His gaze swept the room until it landed on Bella, who was standing frozen by the coffee machine, a pot still in her hand. He walked directly toward her, his expensive Italian shoes making soft, decisive sounds on the linoleum. The two bodyguards followed a few paces behind their presence, sucking the very air out of the room. “Are you Miss Isabella Rossy?” the man asked.
His voice was calm, deep, and carried an authority that demanded an answer. Bella’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could only nod her throat suddenly dry. What was this? Was she in some kind of trouble? Did she witness something? Was this about her mother’s bills? The man stopped in front of her. He gave her a long appraising look.
My name is Marcus Davies. I am a senior partner at the law firm of Sterling Cromwell and Davies. I was the personal attorney for Mu Mr. Arthur Pendleton. The name hung in the air. Pendleton. It sounded so formal, so important. It took Bella a moment to connect it to the quiet old man in booth 4. Arthur. His name was Arthur Pendleton.
Arthur, she whispered. Is he okay? He didn’t come in this morning. Mr. Davies’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. Mr. Pendleton passed away peacefully in his sleep late last night. The coffee pot suddenly felt immensely heavy in Bella’s hand. A wave of unexpected grief washed over her. It was absurd.
She barely knew him. He never said a word to her, but their silent ritual had become a part of her life, a small steady point in her turbulent world. Now it is gone. Tears pricricked at the back of her eyes. “Oh,” she said, her voice small. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Brenda was watching from the counter, her mouth a gape.
Frank had lowered his newspaper. The entire diner was wrapped silent, witnesses to a drama they didn’t understand. Mr. Davies nodded curtly, as if acknowledging a required pleasantry. Mr. Pendleton was a very specific man with very specific instructions. His final will and testament contains a provision that requires your immediate presence.
If you would be so kind as to gather your things, a car is waiting outside to take us to my office for the reading. Bella stared at him, bewildered. Bewill me. I think you have the wrong person. I just I just served him coffee. There is no mistake, Ms. Rosie Davies, said his voice firm, but not unkind. Mr. Pendleton was quite clear. Your name is Isabella Rossi.
You are a waitress at this establishment. And for the past year and a half, you have cut his toast into four equal squares every morning without fail and without ever being asked. The detail was so specific, so mundane that it stunned Bella into silence. He had noticed. Not only had he noticed, but he had told his lawyer about it.
“Sal,” she said, turning to her boss, who was looking pale and confused. “I don’t know what this is.” “Go,” Sal grunted, finding his voice. “Go on,” Brenda covered her tables. Brenda shot Bella a look of pure venomous envy, but didn’t dare argue. Numbly, Bella untied her apron, her hands shaking.
She placed it on the counter, grabbed her worn satchel from the breakroom, and walked back out into the diner. The four bodyguards and the lawyer formed a protective circle around her, creating a bizarre bubble of wealth and power in the humble diner as they escorted her out the door, leaving the entire Cleonel speechless. Bella felt a dizzying sense of unreality.
