The Blue Bistro

8

Hydrangeas

July was true summer. It was eighty-five degrees and sunny-beach weather, barbecue weather, Blue Bistro weather. The bar was packed every night, and the phone rang off the hook. Florists came in to change the flowers in the restaurant from irises to hydrangeas. Hydrangeas like bushy heads, bluer than blue.

Adrienne was admiring the bouquet of hydrangeas on the hostess podium when the private line rang. It was a Monday morning and she was covering the phones while Thatcher met with a rep from Classic Wines.

“Good morning, Blue Bistro.”

“Adrienne?”

“Yes?”

“Drew Amman-Keller. I’m surprised you’re not out jogging. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Well, you know,” Adrienne said, glancing nervously around the dining room, “I have to work.”

“I’m calling to confirm a rumor,” Drew Amman-Keller said.

Adrienne held the receiver to her forehead. Should she just hang up?

“What rumor is that?”

“Is Tam Vinidin eating at the bistro tomorrow night?”

“Tam Vinidin, the actress?”

“Can you confirm that she has a reservation?” he asked.

Adrienne laughed. Ha! “I wish she did. Sorry, Drew.” She hung up.

A few minutes later, JZ’s truck pulled into the parking lot. He rolled in the door with two boxes of New York strip steaks on a dolly.

“Hey, Adrienne!” he said.

“Hey,” she said. “How’s everything? How’s Shaughnessy?”

“She’s fine,” he said. “She leaves for camp in two weeks.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s good,” he said. “I’m going to sneak over here for a vacation.”

“That’ll be nice,” Adrienne said. “Fiona will be happy.”

JZ backed up the dolly. Before he headed into the kitchen, he said, “I heard Tam Vinidin is eating here tomorrow night.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Guy on the boat told me.”

“She hasn’t called,” Adrienne said. She flipped a page in the reservation book. “I hope she calls soon. We’re almost full.”

As JZ pushed into the kitchen, Hector popped out. Of all the Subiacos, Hector was Adrienne’s least favorite. He used the foulest language and was merciless when he teased his brothers and cousins. Adrienne was not excited to see his tall, lanky frame loping toward her.

“Hey, bitch!” he said.

Adrienne rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Hector?”

“Special delivery,” he said. He palmed a fax on top of the reservation book. “It’s our lucky day.”

Tam Vinidin was coming to eat at the Blue Bistro! She wanted table twenty at seven thirty and she wanted it for the night. She would allow one photographer, a woman almost as famous as she was, to take her picture while she ate. She was on the Atkins diet. She wanted Fiona to make her a plate of avocado wrapped in prosciutto and Medjool dates stuffed with peanut butter. She would drink Dom Pérignon.

Adrienne checked the book. Tuesday nights the Parrishes ate at table twenty first seating, and one of Mario’s friends from the CIA was coming in with his wife at nine. Adrienne would have to bump them both for Tam Vinidin. She wondered about the photographer. Would she need a table, too? And what about the Dom Pérignon? The bistro didn’t carry it. Adrienne called Thatcher on his cell phone. Since he was with a wine rep, he could order a case. Her call went to voice mail. “Thatch, it’s me,” Adrienne said. She was so excited, she could barely keep from screaming. “Tam Vinidin is coming in tomorrow night at seven thirty. We need a case of DP. Call me!”

Adrienne loved Tam Vinidin with a passion. She was sexier than JLo and prettier than Jennifer Aniston. And she was eating at the Bistro! Adrienne would get to meet her, open her champagne, deliver her chips and dip. She reread the fax. She had to e-mail her father.

Adrienne took the fax into the kitchen. Hector was drizzling olive oil over a hotel pan of fresh figs, and Paco was shredding cabbage for the coleslaw.

“Where’s Fiona?” Adrienne asked.

Hector nodded at the office. The door was closed. Adrienne knocked.

“Come in!”

Adrienne opened the door. Fiona was sitting at Thatcher’s desk filling out order forms. She had plastic tubes up her nose; she was attached to an oxygen tank.

“Oh, sorry,” Adrienne said.

Fiona looked up. “What is it?”

Adrienne tried not to stare at the tubes. “Tam Vinidin is coming in tomorrow night.”

Fiona blinked. “Who?”

“Tam Vinidin, the actress?”

Fiona shook her head. “Never heard of her.”

Never heard of her? She must be kidding. “You must be kidding,” Adrienne said.

Fiona took a deep breath, then coughed. “What can I do for you, Adrienne?”

“This is a fax from her manager,” Adrienne said. “She wants all this… stuff. She wants-Here, you can see.” Adrienne let the fax flutter onto the desk.

Fiona read. “She can’t have twenty tomorrow night and certainly not at seven thirty. It’s Tuesday. She can’t have a photographer. She can’t have DP and I’m not making that ridiculous food.” Fiona handed the fax back to Adrienne. “If she wants to sit at table eight and drink Laurent-Perrier and eat off the menu like everybody else, then fine. Otherwise, send her to the Summer House.”

“Wait a minute,” Adrienne said. “This is Tam Vinidin, Fiona. You don’t know who this person is.”

“That’s right,” Fiona said. “Thank you, Adrienne.”

Adrienne appealed to Thatcher when he returned from his meeting, but he backed up Fiona.

“She’s right,” he said. “We might be able to slide Mario’s buddy to table twenty-one, but we can’t move the Parrishes.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re the Parrishes.”

“But this is Tam Vinidin.”

“I didn’t order DP and Fiona won’t make special dishes.” He checked the fax. “Medjool dates? Is she kidding? And as for the photographer-Do I really need to go on?”

“No.”

“She’ll be happier at the Summer House,” Thatcher said. “Sorry. Do you want to call her manager or do you want me to do it?”

“You do it,” Adrienne said. “I’m going home.”

