Garrett did not answer. He was staring at the cart across the plaza, where Brianna had stepped back from the grill to wipe her hands on her apron. And as she did, her left thumb passed across the brim of her sous chef's hat in a small, familiar tic—a tic he had seen ten thousand times in four years.
He sat down on an overturned crate. The crate was the same height as the prep stools at Magnolia House. He did not stand back up for the next eleven minutes.
At twelve minutes past noon, Garrett stood up from the crate. He took off his apron. He told his sous chefs to handle the next two services without him. He walked out the back panel of the Sinclair's tent, around the perimeter of the plaza, and approached Mama B's Plate from the side—not through the line, not through the crowd, but from the alley beside the fountain.
Brianna saw him coming; she did not look up. He stopped three feet from the cart. Tony, with a bowl of garlic in one hand, looked between them.
Brianna's voice was very quiet. "Tony, take the bowl to the prep cooler. Stay there until I call you."
Tony did not move.
"Tony."
He went.
Garrett did not speak for the first ten seconds. He looked at the cart, he looked at the chalkboard, he looked at Brianna's hands.
Finally: "B."
She wiped a piece of breading off her thumb. "Chef Holloway."
He did not flinch at the title. "I didn't recognize you for six weeks."