The Blue Bistro

7

Old Boyfriends

October 1, 2002

Dear Sully,

The one thing I remember my mother telling me about love was that you couldn’t hunt it down or sniff it out. Like all great mysteries in the world, my mother said, it just happened.

This summer was the best summer of my life. But although I wished for it and wanted it, love didn’t happen to me the way it happened to you. I can’t explain it any better than that. I hope someday you’ll forgive me for taking off like this, without warning, without good-bye. I thought this would be easiest-for me, certainly-but also for you.

If there was something else I could say, I would say it. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Adrienne

CYSTIC FIBROSIS

Cystic fibrosis is a genetic disease affecting approximately thirty thousand children and adults in the United States. CF causes the body to produce an abnormally thick, sticky mucus, due to the faulty transport of sodium chloride within cells lining organs-such as the lungs and pancreas-to their outer surfaces. The thick CF mucus also obstructs the pancreas, preventing enzymes from reaching the intestines to help break down and digest food.

CF has a variety of symptoms. The most common is very salty-tasting skin; persistent coughing, wheezing, or pneumonia; excessive appetite but poor weight gain. The treatment of CF depends on the stage of the disease and which organs are involved. One means of treatment, chest physical therapy, requires vigorous percussion (by using cupped hands) on the back and chest to dislodge the thick mucus from the lungs. Antibiotics are also used to treat lung infections and are administered intravenously, via pills, and/or medicinal vapors, which are inhaled to open up clogged airways.

The median life expectancy for someone with CF is thirty-two, though some patients have lived as long as fifty to sixty years.

Before she met Thatcher, Adrienne had been down the road and around the bend with three and a half other men. The first, chronologically, was her academic adviser during her fifth year of college. Adrienne was twenty-two years old, trying to earn enough credits to graduate from Florida State. Her transcript-with courses from IU Bloomington and Vanderbilt, and AP credits from her high school in Iowa, not to mention two semesters at Florida State-looked like a patchwork quilt and smacked (so her father claimed) of a half-baked effort that was draining him of his savings. She had plenty of class hours and good grades but nothing that equaled a major. She had started out as elementary ed at IU, then at Vandy she switched to sociology with a minor in art history. Florida State didn’t have a sociology major, though they did have anthropology, which she could qualify for with twenty-six more credits. Or she could go the route of art history, but she felt this wasn’t a major that would ever present any career opportunities, and her father agreed.

Thus, the academic adviser.

The first time Adrienne met with Will Kovak, she barely noticed him. She was too agitated about her tattered state of affairs. Her father was right: She wasn’t taking college seriously, she was flitting around, unwilling to commit to a major or even a school. Sure, some people transferred once, but twice? She hadn’t made a lasting friendship or held on to a single interest since her mother died. She had toyed around with notions of law school (everyone she knew who didn’t have long-term concrete goals applied to law school); she considered becoming a personal trainer; she had taken a course called African Drumming and really enjoyed it; she wondered if she should drop out of school and get a job. But where? Doing what? Her father and Mavis pelted her with possible vocations. Mavis thought she should teach the deaf. Her father thought she should take the hygienist’s courses and join him in practice. Both of them thought she should see a shrink. With all these disturbing notions flooding her mind, Will Kovak registered only as a body behind a desk. His office was dark; the venetian blinds were pulled against the strong Florida sun. She could hardly see him. All Adrienne cared about was her transcript, which lay on his desk like a trauma patient. Could he save it?

“Psychology,” Will said, after reviewing Adrienne’s file for fifteen silent minutes, during which he referenced the college manual four times. “I can get you out of here in January with a degree in psychology if you take five classes this semester.”

Psychology? Adrienne laughed. She could be her own shrink! But psychology had a scientific, even medical, sound that would please her father. Without stopping to think, Adrienne stepped behind Will Kovak’s desk and hugged him around the shoulders. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you.”

He was stiff; he gave her an embarrassed smile. “You’re, uh, welcome,” he said.

Adrienne met with Will Kovak a second time to figure out what the five classes would be and then a third time to have him sign her add-drop slip. It was during this third visit that Adrienne began to wonder about him. He was an associate professor of world literature, but he was only twenty-nine. And he was cute, in a bookish way, with longish hair that curled at the neck and rimless glasses. Adrienne had hooked up with a few guys at beer parties, but these guys struck her as young and clueless, and because Florida State was as big as some developing countries, she never had to see them again. She hadn’t been on a date since her first junior year at Vanderbilt, when Perry Russell took her out for fried chicken then talked her out of her virginity. She was ready for something different. She asked Will out for coffee, and after a very long, very awkward silence with Adrienne standing there in the near-dark and Will staring at his folded hands, he said yes.

In this way, the first real relationship of Adrienne’s life began. She entered the peculiar universe of young academics. It seemed to Adrienne that in these circles the person with the most abstemious lifestyle was the most worthy of admiration. Adrienne and Will attended the free foreign film series sponsored by the university, they went to readings at the bookstore, they went for coffee, and, at Adrienne’s insistence, splurged on the occasional beer at Bullwinkle’s. They studied together at the library and they spent every night making love on Will’s futon in the condominium unit that his parents bankrolled. The condo had a tiled bathroom and a gourmet kitchen with an island and granite countertops, but it was as if Will were embarrassed by these amenities and, to make up for them, he kept the rest of the condo as spartan as possible. The living room was dominated by two card tables pushed together and covered with an Indian print tapestry and piled with books and Will’s laptop computer (also bankrolled by the parents). The bedroom had just the futon mattress on the floor, a row of votive candles on the windowsill, and a boom box on which Will played his favorite kind of CD-the movie soundtrack.

Adrienne was out of place from the beginning. Amid all the older, unwashed, ramen-noodle eating, Edward Said-reading, quiet smart people, she was a dilettante undergrad who had a steady source of cash from her doting dentist father. She liked to sit by the pool, she liked to watch David Letterman, she had zero interest in grad school. Every so often, Will would drag Adrienne to a “party” thrown by one of his teaching assistant friends. These were usually held in an un-air-conditioned studio apartment where graduate students and young professors, many of them foreign, drank very cheap Chianti, smoked clove cigarettes, listened to Balinese gamelan music, and talked about topics so erudite they might as well have been speaking another language. Adrienne hated these parties, and when she complained about them to Will, he confessed that he hated them, too, but the danger in not going was that they might gossip about him.

Will was quiet and shy and extremely concerned about what his older and more established colleagues thought about him, but he excelled at intimacy-at lighting the votive candles and putting on soft music and sharing things about himself. Adrienne knew he was an only child, that his parents lived in a Manhattan brownstone on Seventy-second and Fifth Avenue; she knew he occasionally smoked pot before lecturing because it helped him to relax; she knew the names and complete histories of his six previous girlfriends (one of whom was his second cousin, who sometimes called late at night from her job as night auditor at Donald Trump’s posh resort in Palm Beach); she knew the long and Byzantine road that led Will to his dissertation topic about War and Peace. It bothered Will that Adrienne never talked about herself. “Tell me about your childhood,” he said.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“What about your parents?”