On Tuesday, Tam Vinidin’s visit to Nantucket rated a front-page story in the Cape Cod Times and the Inquirer and Mirror, and there was a two-column article in USA Today written by Drew Amman-Keller describing the house she rented (on Squam Road), naming all the shops where she dropped bundles of cash (Dessert, Gypsy, Hepburn), and disclosing where she ate (the Nantucket Golf Club, 56 Union, the Summer House). Mr. Amman-Keller made a point of noting that Ms. Vinidin’s trip to the Blue Bistro had been cancelled because Chef Fiona Kemp “would not accommodate her strict adherence to Dr. Atkins’s diet.” One of the Subiacos had clipped Drew Amman-Keller’s article out of the paper and taped it to the wall next to the reach-in. Under the picture of Tam Vinidin (sitting on the bench outside Congdon & Coleman Insurance in cut-off jean shorts) someone had written: “Feed me fondue.”

Wednesday was Adrienne’s day off, and she forgot about Tam Vinidin. Wednesday night, Thatcher took Adrienne to Company of the Cauldron for dinner and he ate every bite. After dinner they went back to Thatcher’s house-a cottage behind one of the big houses in town. His cottage was only large enough to accommodate a bed and a dresser, and on top of the dresser, a TV for watching college football in the fall. There was a bathroom and a rudimentary kitchen. Not exactly impressive digs, but Adrienne was honored to be in his private space. She studied the pictures of his brothers, she flipped through his high school yearbook. In the back, on the “Best Friends” page, she found a picture of Thatcher, with a bad haircut and acne on his nose, and Fiona, who looked exactly the same as she did now, twenty years later.

Adrienne and Thatcher spent the entire next day together. They drove Thatcher’s pickup to Coatue, where they found a deserted cove and fell asleep in the sun. Thatcher skipped rocks and built Adrienne a sand castle. At four o’clock, he’d dropped her at home so she could shower and change. She caught a ride to work with Caren, who informed Adrienne that she and Duncan were back together, though Duncan was on probation.

“One more fuckup and it’s over,” Caren said.

Adrienne tried to listen seriously, but she couldn’t stop smiling. The sand castle Thatcher built had been as beautiful as a wedding cake.

There were 229 covers on the book. Family meal was grilled cheeseburgers and the first corn on the cob of the season. Thatcher was late, but all Adrienne could think of was how happy she was going to be when he came walking through the door.

The phone rang, the private line. It was Thatcher. “Is everyone there?” he said. Adrienne turned around to survey the dining room.

“Everyone except Elliott,” she said. “It’s his night off.”

“Okay,” he said. “Listen. I need you to listen. Are you listening?”

She heard the normal sounds of the restaurant-the swinging kitchen door, the chatter of the waitstaff, the first notes of the piano-but none of that could overtake the high-pitched ringing in her ears. She could tell he was about to say something awful.

“Yes,” she said.

“Fiona isn’t doing well. Her doctor wants her to go to Boston for at least three days. And I’m going with her.”

Adrienne stared at the kitchen door. She hadn’t realized Fiona wasn’t in.

“You’ll be in Boston for three days?” she said.

“At least three days,” Thatcher said. “Antonio knows, and he’s told the kitchen staff. They’re used to it, okay? For them, this is no big deal. And you’re going to cover for me.” He paused. “Adrienne?”

“What?”

“You do a terrific job. On the floor, on the phone. Everything. The waitstaff knows how to tip out, so all you have to do at the end of the night is add up the receipts and make a deposit of the cash in the morning. The restaurant can run itself.”

“What about reservations?”

“Just do the best you can.”

“Can I call you? You’re taking your cell?”

“Absolutely. I have a room at the Boston Harbor Hotel. You should call me there before you lock up at night. And I’ll need you in at ten to do reconfirmations and answer the phone.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“You don’t have to pay me,” Adrienne said. She felt like a tidal wave was crashing over the perfect sand castle of her life. Thatcher gone for three days. Fiona sick enough for a hospital. Adrienne left in charge of the restaurant in the height of the season. It was impossible, wasn’t it, what he was asking of her? As though he had told her she had to land an airplane or dock an ocean liner. “You can pay me, but I’m not worried about money. I’m worried about you. And Fiona. Is she going to be all right?”

“I’ll know more tomorrow,” Thatcher said. “She has a lot of anxiety. Father Ott is sitting with her right now.”

“Father Ott?”

“She’s afraid she’s going to hell,” Thatcher said. He cleared his throat. “Listen, I have to go. Call me before you close, okay?”

“Okay,” Adrienne said.

He hung up.

Some time would have been nice, a few minutes to collect herself, to wrap her mind around what this phone call meant. But it was six o’clock, the waitstaff wanted confirmation that they were perfect-they were-and Rex played the theme from Romeo and Juliet. The first table arrived: a male couple who was staying at the Point Breeze. Adrienne sat them at table one, handed them menus, and told them to enjoy their meals, but when she said this, it sounded like a question, and in fact, as she looked at their perplexed tan faces, she was thinking: Fiona is afraid she’s going to hell. Adrienne headed for the bar; she needed her drink.

“Where’s the boss man?” Duncan asked.

How much was she supposed to say? Thatcher hadn’t given her any guidelines. “He’s not coming in tonight.”

“Out last night and tonight?” Duncan said. “You need to take it easy on him.”

“Funny,” Adrienne said. “May I have my champagne, please?”

Duncan nodded at the door. “I’ll bring it over to you,” he said. “You have work.”

Two couples were standing by the podium. Adrienne hurried over. “Good evening,” she said. “Name?”

“You don’t remember us?” asked a man with red hair and a red goatee. “We were in two nights ago? You talked us into a bottle of that pink champagne? We’re from Florida?”

“Boca Raton,” one of the women said.

Adrienne stared at the foursome, utterly lost. She would have sworn she had never seen them before in her life.

“You told us you used to work at the Mar-a-Lago,” the red-haired man said.

