Chapter 3 - The Empty Chair
Emma looked up into a face that belonged on the covers of magazines she had never read. The man looked wealthy in a way she didn't have words for—not like the shiny toys in store windows, but like the heavy iron gates around the big houses near the park. He didn't look angry, but he didn't look happy either. He looked like he was calculating something difficult.
Without a word, Jonathan pulled out the metal chair opposite her.
The legs scraped loudly against the linoleum. Marlene Sutton gasped softly behind him, taking a half-step forward as if she might physically haul the city's most influential philanthropist away from a table smelling of damp coats and cheap bread.
“Mr. Reeves, please,” Marlene whispered, her voice tight. “The photographers from the Chronicle are waiting in the library. We shouldn't disrupt—”
Jonathan held up one hand without turning around. It was a small gesture, but it had the absolute authority of a stop sign. Marlene froze.
Jonathan sat down. His long legs folded awkwardly beneath the small kindergarten-sized table, bringing him down to eye level with the five-year-old girl. Up close, he noticed the small tear in the hem of her yellow dress and the way her fingernails were bitten down to the quick.
“May I sit here?” he asked. His voice wasn't the booming voice he used in boardroom presentations or the practiced warmth he used for press releases. It was quiet. Conversational. Almost hesitant.
Emma swallowed hard, her throat dry. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“Thank you,” Jonathan said. He placed his expensive leather portfolio on the floor beside his chair, leaning it carefully against the table leg. Then, with deliberate, unhurried movements, he reached into the inner pocket of his light blue suit jacket.
The cafeteria watched in collective suspense. Caleb stopped chewing entirely. Delia leaned against the serving counter, her gaze locked on the man.
Jonathan pulled out a small, heavy-weight leather cardholder, flipped it open, and looked inside. Finding nothing of interest there, he unzipped a small compartment and pulled out something unexpected: a pristine, foil-wrapped dark chocolate square that had been tucked away from a business flight earlier that morning, and a small pack of artisanal macadamia nuts he never ate.
He set them gently on the table beside the plastic container of bread.
“I have a confession to make, Emma,” Jonathan said, his tone entirely serious. “I forgot my lunch today.”
Emma blinked, her lower lip trembling slightly. “You did?”
“I did,” Jonathan replied, resting his forearms on the tiny table. “And my assistant packed me the most boring lunch in the world. Look at this.”
He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a plain, crusty bread roll that his driver had handed him from a bakery stop. He broke it in half.
“Bread,” Jonathan said, feigning deep disappointment. “Just plain bread. Not even butter. Do you know how hard it is to eat dry bread?”
Emma let out a tiny, shaky breath that sounded almost like a laugh. She looked down at her own container, then back at him. “It gets stuck in your mouth,” she whispered.
“Exactly,” Jonathan said. “It’s a hazard. A culinary disaster.” He slid half of his fresh bakery roll across the table toward her. “Tell you what. I’ll trade you a piece of my dry bread for a piece of your dry bread. That way, we’re both suffering equally.”
Emma hesitated, looking from the soft, fragrant bakery roll to her own humble, flattened slice. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she pinched a small piece of her bread and pushed it across the table.
May you like
Jonathan took it, popped it into his mouth, and chewed solemnly. “Hmm. Excellent craftsmanship. Very austere.”
This time, a genuine, watery smile broke through Emma’s expression.