“What about them?”

“What are they like?”

“Why are you asking me so many questions?”

“Because I want to know you,” he said. “Tell me about your first kiss, your last boyfriend. Tell me something.”

“I can’t,” she said. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, a lie would pop out. That was how it always happened.

“You can,” Will said. “You just don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to,” she admitted.

“You don’t trust me,” Will said. He would usually end up leaving the bedroom and falling asleep on the bare wooden floor in front of his computer. These fights bothered Adrienne only slightly. It was a small price to pay for her privacy.

When the semester ended and Adrienne graduated, Dr. Don flew to Tallahassee for the ceremony. On the way to the airport to pick him up, Will asked, “Why isn’t your mother coming?”

Adrienne could remember staring out the window at the hot, green Florida hills. She yearned to disappear in them. Adrienne’s roommate at Vanderbilt had asked her this very same question when Dr. Don showed up alone for parents’ weekend, and Adrienne had told the roommate that Rosalie stayed home because Adrienne’s brother, Jonathan, was very sick.

“Well,” Adrienne said. “Because she’s dead.”

“Dead? Your mother’s dead?”

“This is your exit,” Adrienne said.

Dr. Don took Adrienne and Will to Michelsen’s Farm House for dinner, and in those three hours, Will mined Dr. Don for every conceivable detail of Adrienne’s childhood-including, after two bottles of wine, the maudlin story of Rosalie’s illness. Will gobbled up every word; Adrienne sat in astounded silence. She could not believe her father was emoting like this with a virtual stranger.

Dr. Don kept slapping Will on the back. “Professor at twenty-nine… really going places.” Later, to Adrienne, he said, “Quiet guy, but he’s got a strong handshake and a nice smile. And he is solely responsible for getting you out of this place before your thirtieth birthday.”

“Funny, Dad.”

“I give him credit. A professor at twenty-nine!”

“Don’t get attached,” Adrienne said.

“Why not?”

“I’m breaking up with him tomorrow.”

“Oh, honey, no. Not because of me? If I said I hated him, would you stay together? I hated him.”

Adrienne called Will the next day to tell him it was over, and she could hear the anguish in his voice reverberating through his near-empty apartment. “I thought after last night that our relationship was heading in a new direction,” he said. “I feel like I know you so much better now.”

“I’m sorry?” Adrienne said.

Ten minutes after she hung up, Adrienne called him back. She wanted his cousin’s phone number.

“Why?” he said.

“Because,” she said. “I want to work with her.”

Once Adrienne crossed the bridge into Palm Beach and was escorted through the gates of Mar-a-Lago, her future became clear. There was a world filled with beautiful places and she wanted to live in them all.

On the twenty-eighth of June there were one hundred and ninety covers on the book, and lobster salad sandwiches for family meal. It was seventy-seven degrees in the dining room at the start of first seating, which was abnormally hot, but Thatcher pointed out that everyone would drink more. Adrienne wore the silk outfit in bottle green that matched her eyes or so she convinced herself in the bathroom while she was brushing her teeth. When she came out to the podium, Thatcher said, “I’m sitting down at table twenty to eat at first seating.”

“What?” Adrienne said, in a voice that gave away too much. Dating only a few weeks and already her interest and fear were showing. Her mind scanned possible reasons why Thatcher would eat during first service at the most visible table in the room, instead of later with Fiona. Adrienne decided it must be Harry Henderson, the Realtor, who had been calling a lot lately with people who were interested in buying the property. Harry, she was pretty sure, was on the books tonight.

“Father Ott,” Thatcher said. “The priest. And here he is now. So you’re going to have to cover.”

“Fine,” Adrienne said.

“Are you Catholic?” Thatcher asked. It seemed like an oddly personal question to be asking fifteen seconds before work started, but among the things they’d agreed upon was that they were going to get to know each other slowly, bit by bit. Adrienne had told Thatcher the story about Will Kovak and he understood. They weren’t going to stay up all night confiding their innermost secrets then wake up and claim they were soul mates.

“Lapsed,” Adrienne said. Had they been alone in the dark, though, she might have added that the last time she set foot in a Catholic church was on the afternoon of her mother’s funeral. As she followed the casket out of Our Lady of Assumption she crossed herself with holy water and left the Catholics behind. It was Rosalie who had been Catholic-and when Rosalie died, so, in some sense for Adrienne, did God. Dr. Don was a Protestant and whenever he and Adrienne moved to a new place they shopped around for a church-sometimes Presbyterian, sometimes Methodist-it hardly mattered to Adrienne’s father as long as they had a place to go on Christmas and Easter. Dr. Don donated twenty hours of free checkups to needy kids and senior citizens in the congregation per year. It was nice, but somehow to Adrienne it never felt like religion. That, maybe, was how the Protestants preferred it.

“Hello, Thatcher Smith!” Father Ott was the tallest priest Adrienne had ever seen-six foot six with a deep, resonant voice and hair the bright silver of a dental filling. He wore khaki pants and a navy blazer. A pair of blue-lensed, titanium-framed sunglasses hung around his neck. Never in eighty-two years would Adrienne have pegged him as a priest; he looked like one of Grayson Parrish’s golf partners. Thatcher and Father Ott embraced and Adrienne smiled down at the podium.

“Father Ott, please meet my assistant manager, Adrienne Dealey,” Thatcher said.

Adrienne was overcome with shyness and guilt-she could feel the words “lapsed Catholic” emblazoned on her forehead.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.

Father Ott smiled. “Likewise, likewise. Adrienne, you say? Like Adrienne Rich?”

“The poet,” Adrienne said.

Thatcher raised his pale eyebrows. “You’re named after a poet?”

“Not after,” she said. “Just like.”

Father Ott rubbed his hands together. “I’m starving,” he said. “But I promised Fiona I would bless the kitchen before the holiday. Shall we get business out of the way?”

Thatcher led Father Ott into the kitchen. Adrienne turned around. Bruno and Elliott were checking over the tables, lighting candles. Rex started up with “Clair de Lune.” Adrienne heard Duncan pop the champagne at the bar but since no one else had arrived, she decided to sneak into the kitchen. If a priest who wore Revos and knew about feminist poetry was going to bless the place, Adrienne wanted to see it.

When she walked in, the kitchen was silent. The radio had been shut off and all the Subiacos-including Mario, who had actually removed his headphones-were standing with their hands behind their backs, heads bowed. Fiona and Thatcher stood on either side of Father Ott as he placed his right hand on the pass.

“Oh, Heavenly Father, please bless this kitchen, that it may serve nourishing meals to the patrons of this fine restaurant. May we all serve with love and humility as your son, Jesus Christ, taught us to do. Grant us the strength and the patience to follow in his footsteps in this, and in all things. We ask this in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” Behind the pass, the Subiacos crossed themselves. Adrienne crossed herself for the first time in sixteen years. Father Ott kissed Fiona and she said something to him quietly while holding on to both of his forearms. Then Thatcher and Father Ott filed out past Adrienne, who was hiding next to the espresso machine. As soon as they were gone, Fiona tugged on her chef’s jacket.

