“San Daniele di Parma avec melon. Chef made it specially for you, love,” Andrea told her with a smile, then she turned to us. “And for you both, we have Moules Mariniere, followed by Loup de Mer with haricots verts and petites patates.”

Mr. Pascale shifted toward me. “The direct translation is Wolf of the Sea, it’s a type of—”

“Sea bass. Special to the Mediterranean.” I trailed off as I realized how I’d rudely cut him off. Nervously, I turned to Andrea and was actually thankful for my mother and stepfather’s craving for keeping up with the foodie-Jones’s in Charleston, which was known for its great food. “Thank you. And mussels to start?” I wanted Monsieur Pascale to realize that he hadn’t employed some clueless, provincial pushover. I was intelligent and knowledgeable, and for some reason, I needed him to know it.

Andrea nodded at me. “Yes, that’s right. Can I pour you water or a soft drink?”

“Water is fine. Thank you.”

“No wine?” Mr. Pascale asked, a dark eyebrow arching.

I glanced at my wine glass winking in the candlelight, and the bottle of seriously refreshing looking chilled wine. I’d bet it was delicious. I wasn’t supposed to drink on the job. Then again, I’d quit this job. I was hardly a lush, but I enjoyed a glass with dinner.

“That would be lovely, actually,” I said with a lift of my shoulders. “Thank you, Andrea. I quit today, so I don’t think it really matters, does it?”

“Um.” She glanced between me and Mr. Pascale.

He sat back and eyed me with a look of puzzlement. But as I stared back I also saw reluctant admiration at calling his bluff.

“You see,” I turned back to Andrea, “Mr. Pascale is negotiating with me to see if I’ll stay. And we definitely haven’t discussed whether or not I can have a glass of wine with dinner.” In my head, I willed Andrea not to be offended by the way I was acting. I wanted to tell her I quit because he’d insulted me. I’d have to explain and apologize later. But frankly, having made the decision that I was willing to leave, it was easier to stick to my principles.

Andrea filled my wine glass. “Thank you,” I told her meaningfully.

“Non, Papa. She must stay,” Dauphine pleaded, her gaze also darting between us. Thank you, Dauphine.

Mr. Pascale patted his daughter’s hand. “Prends ton dîner.”

Dauphine dove into her plate, and I smiled at her enthusiasm and obedience.

Andrea pulled the lid off a bowl on the table and revealed black-shelled mussels swimming in a creamy sauce, sprinkled with fresh green herbs. Then she set down a breadbasket of cut baguette. “I’ll let Chef know to begin the next course,” she directed at her boss, and then melted away and down the stairs.

“Moules?” he asked.