Tonya took the seat. For a moment, she gazed longingly at the glasses lined up beneath the liquor bottles on the back bar. A little alcohol would make the coming conversation so much easier. But Philip wasn’t offering.

Tonya sighed. “You know it’s been difficult lately with the lack of reservations and tip—”

“I do, and I’m sorry for that, Tonya. In fact, I’d intended to call you before you came in today. You might have noticed that the kitchen staff isn’t in.”

Tonya’s nervousness solidified into an icy block.

“I have to close the dining room and furlough the waitstaff until further notice.” Philip gestured to the empty expanse surrounding them. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough customers in the igloos to justify the expense of staying open. I know how unfair it’s been for you and the others to work a full shift with barely any tips. You all should be able to collect unemployment rather than scraping by on minimum wage.” He offered an encouraging smile. “Especially you. You’ve been with this restaurant since nearly the beginning. I appreciate your loyalty. You deserve much better than what I can provide at the moment.”

What she deserved and what she required had nothing to do with one another, Tonya wanted to say. After a decade working as a waitress and then wait captain, she knew that she merited more than a base salary that wouldn’t even have covered Manhattan studio rent a decade earlier—without adjusting for inflation. She knew waiting tables at Banque wasn’t worth it if she didn’t have tips and other perks. But she also knew that she needed money. It wasn’t as though she could walk into a vibrant neighboring kitchen with a polished résumé. Everything was closed.

“I’ll be keeping on a skeleton crew for takeout dinner service in hopes of maintaining the brand. But I can’t…” Philip grabbed for the bottle of Bushmills Black and poured another shot. “I’m so sorry.”

Tonya didn’t consider herself a crier. However, losing her job the morning after listening to Layla wail about her mother’s lies was the proverbial last straw. “I understand,” Tonya said, blinking away the tears blurring her vision.

Philip downed the shot. “Over a decade and Banque Gauche never closed. I prided myself on that. So many restaurants come and go, but our doors were always open.”

Tonya wasn’t sure whether Philip was speaking to her or to himself. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. He tapped his left ring finger against the shot glass, creating a soft pinging sound like raindrops on subway grates. “We tried, eh? Coffre was so beautiful. I really thought it was going to be a new beginning.”