“Okay, people,” she said. “You’ve been blessed. Now let’s get to work.”

Adrienne kept her eye on Thatcher and Father Ott throughout first seating and even checked on them once to see if they needed anything. Thatcher smiled at her like she was a child intruding on her parents’ dinner party. In fact, she had hoped to overhear a bit of their conversation, but from what she picked up, it sounded like they were talking about Notre Dame football.

Father Ott ordered the crab cake; Thatcher the foie gras. Father Ott drank bourbon; Thatcher drank club soda with lime. Thatcher was eating and drinking in the dining room just like a regular guest.

“Is it weird?” Adrienne asked Caren. “Or is it just me?”

“He does it every year,” Caren said. “Like sometimes an old girlfriend from South Bend will come in, or one of his brothers. And the padre comes in once a summer.”

Old girlfriend? Adrienne thought, panic-stricken. Then she thought, Oh, shit. It’s happening.

After Father Ott left, Thatcher said to Adrienne, “Can you go into the wine cave and count the bottles of Menetou-Salon? I’m worried we’re low.”

“Sure,” Adrienne said.

No sooner had Adrienne entered the luxuriously cool wine cave and opened the big fridge-there were at least thirty bottles of the Menetou-Salon, she wasn’t sure what Thatcher was concerned about-than Thatcher came in and shut the door behind him. He lifted Adrienne’s hair and pressed his lips to the side of her neck.

They kissed, with Adrienne’s back pressed up against the chilled door of the fridge. Adrienne could hear the bussers carrying their trays into the kitchen. Nice as it was to have Thatcher close, even for a minute, she far preferred having him to herself, away from work, in her bed, in the quiet wee hours.

“This is what you do the second the priest walks out the door?” she said.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he said.

Adrienne’s second relationship was a few years after her escape from Will Novak. It took place on the other side of the world with Kip Turnbull, the British owner of the Smiling Garden Resort in Koh Samui, Thailand. That was the year that Adrienne’s father worried about her the most, and for good reason. She was twenty-five years old, halfway across the globe, working in a bikini. She lived in the queen bee bungalow of the forty bungalows at the Smiling Garden Resort, sleeping alongside her boss who had a hash problem and who cheated on her, Adrienne was sure, during his monthly pilgrimages to the full moon parties on Koh Phangan.

Kip’s biggest fault was that he was too handsome. Adrienne had been addicted to him physically, to the way he would untie the string of her bikini top at the end of her shift and make love to her on his desk in the back office. He rode a motorcycle and he had taken Adrienne for excursions around Koh Samui-to the hidden temples, to the waterfalls, to the giant gold Buddha on the north coast. He had bargained with a Thai woman at the market in Na Thon for the best papaya for a couple of bhat, then he sliced it open with a machete and fed it to Adrienne with his fingers.

Kip was older, too, ten years older, and he had told Adrienne stories about Eton and Cambridge, Hong Kong, Macao, Saigon, Mandalay. She had nothing to offer that could compare. She was provincially American, with only the gentle and studious Will Novak to claim as a past lover. She was plagued for the first time by jealousy. She wanted Kip to take her to one of the full moon parties on Koh Phangan.

“You won’t like it,” he said.

“Try me,” she said.

Kip gave in, and at the end of the month, he and Adrienne were on an old junk cruising through the Gulf of Thailand toward Koh Phangan.

It was lying on the very soft, very white sand of Haad Rin Beach that Adrienne noticed she was the only woman around, except for four Thai girls who were offering massages for fifty bhat. The beach was packed with men-Israelis, South Africans, Germans, Australians, Danish, Americans. They were all eyeing Adrienne in her bikini, and she felt Kip’s attention tighten around her. She wanted to stay in that spot forever. Kip called one of the masseuses over.

“For the lady.” And he palmed the girl some bills.

“I don’t want a massage,” Adrienne said. “Really.”

Kip said something to the girl in Thai that made her laugh. The girl knelt next to Adrienne in the sand and started kneading her back. It felt wonderful, and Adrienne closed her eyes, trying not to worry if this was some kind of turn-on for Kip or for the other men on the beach. The girl’s hands were as soft as warm water.

Later, Kip took Adrienne to dinner. They hiked down a jungle path to a grass shack that had only three stools at a counter. “The vegetable curry,” Kip said. “I order it every time.”

Adrienne didn’t care for curries, but it would have been useless to say so. The curry she was given was mild and sweet with coconut milk, cilantro, lime. She had left the mushrooms to float in a small amount of broth at the bottom of the bowl, and when Kip noticed, he laughed hysterically.

“Eat the mushrooms,” he said.

She ate the mushrooms.

The rest of the night was a stew of paranoia and hallucinations. Kip took Adrienne back to their bungalow and somehow locked her in from the outside, claiming he had to meet some Americans to buy some hash. When are you coming back? Adrienne asked the already closed door. Later, love, a little later. Adrienne lay down on the embroidered satin bedspread. She was cogent enough to realize that the mushrooms had been drugs, and now the simplest tasks eluded her. She couldn’t get the door open. She was freezing, but she couldn’t turn down the air-conditioning. She had been dreaming of a hot bath since arriving in Thailand months earlier, and this room had a marble bathroom and a deep Jacuzzi. She turned on the water, and then she lost time. The next thing she knew she was lying on her face on the embroidered bedspread drowning in what felt like wave after wave crashing over her.

Kip returned at three o’clock in the morning, high on six different drugs and drunk on Mekong whiskey, to find Adrienne passed out and their entire bungalow ankle-deep with warm bathwater. They left on the first boat the next morning and neither of them said a word to each other. Adrienne was mortified about the water damage (it ended up costing Kip nearly five hundred pounds) and she was livid about everything from the massage to the mushrooms to being locked up like an animal. She couldn’t deny the truth much longer: Kip was a control freak. And yet he was so handsome that when they returned to Koh Samui, and he said he forgave her, it took another month of Kip’s obnoxious demands and e-mailed pleas from her father to make Adrienne leave. She wasn’t even fully packed when Kip announced he’d hired an Australian girl to replace her.

By his own admission, Thatcher “hadn’t exactly been celibate” over the past twelve years, but there had been no one special, he said, and Adrienne decided to believe him. The only other woman Adrienne wanted to talk about as they lay in bed late at night was Fiona.

“Fiona was never my girlfriend,” Thatcher said. “I’ve never even held her hand. I tried to kiss her once when we were fifteen but she pushed me away. She said she didn’t want me to kiss her because she was dying and she didn’t want to break my heart.”

Fiona had cystic fibrosis. It was a genetic disease; Adrienne had looked it up on the Internet. Mucus was sealing Fiona’s lungs like a tomb. She was thirty-five years old, and losing lung function every year. Over the winter, she had decided to put herself on the transplant list, and that was why this was the final year of the restaurant. If she got a lung transplant, if she survived the lung transplant-there were too many ifs to worry about running a business. Thatcher had mentioned a doctor at Mass General, the best doctor in the country for this disease. To look at Fiona, Adrienne would never know a thing was wrong. She was a pistol, a short pistol with a braid like the Swiss Miss and freckles across her nose. A pistol wearing diamond stud earrings.

