She
had grown comfortable enough with her surroundings and her fellow laborers in
the enormous hotel kitchen that she had ventured to sing over her work, peeling
and cutting and kneading. She had been happier than she had felt since before
her father died. Since before Richard Boniface whispered his sweet, false
promises of love. Her co-workers liked her voice and requested songs from her.
The last few days, other workers came in during breaks, hoping to hear her
sing. They didn't even mind that all the songs she knew were hymns and
spirituals and camp meeting songs. Carmen had thought perhaps she had a chance
to plant some spiritual seed, and she had felt that sweet contentment she
thought she would never feel again.
A
man in a slick black suit, with a red silk vest and a pointed black beard came
into the kitchen yesterday, while she sang in rhythm with the potato peelings
falling from her knife. He didn't make his presence known until she finished,
though she thought she had sensed something, some change in the comfortably
steamy atmosphere thick with the smells of good cooking.
"Very
nice," he said, his smile cold when his voice startled a squeak out of
her. He came around to stand on the other side of the table from her. "You
should be singing upstairs."
"I'm
a cook."
"Yes,
with those clothes, what else would you be?" His upper lip curled as he
looked her over. "I'm Gio Frierri. You know who I am?"
"You're the owner." Carmen set the knife down on the table and wiped her hands on her apron, then kept her hands on her lap, hidden under the table, so he wouldn't see them shaking.
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