“I did?” Adrienne said. She must have. Okay, she had to get a grip. Shake off this feeling of being stranded in the Sahara without any Evian. She scanned the book, looking for a familiar name. Cavendish? Xavier? She smiled. “Please forgive me. I can’t remember what name the reservation is under.”

“Levy,” the man said. “But our feelings are hurt.”

Adrienne sat them at table fifteen and made a mental note to send these people, whom she still did not remember, some chips and dip. She saw Leon Cross and his wife waiting by the podium. Leon’s wife was a TV producer, a hotshot who recently tried to talk Thatcher into a reality show set at the Bistro. Initially, Adrienne had thought the Bistro would make a great setting for a reality show, but if a camera had filmed the last fifteen minutes no audience would believe it. Anxiety, death, and hell among the hardest-to-get reservations in town? Then there was Leon Cross himself, who sometimes came to the restaurant with his wife when he sat at table twenty (Adrienne led them there now), but just as often came with his mistress (who was older than his wife and a nicer woman) when he sat at table nineteen in a dark corner under the awning.

No one would believe it.

Party of eight from the Wauwinet, party of four waitresses from the Westender celebrating a birthday, party of five that was a single mom out with her two kids and their spouses. Then a series of deuces, then a four-top that was two couples celebrating the fact that they’d been friends for twenty years. The phone rang and rang. Adrienne checked each time to see if it was the private line-no. She didn’t answer. Delilah ran her a glass of champagne and Adrienne took half of it in one long gulp.

She hurried into the kitchen to put in two orders of chips. The kitchen seemed the same except that instead of Fiona, Antonio was expediting.

“Ordering sixteen,” he called out. “One foie gras, one Caesar.”

“Yes, chef,” Eddie said.

“Ordering twelve,” Antonio said. “Two chowder, one beet, one foie gras killed, Henry baby, okay?”

“Yes, chef,” Henry said.

Adrienne held up two fingers to Paco and he started slicing potatoes on his mandolin. Adrienne knew it would take six minutes and she should get back out front, but she lingered in the kitchen for a minute. Everything seemed way too normal. The Subiacos worked as though nothing was wrong. The baseball game was on. She poked her head back into pastry. Mario was pulling a tray of brownies out of the convection oven. Adrienne stared him down. They had never talked about Fiona’s illness.

“What?” he said. “You want one?”

“Thatcher and Fiona are in Boston,” Adrienne whispered. “They’re going to be gone for three days. Fiona is in the hospital.”

Mario squeezed Adrienne’s face to make fish lips. It hurt. “It’s okay,” he said. “This happens. They put Fiona on a vent and it clears things out. They pump her full of miracle drugs. It makes things better. Trust me. It’s no big deal.” He let Adrienne’s face go.

“Really?” Adrienne said.

“Fifteen years ago, we’re in Skills One together and the day before our practical, she goes into the hospital. Big hospital down in the city. So I know something’s wrong. As soon as I finish my test, I take the train to see her and she tells me about her thing. And I think maybe I’m gonna cry but then I realize Fee is the toughest person I know. She’s gonna survive. And, like I said, that was fifteen years ago. She goes back to school the next week, makes up her practical, scores a ninety-seven out of a hundred. I get a seventy-three. Suddenly, she’s the one who’s worried about me. And for good reason.” Mario cut the crispy edges off the brownies. “She’ll outlive us all. You watch.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said. That was what she wanted to hear. She smacked Mario’s butt and walked back to the hot line.

Spillman burst into the kitchen. “Adrienne, can you open wine for table fifteen? I’m slammed, and they say they’re friends of yours.”

“Sure,” Adrienne said. She returned to the dining room. Rex was playing Barry Manilow. She took the Levys’ wine order, retrieved the bottle from the wine cave, opened the wine and served it, all in under five minutes, at which point she remembered the chips and dip. Adrienne delivered chips and dip to the Levys, then Leon Cross. She returned to the podium and finished her champagne. Run the restaurant by herself? she thought. Piece of cake!

Smack in the middle of first seating, two women walked in wearing baseball hats and jeans. Adrienne felt a headache coming on. The Bistro didn’t have a dress code, she reminded herself. The best tippers were often the guests who were underdressed. One of the women was wearing giraffe-print Prada mules and Gucci sunglasses. She took the sunglasses off as she approached the podium.

“Is it all right if we eat at the bar?”

Adrienne was caught completely off-guard. She made a gurgling sound. It was Tam Vinidin.

“Sure,” Adrienne said finally, her mind ricocheting all over the place. She wanted to shout, but she had to remain cool. She wanted everyone in the restaurant to know Tam Vinidin was there, yet it was imperative that no one found out. Did anyone recognize her? She was beautiful and all the more so because she wore no makeup and had her hair in a ponytail under a hat. Her friend was… no one Adrienne recognized. Sister, maybe.

“Follow me,” Adrienne said. She plucked two menus and led the women to the bar.

“Duncan!” Tam Vinidin said.

“Hey, Tam,” he said. “I heard you were on-island.” They kissed. Adrienne stared at Duncan in genuine awe.

“This is my cousin Bindy,” Tam said. “We decided to stay through the weekend. It’s so relaxing here.”

“Cool,” Duncan said. “What can I get you ladies to drink?”

“Champagne,” Tam Vinidin said.

“Laurent-Perrier?” Duncan asked.

Tam Vinidin took off her hat and let her fabulous black hair free of its elastic. “Sure.”

“Adrienne, are you willing to share your bottle with these ladies?” Duncan said.

Adrienne realized she had been gaping. “Okay?” she said, then she beat it into the kitchen.

“Okay,” she said to Paco ten seconds later. “Guess who’s eating at the bar.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Paco said. He was helping Eddie build club sandwiches. “I’m fucking busy.”

“Tam Vinidin.”