“What was it like being friends with her?” Adrienne asked.

“I’m still friends with her.”

“Growing up, I mean. What was it like?”

“It was like growing up,” Thatcher said. “She lived in my neighborhood. We went to school together. She cooked a lot and I ate what she cooked. We drove to Chicago for concerts in the summer. She had boyfriends, but they all hated me. One of them siphoned the gas from my car.”

“Really?”

“They were jealous because we were friends. Because, you know, I would eat over there during the week and I walked into her house without knocking, that kind of thing. Once a month or so, she would go to the hospital-sometimes just to St. Joe’s but sometimes up to Northwestern and I was the only one who she let come visit.”

“And what was that like?”

“It was awful. They had her on a vent, and the doctors were always worrying about her O₂ sats, the amount of oxygen in her blood.”

“Who knows that she’s sick?”

“Some of the staff know, obviously-Caren, Joe, Duncan, Spillman, and everyone in the kitchen-but it’s the strictest secret. Because if the public hears the word ‘disease,’ they shun a place, and in that case, everyone loses. You understand that.”

“I understand,” Adrienne said. She nearly told Thatcher that Drew Amman-Keller knew. He knew and was keeping the secret just like everybody else, but Adrienne was afraid to bring it up. She still had his business card hidden in her dresser drawer. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not. I trust you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust you.”

“Does Fiona know about us?”

“Everybody knows about us,” Thatcher said. “Which is fine. When the public hears the word ‘romance,’ they come in droves. The phone rings off the hook.”

“We’ll have to beat them back with a stick.”

Thatcher tucked her under his chin and buried his face in her hair. “Exactly.”

If Will Novak was too soft, and Kip Turnbull too hard, then Michael Sullivan, the third man Adrienne dated, was just right. Sully was the golf pro at the Chatham Bars Inn, where Adrienne worked the front desk. Unlike Will and Kip, Sully was Adrienne’s age, he had a degree from Bowdoin College, and he, too, was living the resort life with the reluctant backing of his parents, who lived in Quincy, forty-five minutes away. Sully had valued one thing above all others for his entire life and that thing was golf. Adrienne first noticed him on the driving range smacking balls into the wild blue yonder. He was tall and freckled; he wore cleats and khakis and a visor. Adrienne met him a few nights later at a staff party where she tried to impress him by reciting the names of all the golfers she knew: Jack Nicklaus, Tom Watson, Greg Norman, Payne Stewart, Seve Ballesteros.

“Everyone you named is either dead or on the seniors tour,” he said.

Still, he asked her out and they went to the Chatham Squire for drinks after her shift one night. Adrienne found him easy to be with. On days when she was free, he let his tee times go; he cancelled lessons so that he could take Adrienne out to lunch, and eventually, he arranged to have the same day off as she did each week. He told her he loved her after only three weeks-and he had all the symptoms: he lost weight, he lost sleep, and he shunned his friends. He wasn’t sure what was happening, he told her one evening as they walked Lighthouse Beach at sunset, but he thought this was “it.”

The summer as Sully’s girlfriend flew by-days at work, nights eating ice cream at Candy Manor and strolling down to Yellow Umbrella Books where they bought novels they never found time to read, partying on the beach with people from work. Bonfires, fireworks, summer league baseball games, days off cruising around in the Boston Whaler, strolling in Provincetown, whale watching. Adrienne loved the flowers that arrived at the desk, she loved waking up in the middle of the night to find him staring at her, she loved it every time he picked up the phone to cancel a golf lesson. She loved his dark hair, his freckles, the way his strong back twisted in the follow-through of his golf swing. The e-mails to her father that summer were full of exclamation points. “I’ve met a guy! A guy who treats me the way you are always telling me I DESERVE to be treated! I am having the time of my LIFE in this town!”

At the beginning of August, Sully drove Adrienne to Quincy to meet his parents. His father was a neurosurgeon at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and his mother had spent many years working as a nurse before she quit to stay home and raise six boys. His parents had both grown up in south Boston and they had stayed there. They lived in a huge Victorian house that was filled with photographs and crucifixes and needlepointed Irish blessings. Sully’s mother, Irene, was a lady of about sixty with red hair and a huge bosom. She hugged Adrienne tightly to her chest the moment Adrienne stepped out of the car and, in essence, never let her go. (Adrienne still sent Irene Sullivan a postcard every few months.) They sat on the sunporch and drank iced tea and ate shortbread and Irene filled Adrienne in on the business of her six sons. “God didn’t bless me with a daughter,” she said, “but I’m thankful for the boys. They’re good boys.” Kevin, the oldest, was a priest; Jimmy and Brendan were married with sons of their own; Matthew lived in New York City. “Matthew’s a homosexual,” Irene said, breaking her shortbread into little pieces. “Not what his father and I wanted, but he has a friend who comes for the holidays. I figure I already have six boys, what’s one more?” Then there was Michael, then Felix, the youngest, who was a freshman at Holy Cross. Irene brought out pictures of all the boys at their first communion, then in their Boston Latin football uniforms. She brought out pictures of the grandsons, and a picture of Matthew and his boyfriend in Greenwich Village with their arms wrapped around each other. “And here are some of Mikey.” All of the pictures showed Sully golfing-in Scotland, in British Columbia, at Pebble Beach. “He has a gift, no question,” Irene said, sighing. “But we wish he would settle down.”

Adrienne left the Sullivan house feeling like she could move in and become part of the family. When they got in the car to leave there was waving and blown kisses; Adrienne had Irene’s shortbread recipe in her purse.

“What did you think?” Sully asked.

“I wish she was mine,” Adrienne said.

As autumn approached, Sully began to talk about “the next round.” He received a job offer in Vero Beach, and then, a coup: a job offer in Morocco at a course built for the king. Sully wanted Adrienne to come with him to Morocco, and he wanted to get engaged.

“Engaged?” Adrienne said. They were lying in bed, watching Sunday night football on ESPN. How had “the next round,” which Adrienne tolerated as yet another innocuous golf term, become engaged?

“I want to marry you,” Sully said.

“You do?” Adrienne said. This was the moment every girl waited for-wasn’t it?-the perfect guy proposing marriage. And yet, what struck Adrienne most forcefully was her shock followed by her ambivalence. She thought of life married to Michael Sullivan-and she had to admit, she could think of worse lives. They could travel, he could golf, she could work hotels until they had a child. Adrienne could call Irene Mom, and the two of them could enjoy a lifetime of chats at the kitchen table.

Adrienne was twenty-six. She understood that what Sully was suggesting-getting married, having children-was what people did. It was how life progressed. Adrienne didn’t say anything further to Sully on the topic of marriage, but in his chirpy, good-natured way, he played through as though a decision had been made. In the following twenty-four hours, he called Irene and told her that a big announcement was coming, but first he wanted to ask for Adrienne’s hand. He pestered Adrienne for Dr. Don’s phone number, then with a shy smile, he said, “I have stuff to talk over with him.”

