I used my card because I had done that sort of thing for the Hartwells for years.
I booked airport rides, ordered flowers, remembered anniversaries, confirmed catering, picked up prescriptions, and quietly solved whatever problem the family did not want to acknowledge in public.
They praised me for being dependable right up until dependability required them to treat me as an equal.
The bartender pushed the check folder another inch toward me.
“I can get the manager,” he said.
I opened it instead.
Thirty-one entrées filled the first portion of the bill.
Four bottles of imported wine followed, each expensive enough that I checked the line twice.
There was a custom almond cake with sugared orchids, an additional corkage fee, a private-room fee, and the service charge.
The blank tip line waited at the bottom.