Paco yelled to Hector, who was grilling off steaks. “She’s here. Eating at the bar.”

Hector whooped then pleaded with Antonio. “Can I go out and see her, Tony? Please, man?”

Antonio wiped his forehead with a side towel. He was older than Fiona by at least ten years and it showed. He was sweating; he looked exhausted and second seating hadn’t even started yet. “Tam Vinidin’s here?” he asked Adrienne.

Adrienne nodded. “I came to put in a VIP order.”

“Hers is in the reach-in,” Antonio said. “Fiona ordered those Medjool dates, just in case.”

“You’re kidding,” Adrienne said. She checked the reach-in and found a plate of dates stuffed with peanut butter.

Caren slammed into the kitchen. “Is Adrienne in here?”

Adrienne turned around, holding the dates. “Did you see who’s-”

“You promised me you wouldn’t,” Caren said. She threw her hands up in the air. Her lovely neck was getting red and splotchy. “You put Tam Vinidin at the bar!”

“She asked to sit at the bar. She knows Duncan from…”

“You promised me you wouldn’t do it!” Caren said. “You could have put her at table three.”

“Put Tam Vinidin at table three?”

“Because now she’s out there with Duncan!”

“She’s a movie star,” Adrienne said. “She’s not interested in Duncan.”

“He’s interested in her.”

“No, he’s not…”

“Shit, yeah, he is,” Hector interjected.

“Shut up!” Caren said.

“You’re a bitch,” Hector said. “You think he wants you instead?”

“You’re a bitch, bitch,” Caren said.

“No fighting in the kitchen!” Antonio said. He clapped his hands and pointed to the door. “I don’t want to hear anything else about the movie star. The dates, the organic peanut butter, fine. But not another word. And no more special treatment.”

As it turned out, Tam Vinidin didn’t want special treatment. She was thrilled about the dates and offered one to her cousin, one to Duncan, one to Adrienne, one to Leon Cross’s wife who knew Tam from New York and popped over to say hello, and one to Caren who passed by the bar three times in two minutes to keep an eye on Duncan. Everyone refused.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she said.

Rex played “Georgia on My Mind.” Adrienne forced herself to return to the podium. The phone rang and she realized she hadn’t thought about Thatcher for almost half an hour. She wanted to call him and thank him and Fiona.

Thank you for creating a restaurant so wonderful that people like Tam Vinidin want to come even without a reservation, even in their jeans. Thank you for ordering the Medjool dates and the organic peanut butter even though you never go to the movies or read People magazine. You made someone happy tonight. You make people happy every night.

You’re going to heaven.

That night, Thatcher didn’t answer his cell phone. Adrienne tried three times then called the hotel but he didn’t answer in his room either. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Adrienne left a message in his room then called his cell phone a fourth time and left the same message.

“Hi, it’s me. Everything went smoothly tonight. We made twenty-one six on the floor and another nineteen hundred seventy at the bar.” Adrienne paused, thinking about how astounding those numbers were. Because she was the only one working, she herself had cleared over six hundred dollars in tips. And yet, under the circumstances, the money seemed very beside the point. “So I’ll take it home and make a deposit at the bank on my way in tomorrow morning. Call me… I hope everything is okay… I’m thinking of you.”

The first call that came in the following morning was on the private line. Adrienne punched the button, thinking Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher. There had been no message from him on the machine.

“Good morning,” Adrienne said. “Blue Bistro.”

“Harry Henderson for Thatcher, please.”

Harry Henderson of Henderson Realty. Adrienne had sat the guy half a dozen times and he still didn’t know her name.

“This is Adrienne, Harry,” she said. “Thatcher won’t be in today.”

There was a big noise of annoyance on the other end of the line. “What are you talking about? Forget it! I’ll call him at home.”

“He’s off-island,” Adrienne said.

“No!” Harry cried out, as though he’d been shot. “Listen, I have a couple standing in my office this minute who are extremely interested in the property. I’m bringing them over.”

“Wait,” Adrienne said. She glanced around the dining room. The cleaning crew had been in but the restaurant had that dull daytime look. And Adrienne was in jean shorts and flip-flops. When she’d walked back into the kitchen upon her arrival, Eddie and Hector were having a contest to see who knew more curse words. “I don’t think you should come now. Nothing’s ready.”

“You might not understand real estate, Amanda,” Harry Henderson said. “We have to strike while the iron is hot. See you in ten.” He hung up.

Adrienne dialed Thatcher’s cell; she got his voice mail. Then she called the hotel. Ditto. She called his cell again. What was the point of taking his cell phone if he wasn’t going to answer it? Then she pictured the hushed corridors of the hospital, the room where Fiona lay in bed hooked up to a ventilator, worrying about hell. She left a message.

“Harry Henderson is on his way over with some prospective buyers. I told him to wait but he couldn’t be dissuaded. He thinks my name is Amanda. Call me at the restaurant.”

Adrienne saw the Sid Wainer truck pull into the parking lot. JZ parked diagonally, taking up sixteen spots. He shut off the engine and climbed down from his seat. Instead of going around to open the back, he marched inside.

“JZ,” Adrienne said. He stared at her and Adrienne could see he wasn’t doing well. Just looking at him made Adrienne feel like a person with her act together.

“Have you heard anything?” he said.

She shook her head.

“You haven’t talked to Thatch?”

“He’s not answering his cell. And I couldn’t reach him at the hotel.”

“That’s not good news,” JZ said. “Either her O₂ sats are low or she has another infection.”

“I saw her the other day hooked up to oxygen,” Adrienne said. “But she seemed okay.”

JZ took hold of the podium as though he planned to walk away with it. “I love her,” he said. “I really fucking love her.”

“I know,” Adrienne said.

“I’m married,” he said. “My wife and I are in love with other people.”

Adrienne met this with silence. As interested as she was, she didn’t have time for a confessional this minute.