Adrienne felt like someone was wrapping a wool scarf over her nose and mouth. She was hot and prickly; she couldn’t breathe properly. She was terrified and, in a mindless panic, she ran: packed her stuff while Sully was at work, wrote him a letter, and had a short, teary conversation with her front desk manager. She cried through the cab ride to Logan, and through the flight from Boston to Honolulu. She was afraid to call her father. She knew he would assault her with the obvious question: What is wrong with you?

Within a week, Adrienne had a job on the front desk at the Princeville Resort on Kauai. She had photocopied the letter she wrote to Sully and every time she considered dating a man that winter, she read it. To keep herself from doing any more damage.

Before Thatcher there had been three and a half men, and the half a man was Doug Riedel. But that was just Adrienne being mean. It was more accurate to say that Doug and Adrienne had only had half a relationship, or a half-hearted relationship. Doug Riedel was a mistake, an accident; he was a one-night stand that lasted an entire winter. Adrienne met him right before Christmas while she was skiing on her day off. They skied together, they après-skied together, they après-après-skied together. The next thing Adrienne knew, Doug Riedel was showing up at the front desk of the Little Nell on Christmas morning with a gift-wrapped box from Gorsuch. Adrienne, who had been feeling sorry for herself for working on Christmas (she always worked on Christmas because she had no kids), opened the box that held a pair of shearling gloves and thought: What luck! Doug was darkly handsome, he had a great dog, he worked as one of the ski school managers at Buttermilk. He was a catch. She started meeting him after work to walk Jax, he took her out for a day of cross-country, he was calling her before he went to the gym, after he got home, before he went out to the Red Onion, after he got home. He was, somehow, becoming her boyfriend.

Right around the busy February holidays, Doug lost his job at Buttermilk Mountain and, subsequently, his housing. You’re probably going to break up with me now, he’d said. If Adrienne had been half paying attention, then this was exactly what she would have done, but instead she found herself fibbing to management so that he could move in with her and bring Jax. Then, his unevenness began to register. Sometimes he was funny and charming, but sometimes he was disparaging and negative. He hated Kyra (what a slut), he hated the Little Nell (a bastion of phony luxury), he hated Aspen in general. He spent more and more time in Carbondale with a mysterious friend. Adrienne thought he was sleeping with someone else, but she didn’t care. He was a houseguest who had overstayed his welcome-he was grouchy, he had a constant head cold, he stayed up all night watching Junkyard Wars, and every morning he went to the Ajax Diner for scrambled eggs with ketchup. He did nothing about finding a new job, and yet he never seemed to be short on money.

Well, yeah! Adrienne shuddered with anger every time she thought of her empty Future box, her money gone, her prospects stolen, her master key card swiped. Doug Riedel was the devil himself. But if it hadn’t been for Doug and his felonious ways, Adrienne reminded herself, she wouldn’t be here on Nantucket, working at the Blue Bistro, with Thatcher.

Adrienne and Thatcher had been dating for less than three weeks and already this relationship was different. Exercise good judgment about men! her napkin screamed. Talk about your feelings, but give nothing away. Be careful, but don’t act scared. Nothing she told herself helped. With Thatcher, she felt like a person afraid of flying: Was it safe to board the aircraft? Would the plane crash? Would she be left on the open sea with a broken leg and a flimsy flotation device? Would she die? Already her emotional investment was so great that complete devastation of the life she had worked so hard to cultivate seemed possible. This was all brand-new.

On July second, there were two hundred and fifty covers on the book, their first sellout of the year. It was eighty degrees at four o’clock and when Adrienne sat down for family meal at five, she was uncomfortably warm. Thatcher was at an AA meeting; it was his second meeting that day. He had gone to one at ten that morning while Adrienne covered the phone. Now, as she ate, she worried about Thatcher. Was it normal to go to two AA meetings in one day, or was there something wrong? Then she worried about Mrs. Yannick.

Mrs. Yannick had called that morning with a trick question. “Is your restaurant child-friendly?”

“How old is your child?” Adrienne asked.

“Two.”

Adrienne faltered. Thatcher, no doubt, had a smooth answer that would perfectly convey to Mrs. Yannick that while they did have one high chair in the back of the utility closet, it was covered with cobwebs, and seemed to be there only in case of emergency. Would it be grossly inappropriate to suggest Mrs. Yannick get a babysitter?

“We don’t have a children’s menu,” Adrienne said. “And we don’t have any crayons. This is fine dining.”

“So you’re not child-friendly.”

“Well…”

“You allow children but don’t encourage them.”

“We do allow children.” Adrienne thought of Shaughnessy-and Wolfie. “And I myself am not a parent. But it seems like you’d be asking an awful lot of a two-year-old to have her sit through a meal with wine and so forth. And the other guests… I think you might be more comfortable if…”

“We tried to get a babysitter,” Mrs. Yannick said. “We tried and tried. But we’re away from home and I don’t want a stranger. I’m afraid I’m out of options.”

“Maybe another night?” Adrienne said.

“Not possible,” Mrs. Yannick said. There was a long pause. “We’re bringing William with us.” There was another long pause. “I’m really sorry about this in advance. I’d just cancel the reservation but the number-one reason why we come to Nantucket is to eat at your restaurant.”

Ah, flattery! Adrienne still wasn’t immune to it. “We’ll see you at six,” she said.

Adrienne had been too cowardly to mention the Yannicks’ reservation at the menu meeting. She tried to tell herself it was no big deal. After family meal, Adrienne pulled the high chair out of the closet and wiped it down with a wet rag. She set it at table four, the least desirable table in the restaurant-the farthest away from the beach, the piano, and the glitz of table twenty. The waitstaff worked on a rotating schedule; Adrienne hoped table four would go to Elliott or Christo, who were too new to complain. But no such luck. Tonight, it was Caren’s table.

At six o’clock, Thatcher still wasn’t back. Adrienne sat parties, Rex played “You Make Me Feel So Young,” and a very slight breeze from the water cooled the dining room down. At ten after six, the Yannicks arrived. They were a handsome, well-dressed couple and the two-year-old, William, was darling. He had strawberry blond hair and freckles that looked like they were painted on. He wore white overalls and little white sneakers. Adrienne congratulated herself for allowing such a cute little boy to come to the restaurant. When he saw her, he held out a plastic fire truck.

Adrienne smiled. “You must be the Yannicks.” She snapped up two menus and a wine list. “Follow me.” She led them to table four and stood aside as Mr. Yannick buckled William into the high chair. William was angelic. He chewed the top of his fire truck. “Caren will be your server tonight,” Adrienne said. “Enjoy your meal.”

Five minutes later, Caren stormed the podium. “I hate you.”

“I’m sorry. They’re sorry. They couldn’t find a sitter.”

“I don’t like babies,” Caren said. “Or toddlers. Or children in preschool.”

“But he’s cute,” Adrienne said.

“I don’t like anyone who isn’t old enough to drink,” Caren said.

“At least he’s well-behaved,” Adrienne said.

