Silverware chimed in the private room beyond the smoked-glass divider.
Someone laughed loudly enough to be heard over the low restaurant music.
I recognized my brother Blake’s laugh immediately.
He always tipped his head back when he laughed, as though every joke deserved a larger audience than it had received.
The bartender stood on the other side of the counter with a white towel folded over one forearm.
He was tall, probably in his forties, and his eyes carried the tired caution of someone who had already understood more of the evening than he wanted to say.
“I’m sorry,” he told me.
His voice was low enough that the guests behind me could not hear.
“They told the server your card was on file.”
I looked down at the black leather folder.
“My card?”
He nodded once.
“They said you arranged the reservation.”
That part was true.
Six weeks earlier, my mother had called me at work just before lunch.