“You’re probably wondering why we don’t get divorced,” he said. “The reason is eight years old and four feet tall.”

“Shaughnessy?”

He nodded. “Jamie says if I file for divorce, she’ll take Shaughnessy away. And Jamie is just enough of a bitch that she means it. The guy she’s been screwing for the last five years is married and won’t leave his wife. And if she can’t be happy, she won’t let me be, either.”

“Oh,” Adrienne said.

JZ paced the floor in front of the restrooms. “I love Fiona but I can’t lose my daughter.”

The phone rang. The private line.

“I have to take this,” Adrienne said. “It might be Thatch.”

JZ nodded.

“Good morning,” Adrienne said. “Blue Bistro.”

“What in God’s name is going on with this truck?” Harry Henderson asked. “We’re in the parking lot and this truck is blocking the front view of the restaurant. Do you hear what I’m saying? We can’t see the front.”

“It’s deliveries,” Adrienne said.

“Well, tell him to move.” With that, Harry Henderson hung up.

Adrienne smiled at JZ apologetically. Out in the parking lot, she heard Harry Henderson honking his horn.

“They want you to move,” she said.

“They can fuck themselves.”

“I’d agree,” Adrienne said. “Except it’s the Realtor with potential buyers. They want to see the front of the restaurant.”

JZ ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Do you understand about Shaughnessy?”

“It doesn’t matter if I understand,” she said. “It only matters if…”

“I know. And she does understand. Or she claims she does. But she doesn’t have kids. It’s difficult to comprehend losing a child when you don’t have one of your own.”

Harry Henderson honked again.

“I’ll move,” JZ said. He took a Blue Bistro pencil and wrote a phone number on Adrienne’s reconfirmation list. “Here’s my cell. Will you call me if you hear anything?”

“Of course,” Adrienne said.

“They’re filthy rich.”

This was what Harry Henderson whispered in Adrienne’s ear while the prospective buyers wandered through the restaurant. Adrienne had been expecting a couple who looked filthy rich-an older couple, distinguished, like the Parrishes. Instead, Harry introduced Scott and Lucy Elpern. Scott Elpern was handsome despite his best efforts. He was tall and had a just-out-of-the-locker-room thing going in jeans, a dirty gray T-shirt, and a Red Sox cap. The wife, Lucy, wore a flowered muumuu that she must have picked up at Goodwill. She was hugely pregnant. Three days past her due date, she told Adrienne when they shook hands, as though she didn’t want anyone around her getting too comfortable. Lucy herself could not have looked less comfortable. She was swollen and perspiring, her face was red, her hair oily. She resembled one of the cherry tomatoes the kitchen roasted until the skin split and the seeds oozed out.

“Technology billionaires,” Harry Henderson said. “Nobody thinks there are technology billionaires anymore but I found two of them.”

Adrienne looked out the window by the podium. JZ had swung the truck around so that it was perpendicular to the restaurant and now he was going about his business of unloading crates of eggs and peaches and figs. He moved sluggishly, plodding like he was being asked to carry gold bullion.

The Elperns stood by table twenty gazing out at the water. Lucy Elpern rested her hands on her belly. Harry Henderson gave them a moment to enjoy the view, then he gently led Lucy Elpern up the two steps and through the bar area.

“This is a blue granite bar,” Harry said.

Lucy eyed her husband. “We could keep that.”

“Of course!” Harry said. “And there’s a state-of-the-art wine room and, naturally, an industrial kitchen.”

“Can we see the kitchen?” Lucy asked.

“Of course!” Harry boomed. He looked to Adrienne for confirmation.

“I didn’t tell anyone you were coming,” Adrienne said.

“We’ll just poke our heads in,” Harry said. “Is Fiona back there?”

“No,” Adrienne said.

“Too bad,” Harry said to the Elperns. “You could have gotten a glimpse of the most famous chef on the island.” He led Scott Elpern to the kitchen door.

“I have to use the ladies’ room,” Lucy Elpern said to Adrienne. “This baby is sitting on my bladder.”

Adrienne pointed to the bathroom door.

Lucy rubbed her belly. Her fingers were swollen; the diamond wedding band she wore cut into her flesh. Her ankles looked soft and squishy, like water balloons. She had on a pair of turquoise flip-flops, the plastic kind you could buy at the five-and-dime. “I have to go every five minutes,” she said.

Once Harry and Scott disappeared into the kitchen and Lucy closed the door of the restroom, Adrienne dialed Thatcher’s number. Voice mail. She hung up. She heard water in the bathroom and a second later, Lucy emerged. Instead of heading into the kitchen, she wandered over to the podium, where Adrienne was pretending to review the reconfirmation list.

“You’ve worked here a long time?” Lucy asked.

“Not really,” Adrienne said. “Only about six weeks.”

“Harry told us that most of the staff has been here for years.”

“Most of the staff has.”

“But not you?”

“Not me.”

Lucy Elpern inhaled. “This place has good karma.”

“Are you in the restaurant business?” Adrienne said.

“No,” Lucy said, and she laughed. “We’re going to demolish and build a real house. But it would be nice if there were things we could keep. The bar, for example. We could put it in our family room, maybe.”

“In your family room?”

“And then we could say this is the bar that used to be in a famous restaurant.” She picked a pack of matches out of the bowl. “The Blue Bistro.”

“You’ve never eaten here?” Adrienne asked.

“No. We’ve only been on Nantucket for a week. But we really want a second home on the beach. We live on Beacon Street in Boston. Nice, but very urban.”

Adrienne checked her reservation sheet. There were 232 on the books for tonight, but she did have a couple of deuces left during first seating.

“Why don’t you come in tonight on the house?” Adrienne said. “Around six?”

Lucy smiled, then ran a hand through her unwashed hair. “You’re a doll to offer. That way we’d know what it might feel like to eat… in our new dining room. Let me ask Scott.” She waddled to the kitchen door and with great effort, pushed it open.