“They gave him a sugar packet to play with, which he spilled all over the tablecloth. And he got into the mother’s water. They asked for doughnuts ‘right away,’ but the kitchen isn’t making doughnuts tonight. Too hot. They asked for a plastic cup with a top. It seems they forgot his at home. Already it’s too much work. Why didn’t you refer them to the Sea Grille? It’s perfect for families.”

“I’m sorry,” Adrienne said. “I’ll take care of it.”

But because Thatcher was gone, Adrienne had to seat fifteen more tables, open wine, run chips and dip, and answer the phone. She went to the bar to pick up her champagne and Duncan was so in the weeds that he couldn’t pour it. “Get it yourself,” he said. “You know how.”

Adrienne didn’t have time. She raced over to check on table four. William was gnawing on a piece of pretzel bread and there were little bits of pretzel bread all over the floor. And the floor was wet. Adrienne nearly slipped.

“Whoa,” she said.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Yannick said. She was valiantly trying to keep William occupied by reading a small, sturdy book called Jamberry. Mr. Yannick studied the wine list. Adrienne bent down to pick up the pieces of bread. The floor underneath the high chair was soaked.

“Please don’t worry about the mess,” Mr. Yannick said. “We’ll get it before we go.”

“William spilled his water,” Mrs. Yannick said. “We’re very sorry. Our waitress couldn’t find a plastic cup with a top.”

“I’ll look in the back,” Adrienne said. “Have you placed your order?”

Mr. Yannick looked at his wife. “What are you getting, honey?”

Mrs. Yannick slapped Jamberry down on the table. “I haven’t exactly had a chance to read the menu.”

William threw his pretzel bread and it landed in Mr. Yannick’s water. Mr. Yannick laughed and fished it out.

“I’ll get you fresh water,” Adrienne said. She glanced about the dining room. Were people staring? William pushed himself up by the arms in an attempt to launch himself from his high chair.

“All done,” he said.

“You are not all done,” Mrs. Yannick said. “We haven’t even started.” She wiped the gummy bread from around William’s mouth with her napkin and this made him angrier. “Just order me the steak, Carl. Steak, rare, nothing to start. He won’t make it through two courses.”

“Honey…”

“Honey, what?”

“What was the point of coming if…”

“If you can’t order the foie gras? Fine, order the foie gras. I’ll take William out to the parking lot and you can eat it in peace.”

“Honey…”

“Let me get you the water,” Adrienne said.

“All done!” William said in a more insistent voice. He kicked his feet against the underside of the table and then swept Jamberry to the floor where it landed in the puddle.

Adrienne cast around for a busboy. Roy was at table twelve refilling water. Adrienne waved him down. “We need a new glass here.”

“The water is the least of our worries,” Mrs. Yannick said. “Can you get our waitress so we can place our order?”

“Certainly,” Adrienne said. She found Caren coming out of the kitchen with apps for table twenty-eight. Adrienne followed her. “Here, let me help you serve.”

Caren eyed her. “Why? What do you want?”

“Table four,” Adrienne said. “They’d like to place their order. William is restless.”

“They made their bed,” Caren said.

“So you won’t go over there?”

“When I’m good and ready.”

Adrienne heard a shriek. All the way across the dining room, she saw William, red in the face, kicking, trying to free himself from his chair. Adrienne hurried over. Mrs. Yannick was trying to read Jamberry over William’s screaming. Mr. Yannick raised his arm in a sign of distress; his ship was going down.

“Would you take our order, please?” he said.

“Certainly,” Adrienne said.

“Foie gras and the duck for me, and my wife will have the crab cake and the steak.”

“Rare,” Mrs. Yannick said.

“And a bottle of the Ponzi Pinot Noir,” Mr. Yannick said.

“Really, Carl, wine?” Mrs. Yannick said.

“You love the Ponzi.”

“You think we have time to drink a bottle of wine?”

“We’ll just drink what we can,” Mr. Yannick said. “The Ponzi.”

“Very good,” Adrienne said. William was temporarily mesmerized with a lipstick Mrs. Yannick had pulled from her purse. He took off the cap and put the lipstick in his mouth.

“For God’s sake,” Mr. Yannick said.

“At least he’s quiet,” Mrs. Yannick said.

William threw the lipstick to the ground and started to cry. Mrs. Yannick dug through her purse. “I thought I had a lollipop in here.” Adrienne headed for the kitchen. She didn’t have time for this, and yet she felt responsible. Is your restaurant child-friendly? No, it’s not. The next time, Adrienne would just come right out and say it. No children under six. Why wasn’t this a rule already? She tried to think about how to help the Yannicks. Maybe she should comp their dinner and insist they come back another night. What, she wondered, would Thatcher do? Where was he?

“Ordering table two: one bisque, one crab cake, SOS. Where’s the duck for fourteen? Louis? Get your head out of the oven, Louis! Ordering table six: one frites, medium-well, one pasta. That’s right, I said pasta, so Henry, you’re going to work tonight after all. Ordering table twenty-one…” Fiona noticed Adrienne at her elbow. The kitchen was brutally hot even with two standing fans going. “What do you want?”

“I came to put in an order for table four.”

“Who’s the server?”

“Caren, but she’s busy.”

“News flash: We’re all busy. What is it?”

“What?”

“The order!”

Adrienne thought for a second. If you gave Fiona the food in the wrong sequence, she got pissed. “Foie gras, crab cake, duck, frites rare.”

Fiona scribbled out a ticket. “Fine.”

“Can you rush it?” Adrienne said. “These people brought their two-year-old and he’s freaking out.”

“Ordering table four: one foie gras, one crab cake, pronto,” Fiona said. Then to Adrienne, she said, “What’s the kid eating?”

“He’s not eating. But they would like a plastic cup with a top. I know Caren already asked, but…”

“Sippy cup, Paco,” Fiona shouted.

Seconds later, a plastic cup with a bright blue plastic top whizzed through the air. Fiona caught it and handed it to Adrienne. “Go get him.”

“Who?”

“The kid. Go get the kid and bring him in here.”

Adrienne thought she had heard wrong. The kitchen with the grill and the fryer and four sauté pans going and the fans running was loud.

“You want me to bring William in here?”

“If you think it would help the parents enjoy the meal, then yes,” Fiona said. And-surprise!-she smiled. “I keep some toys in the back office. I love kids.”

Adrienne popped into the wine cave for a bottle of Ponzi. By the time she reached the podium, she noticed the dining room was not only cooler, but quieter. She looked at table four. Thatcher was standing by the table with William in his arms, William was chewing on the top of his fire truck. Adrienne felt a surge of tenderness and awe and whatever else it was a woman felt when she first saw her lover holding a small child. She hurried to the bar, where her champagne glass was waiting. She took a drink, then she set down the sippy cup.

“Orange juice, please,” she said.

Duncan filled it without a word, and Adrienne took the sippy cup and the wine to table four. She handed the sippy cup to Mrs. Yannick who brightened, then Adrienne presented the Ponzi to Mr. Yannick.

“Juice!” William said.

Mr. Yannick nodded at the wine, visibly relaxed. Adrienne uncorked and poured, he tasted.

“Delicious.”

“I put a rush on your order,” Adrienne said as she poured a glass of wine for Mrs. Yannick. “Your appetizers should be out any second.”

