“Maybe take the hint.”
The restaurant manager said it quietly. He leaned toward me like he was doing me a favor.
Over his shoulder, I could see a bunch of silver birthday balloons floating above a long table in the back of the dining room. I could hear my younger brother laughing. I could see the back of my father’s gray head.
“My father is sitting back there,” I said. “It’s his birthday. I’m his son.”
The manager straightened his black jacket. His name tag said GREG. He was about forty-five, with slicked-back hair and the polished smile of a man who’s turned away a lot of people from a lot of tables.
“The person who made the reservation specifically requested no additional guests,” Greg said. “I’m sorry, sir. The party is closed.”
That’s when my sister walked up behind him.
Vanessa was wearing a cream-colored dress and pearl earrings that used to belong to our mother. Her hair was perfect. Her expression was satisfied.
“Michael,” she said. She smiled. “Don’t make this embarrassing.”
I was holding a gift bag. Inside was a bottle of Lagavulin 16. Dad’s favorite scotch. Sixty-four dollars at the liquor store on Broad Street. I’d wrapped it in tissue paper myself.
For a second, I couldn’t move.
Beyond my sister were the white tablecloths. The candlelight. The clink of wine glasses. My father was back there celebrating his sixty-third birthday, completely unaware that his oldest son had just been stopped at the front door.
And Vanessa had walked all the way from the table to make sure I understood.
I looked at her. I looked at Greg.
Then I said, “Okay.”
And I walked out.
My name is Michael Callaway. I’m thirty-four years old. I own a commercial real estate firm in Richmond, Virginia. I buy neglected buildings, renovate them and lease them to restaurants and retailers.
My family calls it “doing something with buildings.”
They have no idea what I actually do.
In the parking lot, I set the gift bag on the passenger seat of my truck. I sat behind the wheel and stared through the windshield at the old brick building.
Taivera Luca. The nicest Italian restaurant in Richmond. Forty-one years on the corner of Cary Street and Robinson.
I knew that building. Its roofline. Its 8,400 square feet. Its 1987 HVAC system that was going to die any day now. The cracked foundation in the northeast corner of the basement.
I knew something else about it too.
Something Greg didn’t know. Something my sister didn’t know.
I picked up my phone and called a number from memory.
“Luca,” I said. “It’s Michael Callaway. Something just happened in your restaurant. And we need to talk about our deal.”
His voice went very still on the other end of the line.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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