Adrienne stared at the phone. She wanted to tell Thatcher that some people were here who wanted to demolish his restaurant but salvage the blue granite bar to put on display in their family room like a museum piece from a country they had never visited. She heard a noise and looked out the window. JZ was pulling out of the parking lot. Don’t go! Adrienne thought. The feeling of abandonment returned and she picked up the phone to call Thatcher, but at that minute, Harry Henderson and the Elperns emerged from the kitchen.

“They weren’t very friendly back there,” Harry said.

Adrienne tried not to smile. She wondered if Hector had shared his seventeen words for copulation. “You support the wrong baseball team,” Adrienne said, nodding at Scott’s hat. “They’re White Sox fans.”

Scott shrugged. “Nice refrigerator,” he said.

“We’d like to come to dinner tonight,” Lucy said.

“And I’ll join them,” Harry Henderson said. “Amanda, you’re a genius.”

At five o’clock, Adrienne still hadn’t heard from Thatcher. She led a very brief menu meeting, keeping her voice stern so that no one would be brave enough to mention the elephant in the room: Thatcher is absent from class again today.

It was Friday night and the first people in the door were the Parrishes. Earlier that afternoon, Adrienne had done the unthinkable: She had called the Parrishes to ask if they would give up table twenty.

“Just for tonight,” Adrienne said. In a stroke of what she thought would be bad luck, she’d gotten Grayson on the phone, and hearing his gruff voice, she’d almost chickened out. “I can’t tell you the reason, but believe me, I would never ask you to move if it wasn’t critical.”

Grayson had chuckled. “Sweetheart, Darla and I don’t give a rat’s ass where we sit. For the last twelve years we’ve had everyone thinking we’re more important than we are. Put us wherever you want.”

“Oh, thank you,” Adrienne said. “Thank you, thank you.”

Now she led Darla and Grayson to table eleven under the awning. It was a very warm night so she felt they would be happiest here.

Darla took her seat and looked around in amazement. “I feel like I’m in a whole other restaurant. And look! You’ve changed the flowers!”

Adrienne sent Bruno over and told him to comp the Parrishes’ first round of drinks though she doubted they would care. Grayson never checked his bill. Once the Parrishes were squared away, Adrienne relaxed a wee bit. She had called Thatcher’s cell phone four times over the course of the afternoon but she hadn’t left a message. Too much to say.

Adrienne sat guests, handed out menus, opened the white burgundy for the Parrishes, delivered their chips and dip, and helped Christo rearrange seating to accommodate a hundred-year-old woman in a wheelchair. Then Adrienne spotted Harry Henderson’s florid face at the podium and she hurried over. The Elperns stood behind him. Lucy’s hair was damp and she had changed into a clean muumuu. Scott had thrown a white dress shirt over his gray T-shirt and traded in his jeans for khakis. Lucy was visibly dazzled.

“Look at this place,” she said. “It is glam-or-ous.” Rex was playing Frank Sinatra. “Can we keep the piano?” she asked.

Adrienne led the party to table twenty and Harry stopped along the way to shake hands with two gentlemen at table eight.

“Amanda,” he said when she handed him his menu, “this was a really smart move on your part.”

He sounded absolutely giddy. And why not? Adrienne thought. He was sitting down to a free dinner with a potential six-figure commission at the best table in the restaurant.

“My name,” she said, “is Adrienne.”

Harry smiled. He had no idea what she meant.

“My name is Adrienne, not Amanda.”

“Like Adrienne Rich, the poet,” Lucy said.

“Yes. Thank you,” Adrienne said. “Now what can I get everyone to drink?”

Adrienne did a kamikaze shot at the bar before she delivered the Elperns’ drinks. Unprofessional, possibly even unethical, but her stress level was so high that champagne wasn’t going to cut through it and she told Duncan so and he put the kamikaze shot in front of her. It tasted like a bad night in college, though once she chased it with the Laurent-Perrier she regained her sense of humor. She went into the kitchen to put in a VIP order for the Elperns.

The restaurant can run itself. Joe walked by carrying two quesadilla specials. They looked delicious. Antonio was expediting with his usual avuncular charm, calling everyone baby. Everything was going to be fine.

Back in the dining room, Caren grabbed Adrienne’s forearm. “Table twenty wanted the fondue. I told them no.”

Adrienne peeked at twenty. Lucy Elpern had ordered a glass of Laurent-Perrier and from the looks of things, it had gone straight to her head. She was waving her champagne flute in the air, calling out to anyone who looked her way, “This bread is baked!”

“Let them have it,” Adrienne said.

“Let them have it?” Caren said. “You bumped the Parrishes for Harry Henderson of all people, and now you’re going to let them have the fondue first seating?” She gave an incredulous little laugh. “This isn’t your restaurant, you know.”

“Let them have it,” Adrienne said. She walked away before she and Caren moved on to more sensitive topics, like how Caren was still pissed at Adrienne for putting Tam Vinidin at the bar, or how, technically, Adrienne was Caren’s boss.

Adrienne thought Antonio might veto her decision about the fondue, but a little while later Caren passed by holding a pot of oil. She wouldn’t meet Adrienne’s eyes and Adrienne’s confidence wavered. She had never even worked at Pizza Hut. What was she doing, breaking all the rules while Thatcher was away? Was it all in the name of selling the restaurant, or was it to exercise power in a situation where she felt utterly helpless?

A couple of minutes later, she checked on the Elperns again. Scott Elpern lifted a golden brown shrimp from the pot and dragged it lavishly through the green goddess sauce, then the curry. Was it any surprise that the man had no table manners?

“How’s everybody doing?” she asked.

“Adrienne,” Harry Henderson said before he popped a shrimp into his mouth. It wasn’t a response to her question so much as a demonstration that he had learned her name.

Lucy Elpern finished her glass of champagne. “Never better,” she said.