“Would it be all right if I took William into the kitchen?” Thatcher said. “I know our chef would love to see him.”

“She has some toys in the office,” Adrienne said.

“All right,” Mrs. Yannick said. “You’ll bring him back if he’s any problem?”

“This guy, a problem?” Thatcher said. William was resting his head on Thatcher’s shoulder, sucking noisily on the cup. Thatcher winked at Adrienne and vanished into the back.

Mrs. Yannick collapsed in her wicker chair. “I love this place,” she said.

Fourth of July. Two hundred and fifty covers on the books, the maximum. Prix fixe menu, sixty dollars per person. First seating was at six; the guests were to eat then move out to the rented beach chairs in the sand to watch the fireworks. Second seating was at ten; those guests would watch the fireworks first, then sit down to dinner. Duncan was working the bar outside, and Delilah took over the blue granite, her first solo flight.

Everything was different and Adrienne was anxious. Thatcher asked her to arrive early, and she was there at quarter to four, but the front of the house was deserted. When she poked her head back into the kitchen it was 182 degrees-the deep fryers were going full blast with the chicken, and Fiona had the ribs in enormous pressure cookers. Adrienne checked in pastry to find Mario up to his elbows in fruit. He wasn’t listening to music, and he didn’t smile when he saw her.

“I have fifty pounds of peaches that need to be skinned. Everybody else gets a prep cook and I get left in the shit. One hundred twenty-five peach pies I have to make. I spent all morning with the blueberries. Look at my hands.” He held up his palms. They were, of course, impeccably clean. “My nails are blue. I can tell you one thing. I’m gonna have nightmares tonight. You ever have a nightmare about stone fruit?”

“No,” Adrienne said.

“Where you have a bushel of peaches looking as gorgeous as Playboy asses and then you break one open and it’s brown and rotten inside? And the next one? And the next one? They’re all that way?”

“I never had that dream,” Adrienne said.

“Yeah, well, lucky you.”

In the kitchen, Adrienne heard Fiona yelling about deviled eggs. She wanted five hundred deviled eggs.

Adrienne retreated to the empty dining room just as a man with a clipboard walked in saying, “I got two hundred and fifty folding chairs, sweetheart. Where do you want them?”

Some help would be nice, she thought. She had never done the Fourth of July thing on Nantucket before and she didn’t know where on the beach Thatcher wanted the chairs or even which direction they should face. If she told this man the wrong thing then two hundred and fifty chairs would have to be moved. (Adrienne pictured herself slogging through the sand in her Jimmy Choo heels.) So better get it right the first time.

Adrienne called Thatcher’s cell phone.

“Where are you?” she said. Then thought: Try not to sound like a wife.

“At Marine. I wanted to get flags for the tables.”

“The gentleman is here with the chairs. He would like to know where to put them.”

“On the beach.”

“Right, but where?”

“Let me talk to the guy.”

“Happily,” Adrienne said. She handed off the phone to the chair man, then surveyed the dining room. What could she do to help? Set the tables? A roll of red, white, and blue bunting sat on top of the piano along with a book of music, 101 Patriotic Songs. Deviled eggs, bunting, patriotic songs. These people really got into it.

A moment later, Caren walked in. It looked like she’d been crying.

“It’s over,” she said. “I’m finished with that rat bastard.”

“Duncan?”

Caren glared at her. Adrienne tried to think: He had been there that morning. She’d heard them in the kitchen, though as a rule, she and Thatcher didn’t fraternize with Caren and Duncan. Too much like work.

“What happened?” Adrienne asked.

“He’s been cheating on me during the day,” Caren said. “This morning? He says he has golf at ten with the bartender from Cinco. Fine. I decide to do something different because of the holiday so I set myself up with a gorgeous Cuban sandwich from Fahey and then I go to the beach at Madequecham. And lo and behold, whose car is there? Who is lying on the beach with the hostess from 21 Federal?”

“The hostess?” Adrienne said. “You mean Phoebe?”

“Phoebe!” Caren spat. “So I saunter up to the happy couple and Duncan doesn’t even blink. But I could tell he thought I followed him there or was spying on him or something. However, he pretended like it was no big deal and therefore I had to pretend like it was no big deal. He asked me to put lotion on his back, and I said, ‘No way, motherfucker.’ So then Phoebe pipes up and says she would love to put lotion on his back-and I have to sit there and watch.” Her eyes filled up. “What am I going to do?”

Adrienne put her arm around Caren, awkwardly, because Caren was so much taller. Duncan was a woman magnet; Caren had to learn to accept it. Before Adrienne could find a way to say this, Thatcher walked in, clapping his hands.

“Good, good, good,” he said. “The two of you can hang the bunting. All the way around and try to make it even, okay? Joe’s coming in at four thirty to set the tables-and look! I got flags.” He waved a small flag in the air and his smile faded. “Is something wrong?”

Caren tucked in her shirt and sniffed. “I can’t work with Duncan,” she said. “Either he goes or I go.”

Thatcher groaned. He yanked at his red, white, and blue necktie to give himself some air. Then, slowly, he said, “I told you…”

“I know what you told me!” Caren snapped, and she burst into tears.

Thatcher’s hands hung at his sides. He gazed at Adrienne with longing. But what about Caren? Adrienne tried to make her eyes very round.

“You need to have an espresso and calm down,” Thatcher said. “Or, hell, have a drink, I don’t care. Just, please, pull yourself together because we have two hundred and fifty people coming and you are working and Duncan is working, and if tomorrow, July fifth, you two want to battle it out to see who stays and who goes, that’s fine. It’s fine on July fifth. It is not fine tonight. Tonight you have to be a brave soldier.”

Caren pouted. She was lovely, really-Adrienne had a hard time believing that Duncan would ever prefer Phoebe. “I’ll have an espresso martini,” Caren said. “Kill two birds.” She stepped behind the bar. “God, I feel like trashing his perfect setup.”

“Well, please don’t,” Thatcher said. “Delilah is working back there tonight anyway. Duncan’s on the beach. You’ll barely have to see him.”

Caren slammed a martini glass on the blue granite then poured generously from the Triple Eight bottle. “Brilliant.”

Thatcher put his arm around Adrienne and kissed her ear. “You’ll have to hang the bunting by yourself,” he said.

“What are you doing?” Adrienne asked.

“Everything else.”

By ten to six, the restaurant was ready. The bunting hung evenly all the way around the edge of the restaurant, and the tables were set with a tiny American flag standing in each silver bud vase. On the beach, two hundred and fifty chairs were set up in perfect rows. It was a beautiful night. Adrienne had wolfed down a plate of tangy, falling-apart ribs and three deviled eggs at family meal and then she rushed to brush her teeth. When she went to the bar to get her champagne, Duncan confronted her.

“I’m innocent,” he said.

“Delilah, would you pour me a glass of Laurent-Perrier, please?” Adrienne asked.

Delilah, also wearing a red, white, and blue necktie, seemed harried. She studied the bottles in the well. “Where’s the champagne?” she asked Duncan.

