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Plus it was long dead, so, you know, the bark was pretty brittle.”īess shoots him a look, annoyed. “I’m no expert, but I’d call it a pretty small Christmas tree, as Christmas trees go. He successfully crosses his arms without dropping anything. He slides a couple of shakers across their tables and into place before planting himself next to Bess. Bess glances back to her and Odette’s expression is admiring. “You felled a tree? By yourself? With a dull old sword?” Odette asks, recapping.
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He’s coming out of the kitchen, arms full of salt shakers, and she beams at him expectantly. I’d even chopped down a Christmas tree! Isn’t that right, Ace?” “…and by the time I came back to myself,” Bess is saying, “I’d torn the place apart. When Odette looks at her with such affectionate interest, she forgets her tale is borrowed. He’s the one who saw it all happen while Bess was wrapped up in a murderous haze. Instead, she’s been eagerly prompting Bess through an account of the events at Icarus Hall that’s honestly mostly Ace’s. Bess doesn’t know what that was about, but she assumed, now that her friends have allowed Odette to stretch her (well, George’s) legs for the evening, that Odette wouldn’t want to hear about anything even moderately dramatic or stressful. But it isn’t really George, it’s Odette, and her nearness and attention are maybe a teensy tiny part of the reason that it isn’t really the station Bess is falling in love with.įor most of the day, Odette has been an unwilling third wheel to the subtle tension (now resolved) between George and Nick.
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The other owner is perched lightly on the edge of a table, observing as Bess wipes down laminated menus at the hostess station. She hopes he doesn’t lose too much sleep.
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Knowing Ace-who can be wildly, fantastically unknowable from time to time-he’s trying to figure out the tech from memory and Barclay’s flawless cleaning job. Bess can hear him talking excitedly to Ace, who she suspects to be intently examining the basin she vomited florescent meteor juice into, and which Tom subsequently dealt with. Nick is in the back, still energized after the departure of the pragmatic, charismatic, and more than a little enigmatic Tom Swift. Anyway, she likes the fresh air it makes her feel present and not consumed by the supernatural impulse to hack her surroundings to bits with a sword. There’s plenty that requires upkeep in this place, but she won’t remind the owners right now. …Or, more accurately, in the cool draft that slips in through the aging window casing. The station is only really utilized sporadically during their open hours because, if they’re busy, George won’t tolerate anyone standing still to greet-and-seat as patrons enter the restaurant (she’ll typically shout, “Just sit anywhere!”), but standing here tonight, at the front of the Claw, Bess feels like the carven lady on a ship’s prow: brave and bold and alive in the spray of the sea. Its very existence seems classy to Bess, an inanimate representation of everything she would like to be-ready, welcoming, trustworthy, aware of the lay of the land. The hostess station is an unobtrusive monument to warmth and professionalism. Tonight, she’s falling in love with the hostess station. Her little locker, the booth seat with the best combined view of lighthouse and shoreline, and the cutlery bin at the end of the night, when the dishes are all clean (shiny!). The entire place holds massive personal significance-this is where she got her first legitimate job in years, this is where she met her best friends, this is where she was confirmed a Marvin by DNA analysis-but she loves the details too.