Adrienne approached the Parrishes. They were eating in complete silence.

“Is there anything at all I can get you?” Adrienne asked.

“We love the new table,” Darla said. “We like it better than the other table.”

“You’re kidding.”

“At the other table, everyone watches you.”

“Yes, they do,” Adrienne said. She glanced at table twenty. The Elperns were having the time of their lives. There was no doubt in Adrienne’s mind that this time next year the floor under her feet would be the Elperns’ new living room.

Adrienne stopped at the bar to pick up her champagne.

“Another shot?” Duncan asked.

“Your girlfriend’s pissed at me,” Adrienne said. “She thinks I put too many pretty women at the bar.”

“If you stop, I’ll be pissed at you,” Duncan said.

Elliott, who never said a word unless spoken to, chose this moment to interrupt. “Where’s Thatcher?” he said. “Does he normally take a vacation in the middle of summer?”

Adrienne was saved having to answer when she spied Harry Henderson on his cell phone, which was a Blue Bistro no-no.

“Excuse me,” Adrienne said, and she hurried back into the dining room.

Before she could scold Harry for using his phone, she sensed something was wrong. The atmosphere at the Elperns’ table had altered. Lucy’s face was screwed up and Scott hovered close, squeezing her hand. Darla was right. Every other table in the restaurant had their attention fixed on the Elperns. The hundred-year-old woman in the wheelchair touched Adrienne’s arm.

“I think that woman is having her baby.”

Adrienne smiled. “She may have started labor. We’ll get her to the hospital.” She sounded preternaturally calm, thanks to the kamikaze shot, thanks to the fact that she’d prepared herself for this possibility. You didn’t invite a woman three days past her due date to dinner and not consider the worst-case scenario.

Harry snapped his cell phone shut. “I called nine-one-one. An ambulance is coming.”

“An ambulance?” Adrienne said, thinking: sirens and lights, the pall of emergency and doom. “The hospital is less than two miles from here. You could drive.”

Scott Elpern glanced up. “We’re in a rental car.” These, Adrienne realized, were the only words she’d heard him speak other than Nice refrigerator.

“So?”

Lucy spoke through pursed lips. “My water broke,” she said. “I’m sitting in a huge puddle of yuck.”

Adrienne nearly laughed. Was this or was this not the theater of the absurd? She caught a whiff of something acrid: Three shrimp burning in the peanut oil. Adrienne fished them out, then she lassoed Spillman. “Let’s get guests their checks. This could turn into a circus.”

Unfortunately, it was too late. A minute later, Adrienne heard sirens in the distance, then lights flashed through the restaurant and three paramedics stormed in like they were rescuing a hostage. Conversation in the restaurant came to a dead halt; Rex stopped playing. Adrienne led the head paramedic, a woman with a long, scraggly ponytail, through the now-hushed restaurant to the Elperns’ table.

“She just started labor. I really don’t think there’s any reason to panic…”

The paramedic knelt down and spoke quietly to Lucy Elpern. Adrienne wondered what to do in the way of damage control. They would need a towel. She retrieved the Sankaty Golf Club towel from the wine cave, and on her way back to the Elperns’ table, she passed Darla and Grayson leaving.

“We loved the table,” Darla whispered. “But we’re going to get out of here before there’s any blood.”

“There won’t be any blood,” Adrienne whispered back. Would there? Grayson palmed Adrienne a hundred dollars.

The golf towel was very little help. The back of Lucy Elpern’s muumuu was soaked and this seemed to be a cause of concern for her; she didn’t want to leave the restaurant.

“Everyone will know,” she whispered.

“Everyone already knows,” Adrienne said. “And it’s no big deal. It’s perfectly natural.”

“This is so embarrassing,” she said.

The head paramedic called one of her guys for a blanket and once they had wrapped Lucy Elpern up, they led her out of the restaurant to the ambulance. The guests at the remaining tables applauded politely, much like they did when the sun set, and the decibel level rose back to normal. Adrienne trailed Lucy and the paramedic to the front door. The phone rang. Adrienne glanced over the top of the podium: It was the private line.

“Good evening,” she said. “Blue Bistro.”

“Hi,” Thatcher said. “It’s me.”

Tears welled up in Adrienne’s eyes so that when she looked out the window, the lights of the ambulance blurred and became a psychedelic soup. She didn’t know exactly why she was crying though she imagined it was a combination of anxiety, relief, and the kamikaze shot. Where the hell have you been? she wanted to scream, but she held her tongue. She should ask about Fiona, about the hospital. However, there wasn’t time to listen to the answers.

“Can I call you back?” she said. “In, say, fifteen minutes? I have to get first seating out of here.”

“Sure,” Thatcher said.

There was a long pause during which Adrienne tried to think of something else to say, but then she realized that Thatcher had hung up. She replaced the phone as the ambulance pulled out of the parking lot, sirens screeching. Tyler Lefroy was standing at the podium, a put-out expression on his seventeen-year-old face.

“Do I really have to clean that gross shit up?”

“Get a mop,” Adrienne said.

Adrienne wanted to call Thatcher back, but she couldn’t. Tables had to be turned; there were a hundred and twenty people sitting down at nine, and because of the Elpern spectacle, first seating was running behind. Adrienne monitored the progress of dessert and coffee; her foot was actually tapping. Turn ’em and burn ’em, she thought. The busboys were humping. Then Caren had a credit card war. Adrienne had heard about these but never seen one. Two men at table eight (by chance, the very men Harry Henderson had stopped to greet) wanted the bill. They were fighting over it. Adrienne’s attention was called to the problem when she heard Caren’s voice, much louder than it should have been.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure we can work this out! I am happy to split the bill.”

The men were on their feet now, tugging at either end of the bill. Thankfully, this was one of the last tables in the dining room. Adrienne approached: The table was another Realtor and his wife and a local lawyer and her husband. The lawyer’s husband was the louder of the two men, though the Realtor was physically bigger.

