It was Leo, the server I’d met at the Belle Meade estate.

His tray was piled with tiny lemon tarts and chocolate truffles.

The silver platter shook a little in his hands.

He turned and stopped short when he saw me sitting alone on the folding chair.

“Sorry,” Leo said.

“They told me to put the tasting samples out back here.”

He spoke in a short, quiet burst.

He wiped his free hand on his apron.