As she moved around the ballroom, talking to people, Miranda was able to keep one eye on Warrington and Alison throughout the evening, while keeping her distance at the same time. When they went to the bar, she moved over towards the dance floor. When they went to the dance floor, Miranda made her way to the ice sculpture in the center of the room, faking a good attempt at checking the integrity of the ice to see if it was melting too fast. Occasionally she would see Alison looking around the room, looking for someone – was she looking for her? Was it her? At these times Miranda would casually step behind a pillar or lean in a little closer to the person she was talking with. She wasn’t hiding from Alison, but she wasn’t seeking her out either.
The dinner bell rang, calling all the guests to their seats. A procession of waiters suddenly emerged through the doors leading from the kitchen behind the ballroom, each carrying four silver cloche lids hiding the dinner plates below. They swirled around the room, whisking off the silver covers before placing the entrees in front of the guests.
Miranda looked to where Warrington and Alison were sitting, seeing the empty seat beside Alison. The waiters were putting down their meal, but Alison seemed not to notice. She was intently looking around the room. Miranda knew she was looking for her. She also knew the waiter would not put down her entree until she sat down. It is bad form to serve an empty place.
Miranda wasn’t hungry. She knew eventually she would have to make an appearance at the table, beside Alison. She also knew she had at least half an hour between now and when the dessert would be served. She decided she would go over to the table then. The dessert was Crème Brule, her favorite and Chef included it on the menu specially for her. She could not disrespect him by not having it. Miranda had just enough time to slip into the kitchen, visit with the chef and maybe raid the bottom drawer of his desk for a shot of whatever he hid there, and then make it back in time.
Miranda disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors, immediately struck by the change in room temperature between the kitchen and the ballroom. With the ovens and cooktops in full operation, the kitchen was like an oven. Even though she wore an off the shoulder, backless dress and her hair was pinned up, she couldn’t help but perspire as soon as she stepped into the heat.
She saw Chef on the line, doing quality checks of each plate before sending them out to be served. A line of waiters flanked him, impatiently waiting for the plates to pass Chef’s inspection before sliding them onto their trays and whisking them into the ballroom.
“Chef,” Miranda yelled, waving, and pointing at his office.
Chef waved back, not looking at her, focusing on the food. Miranda stepped out of the way of an on-rushing waiter carrying a plate that was being returned from the ballroom. He was met with a diatribe of abuse from Chef – how could anyone return his food?
Miranda wanted no part of that scene. She slipped into Chef’s office, closing the door behind her. It wasn’t much cooler in there, but it was quieter. She could see the angry, animated Chef and the berated waiter play out their scene in a pantomime through the window that let onto the kitchen, but could hear nothing of what was being said. She turned her back and began to randomly pull open desk drawers, looking for the bottle she knew was there somewhere. The bottom left drawer revealed the treasure: 25-year old scotch. Two shot glasses rolled around the bottom of the drawer beside the bottle. Miranda bent down, reaching for the bottle.
“Wow. Now I know where the expression comes from. If you can’t stand the heat...” Alison didn’t finish the colloquialism.
Hearing Alison’s voice behind her, Miranda momentarily froze. Regaining herself, she stood up, turning to face her, bottle of scotch in one hand, shot glass in the other. She was speechless seeing Alison standing there.
“Do you have another glass?”
Miranda put one shot glass on the desk. Still holding on to the bottle, she bent down and retrieved the other. She placed it beside the other on the desk, pulled the cork out of the bottle, and poured a drink for the two of them. Each grabbed the glass closest to them, tossing back the alcohol at the same time.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” asked Alison.
Miranda, still holding on to the bottle, held it up a little higher, using the bottle as illustration. “I just needed a little something.”
Miranda poured out more whiskey, and they both drank it down in one shot again.
“Why are you back here, instead of sitting with us?”
“I’m not really hungry,” was the excuse Miranda gave. “I was thinking of skipping dinner altogether. Anyway,” she continued, “I can ask you the same question. What are you doing back here? You’re not supposed to be back here. The guests aren’t supposed to see how the magic happens; it spoils the show.”
“You do know I run a hotel too? I’ve seen the ingredients; I’ve seen the magic happen.”
The two women laughed while Miranda offered to pour again.
“No, thanks,” said Alison. “Matt’s going to want to dance later on and I don’t think he’d appreciate a drunk dance partner. I step on his toes enough as it is.”
“Well, I’m not dancing later,” said Miranda as she filled her glass and drank.
“I’ve got to get back before Matt begins to wonder. I told him I was going to the ladies room.” Alison reached into her clutch purse and pulled out a room key, extending it towards Miranda. “In case you want to come by later.”
“Are you sure?” Miranda was surprised, hesitant to take the key. “Just a night cap?”
Alison put
