The Blue Bistro

11

The Sturgeon Moon

Sign hanging next to the walk-in refrigerator:

35 DAYS UNTIL THE END OF THE WORLD

Adrienne had been hearing about August since her first day of work. When the bar was busy, Caren might say, “It’s busy, but not as busy as August.” When the dining room was slow back in mid-June, Thatcher had said, “You’ll be longing for this once it’s August.” What was it about August? Everyone was on Nantucket in August-the celebrities, the big money, the old families. It was America’s summer vacation. Thirty-one days of sun, beach, boating, outdoor showers, fireflies, garden parties, linen sheets, coffee on the deck in the morning, a gin and tonic on the patio in the evening.

In the restaurant business, August meant every table was booked every night. Thatcher and Adrienne were forced to start a waiting list. If a guest didn’t reconfirm by noon, he lost his reservation. There was no mercy; it was simply too busy. It was too busy for anyone to take a night off; the staff was to work straight through the next thirty-five days until the Saturday of Labor Day weekend when the bistro would close its doors forever.

“You want a break,” Thatcher said one night during the menu meeting, “take it then.”

In the restaurant kitchen, August meant lobsters, blackberries, silver queen corn, and tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes. In honor of the last year of the restaurant, Fiona was creating a different tomato special for each day of the month. The first of August (two hundred and fifty covers on the book, eleven reservation wait list) was a roasted yellow tomato soup. The second of August (two hundred and fifty covers, seven reservation wait list) was tomato pie with a Gruyère crust. On the third of August, Ernie Otemeyer came in with his wife to celebrate his birthday and since Ernie liked food that went with his Bud Light, Fiona made a Sicilian pizza-a thick, doughy crust, a layer of fresh buffalo mozzarella, topped with a voluptuous tomato-basil sauce. One morning when she was working the phone, Adrienne stepped into the kitchen hoping to get a few minutes with Mario, and she found Fiona taking a bite out of a red ripe tomato like it was an apple. Fiona held the tomato out.

“I’d put this on the menu,” she said. “But few would understand.”

In August, it felt like someone had turned up the heat, bringing life to a rolling boil. It wasn’t unusual to have nineteen or twenty VIP tables per seating; it wasn’t unheard-of to have thirty-five people waiting in line for the bar. The Subiacos had never done a better job-they cranked out beautiful plates, they made a double order of crackers at the end of the night, and they kept a sense of humor. The staff in the front of the house, on the other hand, started to resemble prisoners of war. Adrienne actually heard Duncan say to Caren, “I can’t have sex with you tonight. I’m too tired.” For Adrienne, work started at five fifty-nine when she checked her teeth, and after a blur of Beluga caviar, Menetou-Salon, foie gras, steak frites, requests for Patsy Cline, compliments on her shoes, and the never-ending question, “So what’s going to happen to this place next year?” it would end with six or seven hundred dollars in her pocket and Thatcher leading her at two o’clock in the morning out to his truck where she invariably fell asleep with her head against the window.

And it was in August that Adrienne’s nightmares started, nightmares much worse than a bushel of rotten peaches. She forgot coffee for table ten. She threw the contents of her champagne glass in Duncan’s face and only when his face started to melt did she realize she’d thrown boiling oil. She sat down at the piano to fill in for Rex, then panicked because every guest in the restaurant was silent, waiting for her to begin. It was a recital, but she didn’t know how to play. She crammed ten two-year-olds in high chairs at table twenty. She sent Holt Millman to the end of the bar line. She went into the back office to find Thatcher and Fiona having sex on Thatcher’s desk. She got locked, somehow, in the walk-in refrigerator and when she pounded on the door with the heel of her Jimmy Choo sling back, nobody answered. The restaurant was closed. She was alone. She was going to die.

When strange things started to happen at the restaurant, Adrienne thought she was suffering from sleep deprivation. Garden-variety fatigue.

August ninth: two hundred and fifty covers and an unprecedented twenty-six reservations on the wait list. Special: whole tomatoes stuffed with a crab, smoked corn, and Thai basil salad, dressed with a lime-shallot beurre blanc.

At the end of first seating, Adrienne had a complaint from Tyler Lefroy. On the Tuesday after Labor Day, Tyler was headed to the Citadel for four years of military college-his father’s idea. Tyler was dreading the end of summer. He loved this job, he told Adrienne. She knew he loved it because of the money and the crackers and because he partied after work with Eddie, Paco, and Jojo at the Subiaco compound. The actual work left him cold, though, and he was forever complaining.

“The guests have been stealing the silverware,” he said. “And the plates.”

“Stealing?”

