Page 130 of Spiced!

Erik had unrolled his sign.

It turned out to be a hand-lettered banner in both English and, in smaller text below, what appeared to be Old Norse runes, but possibly Elvish from The Lord of the Rings. Erik installed it above the bar with a level and two carefully placed hooks he had apparently also brought with him, because Erik did not attend events without the tools required to contribute properly.

The banner read, FIVE YEARS. THE HALL STANDS.

“What does the Norse say?” Benji asked.

“The same thing,” Erik said.

“Why both?”

“Context,” Erik said.

Benji squinted at it for a long moment.

“I love it,” Benji said, and meant it completely.

“I thought you would,” Erik said.

Dante came inside for a moment. He read the banner once, nodded once, then went back to the door. Erik watched him go.

“He approves,” Erik said to no one in particular.

“How do you know?” Tyler said.

“He nodded,” Erik said.

“He nods at everything,” Benji said.

“He nods differently at different things,” Erik said. “You have to learn to read the nod.”

Tyler stared at him. “There are different nods?”

“There are many nods,” Erik said.

“How many nods?” Benji asked.

“I’ve identified seven,” Erik said. “I suspect there are more.”

Tyler turned to me. “Did you know about the nods?”

“I knew there were different nods,” I said. “I didn’t know there were seven.”

“There may be eight,” Erik said. “I am still learning.”

Mark, from his corner, closed his laptop. He looked at the banner. His lips moved, then he opened his laptop again and resumed typing. Benji watched this, produced his napkin, and added something to it.

Brendan’s hand found my back, and his thumb did that circling thing that always made me feel safe. I turned and pressed my lips to Brendan’s. When we pulled apart, his eyebrows asked, “What was that for?” Without answering, I released a contented sigh and turned back to the bar.

Chapter 37

Brendan

The private party, exclusively for staff and their families, had been Finn’s idea, which meant it had a spreadsheet, a timeline, and a seating chart. By seven o’clock, the seating chart had been abandoned entirely. Chase had pulled two tables together without consulting anyone, while Jacks had rearranged the chairs into a configuration that made more sense for a group that wanted to talk to each other rather than face the same direction. Finn had watched all of this without saying a word. He merely made a note on his clipboard and let it go, which was how I knew the evening had shifted from work event to family function.

I sat in my usual booth, because it was my booth, in the way places became yours without anyone making a formal decision. Also, from that particular spot, I could see the whole room—the tables pushed together in the center, the bar where Benji was mixing something that smelled like citrus and failed ambition, and even the kitchen pass-through where Rod was visible only at intervals.

Mofongo was under the table on my foot. He had completed a full-perimeter assessment of the party, accepted food from three separate people he had no business accepting food from, and located the warmest spot in the room, which was my foot. He installed himself there with the confidence of a dog who considered any surface he occupied to be his by right.