“I thought we agreed…” the lawyer’s husband said.

“Please, I insist,” the Realtor growled.

Adrienne felt bad that she hadn’t at least asked Thatcher how Fiona was doing; it was a big mistake that needed to be rectified as soon as possible. With a lightning-quick movement, Adrienne snatched the bill from both men, then put her palm out.

“We don’t have time for this,” she said. Blue Bitch voice. “Cards.”

They handed over their cards and Adrienne spun on her heels. Caren followed her.

“Impressive,” Caren murmured.

Adrienne tried to call Thatcher back after everyone from second seating was settled, but just as she felt it was safe to pick up the phone, Hector appeared from the kitchen.

“The exhaust fan is out,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the kitchen is getting smoky.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said.

“We need it fixed,” Hector said.

“Fine.”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Adrienne said. She checked her watch. “It’s a quarter of ten.”

“Cat,” Hector said. “Call her on her cell phone.”

“I will not,” Adrienne said. “She’s probably asleep.”

“If you don’t call her, the fire alarms are going to go off and the fire department will show up.”

“Take the batteries out,” Adrienne said.

Hector readjusted his White Sox hat. “This is an industrial kitchen,” he said. “Do you really think our fire alarms run on a couple of double As? You have to call Cat.”

“You’re kidding me, right? This is a joke?” Adrienne was certain it was a joke. A prank to go with Lucy Elpern’s labor. A little laugh at her expense while the boss was away.

“I’m serious,” Hector said. “Look.” He pointed to the window of the kitchen door. Smoke.

“I can’t believe this,” Adrienne said. The restaurant can run itself. Ha! as Thatcher would say. Ha ha ha!

She found Cat’s cell phone number on a list pasted to the front of the reservation book and Cat answered on the first ring. It sounded like she was in high spirits. Too high.

“Cat? It’s Adrienne calling from the Blue Bistro.”

“Hey, girlfriend!”

“Hi. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but we have an exhaust fan out.”

There was a long pause. Adrienne feared she had lost the connection, but then Cat spoke up. “I just needed to step outside,” she said. “I’m having dinner at the Chanticleer.”

Adrienne groaned. The Chanticleer was in Sconset, on the other side of the island. “So you can’t come fix it?”

“And leave behind the duck for two with pomme frites?” Cat said. “The bottle of 1972 Mouton Rothschild…”

“We could give you dinner here,” Adrienne said. “Hector said if it’s not fixed, the alarms will go.”

“Well,” said Cat. Another pause. “I’m with a party of ten and I know for a fact my husband can eat the duck for two by himself. I’ll sneak out now and come back. They’re so drunk, they might not even miss me.”

Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was filled with smoke such that Antonio could barely read the tickets. They had opened the back door of the office and the six narrow windows and they pulled the two oscillating fans out of the utility closet and Paco was yanked off his station-his new job was to stand in front of the smoke detector waving a large offset spatula. Adrienne returned to the front. She drank her third glass of champagne and contemplated another kamikaze shot. Every time one of the waitstaff emerged, he smelled like a barbecue.

“Whew! It’s getting bad back there,” Joe said. “Have you called Cat?”

“She’s on her way,” Adrienne said, praying that Cat didn’t get stopped on Milestone Road for drunk driving. Adrienne considered calling Thatcher and asking quickly about Fiona, but she wouldn’t be able to keep the panic out of her voice. As she finished her champagne, Cat walked in the door-black cocktail dress, Manolo Blahniks, tool belt.

“Praise Allah,” Adrienne said.

Cat stuck out her lower lip. “The 1972 Mouton Rothschild,” she said.

“We’ll make it up to you,” Adrienne said.

Cat disappeared into the kitchen and Adrienne called Thatcher.

“Hi,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” Adrienne said.

“Her O₂ sats are back up for the time being,” Thatcher said. “The doctors are worried, though.”

“About what?”

“She’s becoming resistant to the antibiotics, and there’s a lot of other stuff going on that I don’t even pretend to understand. The doctor nixed the trip to the Galápagos, and Fiona was crushed. Can you make a note in the book for me to cancel with the travel agent? We’ll be home tomorrow night, Fiona will be back to work on Monday. Would you pass that on to Antonio?”

“Sure,” Adrienne said, scribbling a note about the travel agent. No Galápagos, then. She thought she might feel relieved, but instead she just felt sad. “JZ was in this morning. He’s worried.”

“He should be here,” Thatcher said. “She’s been asking for him.” He sighed. “I got your messages. Sounds like everything is going well there.”

“Going well?” Adrienne said.

“Isn’t it?”

At that moment, Adrienne heard a muted cheer from the kitchen and Cat stepped out, hoisting her tool belt in victory. Adrienne blew her a kiss as she ran out the door.

“Sure,” Adrienne said.

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow night. We’ll be on the four o’clock flight so I hope to make the menu meeting. How many covers are on the book?”

“Two thirty-five,” Adrienne said.

“Whoa,” Thatcher said. “It’s July. Hey, would you call Jack at the flower shop in the morning and have him deliver fresh hydrangeas on Monday? I want it to look nice when Fee comes back.”

“No problem,” Adrienne said.

“I miss you,” Thatcher said. “Do you miss me?”

“I do,” she said.

She hung up the phone. She felt better, like she was the one whose exhaust fan had been broken, and now she sucked in clean, fresh air. The phone rang again, private line. Adrienne had to do rounds through the dining room, but she picked up the phone in case it was Thatcher with one last thing.

It wasn’t Thatcher, but Adrienne was glad she took the call anyway. Harry Henderson informed her, in a voice both jubilant and humbled, of the birth of Sebastian Robert Elpern, nine pounds, twelve ounces, perfect in every way, and of an official offer on the Blue Bistro for eight and a half million dollars.