“Yeah.” He held out his rubber bin. “This, for example, is what I just cleared from table twenty-seven. A four-top. And, as you see, I only have three chargers. I only have three dessert forks. And there was a cappuccino at that table, but I don’t see the cup or the saucer. Seem strange?”

“Maybe Roy or Gage cleared them,” Adrienne said.

“They never help me out,” Tyler said. “Nev-er.”

This was true. Roy and Gage didn’t like Tyler. They thought he was a smart-ass. They thought he deserved four years of military college.

“Maybe they did it as a joke, then,” Adrienne said.

“Okay,” Tyler said. “Except it’s not funny.”

“So you’re telling me you think someone at table twenty-seven stole dishes.”

“Yes.”

Adrienne checked the reservation book. Table twenty-seven had been two couples from Sconset with houses on Baxter Road, the oldest money on the island. What was the likelihood that they had stolen dishes?

“The one lady had a big purse,” Tyler added.

“Okay, Nancy Drew,” Adrienne said. “Let me know if you notice anything else.”

The next evening after second seating, Gage approached the podium. “I saw a woman hide a wineglass under her blouse,” he said. “She walked out with it.”

Adrienne stared at him in disbelief. She didn’t know exactly what to make of Gage. Sometimes she thought he was a wasted life and other times she thought he was a good, though unlucky, man trying to make the best of bad circumstances by taking a job suited for teenagers. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

He shrugged. “I just bus.”

The following night there was a third incident. A well-dressed, middle-aged couple who had languished on the waiting list three nights running agreed to come in and have their meal at the bar. When they were through, they left money for their bill and a good tip, but absconded with the leather folder that the bill came in. Duncan was sure of it, because-Hello, Adrienne, it’s missing and where the hell did it go?

“We’re all tired,” Adrienne said. But that didn’t explain it. At the podium, her bowl of matches had to be refilled every two days and her Blue Bistro pencils kept disappearing. A count showed that she was short five menus. Five! She confronted Thatcher.

“The guests are taking things,” she said. “Silverware, plates, wineglasses. The matches, my pencils, the menus. They’re stealing.”

Thatcher looked upon her with weary eyes. Of everybody up front, Thatcher seemed the most exhausted. And not only exhausted but sad. The sign that hung in the kitchen seemed to speak straight from his heart. His world was ending in twenty-five days. “Can you blame them?” he said. “We close in three and a half weeks. Whatever they took, that’s all they’ll be left with.”

August thirteenth: two hundred and fifty covers, twenty-one reservations on the wait list. Special: oven-roasted tomatoes with garlic and thyme, served with grilled peasant bread.

Thatcher and Fiona went to mass at St. Mary’s and were not expected in the restaurant until after first service started.

“Is everything okay?” Adrienne asked Thatcher when he told her he was going to church.

“She wants to see Father Ott,” he said. “She wants to take communion.”

“Could you go tomorrow morning?” It was bold of Adrienne to ask, but the restaurant business did not lend itself to five o’clock mass on Saturday.

“She wants to go tonight,” Thatcher said.

After family meal but before service, Adrienne snuck into pastry. Mario had the ice cream machine running (special tonight: blackberry sherbet); he was melting Valrhona chocolate over a very low flame and reading Sports Illustrated. He had a garish red-purple mark on his neck the size of a quarter.

“Really,” Adrienne said. “A hickey?”

“Girl I met last night at the Muse,” Mario said without lifting his eyes from his magazine. “She was crazy about me. Said I looked like Antonio Banderas.”

“Well, you don’t.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said. He stirred the chocolate with a wooden spoon. “What do you want?”

“They’re at church.”

“Who?”

“Thatch and Fiona.”

“So?”

“So, do you think that’s bad?”

“No.”

“Do you think it means she’s getting worse?”

“Hospital means she’s getting worse,” he said. “Church just means…” He looked up for the first time, slapping the magazine down on the marble counter. “It means she wants religion. It’s August, for God’s sake.”

“Twenty-two days until the end of the world,” Adrienne said, and suddenly she felt like she was going to cry. Even if they were the longest three weeks of her life, it wouldn’t be long enough. “What are you going to do when it’s over?” she asked Mario. “Will you and your cousins try to open your own place?”

“We’re talking about it,” he said.

This answer saddened her even more. They were making plans without her. Everyone was: That morning, Adrienne had heard Caren on the phone with a Realtor in Providence, Rhode Island.

“Providence?” Adrienne had said when Caren hung up, only slightly cowed by the fact that she’d been eavesdropping. “What happened to St. Bart’s?”

“That part of my life is over,” Caren said. “It’s time to move on. I have to get a real job. I have a degree in biology, you know. I could work in a lab.”