“In the door of the little fridge,” he said. “You’d better learn quick; you only have ten minutes.” And then, turning back to Adrienne, he said, “I know she told you.”

Adrienne watched Delilah grapple with the champagne bottle. It took her forever just to unwrap the cork. Finally, Duncan wrested the bottle from his sister. He had it open in two seconds and he poured Adrienne’s drink.

“Hey,” Delilah said. “I’m supposed to learn how to do it myself.”

Duncan ignored her. “She talked to you,” he said to Adrienne. “So if she asks, you tell her I’m innocent. Golf got cancelled, I bumped into Phoebe in town…”

Adrienne picked up her champagne. “Tell her yourself,” she said. “I’m not getting involved.”

She walked to the podium to await the onslaught with Thatcher: 125 people arriving at once.

“What was your best Fourth of July?” Thatcher asked her.

This sounded like another getting-to-know-you question. Why didn’t he ever ask her when she had time to answer?

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

“Tonight is going to be right up there,” Thatcher said. “Nobody does this holiday better than we do.”

By six thirty, 125 people were sitting down, including the Parrishes; the local author and her entourage; Holt Millman with a party of ten; Senator Kennedy; Mr. Kennedy the investor; Stuart and Phyllis, a couple who dined at the Bistro so often that their college-aged kids referred to the food as “mom’s home cooking”; the Mr. Smith for whom the blueberry pie was named, and his wife; Cat, her sister, and their husbands; Leigh Stanford with friends from Idaho; and Leon Cross and his mistress. The place was hopping. Rex played “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” followed by “Camptown Races.” The busboys brought out the pretzel bread and mustard and when Adrienne poked her head into the kitchen, Paco and Eddie were frantically plating shrimp skewers. Adrienne ran the skewers out. Ten of the thirty tables were drinking champagne; the corks sounded like fireworks.

Adrienne saw Caren out by the beach bar. From the looks of things, Caren was letting Duncan have it, but in a quiet, scary way. Letting him have it while Adrienne ran Caren’s apps and Delilah drowned in drink orders.

“Adrienne!” Delilah cried. “I need help.”

Rex launched into “American Pie.”

Adrienne ran to the wine cave for wine, she refilled Delilah’s juice bottles, and went to the kitchen for citrus. It was even hotter in there than before-so hot that Fiona had taken off her chef’s jacket. She worked in just a white T-shirt that had a damp spot between her breasts. It seemed like it took forever to get Delilah out of the weeds, yet Rex was still playing “American Pie,” and half the restaurant was singing.

Adrienne walked by table fifteen, where Thatcher was chatting with Brian and Jennifer Devlin. She heard the word “Galápagos” and stopped in her tracks. A woman at the table behind had gotten up to use the ladies’ room and Adrienne took great, slow pains in folding the woman’s napkin so that she could listen to Thatcher.

“We leave on October ninth,” he said. “Fly to Quito overnight then to the islands for ten days. We’re on a fifty-foot ship. I’m really looking forward to it.”

Adrienne returned to the podium. Rex finished “American Pie,” and half the restaurant applauded. She thought back to her first breakfast with Thatch: As soon as we close this place, I’m taking Fee to the Galápagos. She wants to see the funny birds. He had told Adrienne right from the beginning that he was going away with Fiona. There was no reason for Adrienne to expect that he would change his travel plans just because he and Adrienne were now dating. But she did expect it. She had made peace, sort of, with the dinners. The dinners were business. They talked about the restaurant mostly, he said. The dinners were important.

Fine, Adrienne could live with the dinners. He came to her house afterward and always spent the night. But hearing him talk about ten days in the Galápagos with Fiona physically hurt. And yet what could she say? His best friend was sick and she wanted to see the funny birds. He would take her.

Caren came in off the beach and charged past the podium into the ladies’ room. The ladies’ room only accommodated one person at a time, so Adrienne knocked. “It’s me,” she said.

Caren cracked the door. “Men!” she said, leaving Adrienne with nothing to do but agree.

By quarter to nine, most of the tables had finished eating and Adrienne went crazy running credit cards. The guests moved out onto the beach to order more drinks and settle in their chairs. Adrienne ordered a coffee. She was exhausted and her red T-shirt dress was soaked with sweat.

Thatcher rallied the waitstaff. “We have an hour of peace and quiet. Once these tables are stripped and reset, you’re free until the finale of the fireworks starts. Then I want you back in here ready for second seating.”

The fireworks began at ten after nine. By that time, the guests for second seating had all arrived and the only people working out front were Duncan, who was pouring the drinks, and Bruno and Christo, who were serving them. Thatcher took Adrienne by the hand and led her out of the restaurant. She wanted to say something to him about the Galápagos, but she had yet to come up with the right words. Please don’t go? Take me with you? Or how about this: Would you at least not say you’re looking forward to it?

He led her into the sand dunes behind the restaurant. Adrienne took off her shoes and climbed after him. They plopped in the sand, hidden from the crowd by eelgrass. Thatcher held Adrienne in his lap like she was a child, and she pressed her face into his neck. She could feel his pulse against her cheek.

“How are you?” he asked. “Isn’t this great?”

There was a bang, and a burst of red exploded in the sky, like a giant poppy losing its petals. The water shimmered with color. Then gold, blue, purple, white.

Adrienne’s best Fourth of July, just like the other best moments of her life, had happened Before-before her mother got sick. Adrienne was eleven years old. In the morning, Rosalie and Dr. Don worked together in the kitchen preparing a salad for the potluck dinner while they watched Wimbledon on TV. Then, at four o’clock, they walked across the street. (Adrienne remembered her old neighborhood in summer-the smell of the grass, the huge, beautiful trees, the grumble of lawn mowers and the whirring of sprinklers.) Seven families gathered at the Fiddlers’ pool for swimming and croquet and a cookout. And Popsicles and flashlight tag and sparklers. Adrienne had been part of a family with the other kids, kids she hadn’t seen or thought of for years and years: Caroline Fiddler, Jake Clark, Toby and Trey Wiley, Tricia Gilette, Natalie, Blake and David Anola. The girls lined up their Dr. Scholl sandals and lay back in the grass looking up at the stars and searching for any hint of the big fireworks being set off in Philadelphia. They talked, naïvely, about boys; Natalie Anola had a crush on Jake Clark. The world of boys at that point to Adrienne was like a wide, unexplored field and she was standing at the edge. At ten o’clock, Rosalie and Dr. Don, flush with an evening of Mount Gay and tonics, dragged Adrienne home where she fell asleep in her clothes. Happy, safe, excited about the possibilities of her life.

That one was the best, and Adrienne had spent all the interceding years mourning, not only the loss of her mother, but the loss of that happiness. Right this second she felt a glimmer of it-Nantucket Island, in Thatcher’s arms, watching the colors soar and burst overhead, feeling a breeze, finally, coming off the water. Forget the Galápagos, she told herself. Forget that there were 125 people yet to feed. Forget that Fiona would have twice the amount of time alone with Thatcher that Adrienne had. Forget all that because this moment was great, great enough to make it into her memories. Adrienne savored every second, because she feared it wouldn’t last.