding customers, complicated service problems, and difficult decisions with almost unnatural calm.
I had rarely seen him run.
That afternoon, he was practically running.
Madeline straightened immediately.
"Mr. Ortega?"
He did not look at her.
He crossed the dining room without acknowledging the curious customers or the staff members watching from their stations.
His attention remained fixed on me.
When he reached the hostess stand, he stopped so abruptly that his shoes scraped against the polished floor.
For a moment, he seemed unable to find the right words.
Then he looked at Daniel, at Madeline, and finally at the hand I had placed on my old leather handbag.
His voice carried through the silent restaurant.
"Mrs. Brooks, did someone here actually order you to leave?"