“You’re a scientist? I thought you did ballet.”

“I’m too old for ballet now. I’m almost thirty-three. I have to get some structure in place. Some health insurance.”

“What about Duncan?” Adrienne said.

“He’ll be in Providence, too,” Caren said. “Providence is not a place I would have chosen on my own.”

“What’s he going to do in Providence?”

“Work for Holt Millman,” Caren said.

“As a bartender?”

Caren laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

So Caren and Duncan were off to Providence and the Subiacos were talking about opening their own place. Henry Subiaco had his root beer. Spillman and Red Mare were moving to Brooklyn; they were going to work for Kevin Kahla at Craft and start trying to have a baby. To avoid being stranded out in the cold, Adrienne told herself she could always go to Telluride with Kyra and the painter-or she could put her finger on the map and pick a new place. But what Adrienne really wanted was to go where Thatcher went and do what he did. He had cancelled the trip to the Galápagos, but no plans appeared in its place. Adrienne was left to speculate: He would ride it out with Fiona, whatever that entailed.

While Adrienne was lost in this train of thought, Mario picked up his magazine and started reading again.

“I should get back to work…” Adrienne said, but he didn’t answer. He wasn’t listening.

Adrienne returned to the front to find Doyle Chambers pacing by the podium. Adrienne steeled her resolve, then breezed around him as if he weren’t there. She checked her running watch, which she kept inside the podium: five fifty-five, three feet above sea level. She rechecked the reservation book.

“Adrienne,” Doyle Chambers said.

She held up a finger-One minute-with the authority (she hoped) of the conductor of an orchestra. Doyle Chambers worked on Wall Street. He was intense, he was fastidious, he was busy. He and his mousy wife, Gloria, rented a house in Quaise, and flew to Nantucket on their jet every weekend. Doyle never requested reservations so much as demanded them. Adrienne had sat him at least six times over the course of the summer and each time he had made her feel increasingly menial. The world was Doyle Chambers’s servant. But not tonight.

“I called you three times and left three messages on your cell phone,” Adrienne said. She glanced up to see Gloria, wearing a fringed shawl like a rock diva of a certain era, slinking around by the front door. “I made myself clear. Call back to reconfirm or I give away your table.”

“Adrienne.”

“It wasn’t like you,” Adrienne said. “But you didn’t call me back.”

“A reservation is a reservation,” he said. “Do you understand the meaning of the word? I reserved a table.”

“It’s the middle of August, Mr. Chambers,” Adrienne said. She breathed in through her nose and if she could have breathed out fire, she would have. “I gave away your table.”

“No!” he said. His voice reverberated through the restaurant. Adrienne turned around. It was empty except for the servers who looked up from their polishing and straightening, startled. When they saw it was just Doyle Chambers releasing testosterone, they resumed work.

In response to his raised voice, Adrienne lowered hers. “Yes,” she said. “Those, I’m afraid, are our rules. However, since you’re here early, you’re more than welcome to sit at the bar.”

“Sit at the bar?” he said. “Sit at the bar like I’m someone who doesn’t have enough pull to get a real table?”

Adrienne wished she could blink herself back into pastry with Mario, love bite, indifference, and all. She could watch the ice cream machine churn liquid into solid. She peeked out the window, hoping that Thatcher and Fiona had skipped the last hymn and Thatcher’s silver truck would be pulling into the parking lot any second. Doyle Chambers never spoke like this to Thatcher; he only bullied women. Caren had refused to serve him years ago.

“Pull has nothing to do with it,” Adrienne said, her voice practically a whisper. “If you’d like a table, you have to make a reservation, then reconfirm. It’s a Saturday night in August. I have a twenty-one-reservation wait list. I called your cell phone three times. You did not call me back. I waited until two o’clock, which is, incidentally, two hours past the deadline, then I gave away your table.”

Doyle Chambers snatched a pack of matches out of the bowl and whipped them sidearm at the wall behind Adrienne’s head. Gloria Chambers slipped out to the parking lot. Adrienne felt someone by her side: Joe.

“I can’t believe this!” Doyle Chambers shouted. “What is the point of making a reservation if it doesn’t reserve you shit!”

“Hey, man,” Joe said. “Lower your voice. Please. And stop throwing things at the lady. She’s just doing her job.”

Doyle Chambers glared at Joe and took a step toward him. Fight, Adrienne thought. Duncan rushed over from the bar and grabbed Doyle Chambers’s arm in a good-natured, break-it-up way.

“Doyle,” he said. “Dude, you have to chill. I’d be happy to set you up at the bar.”

Doyle Chambers shrugged Duncan off. “I’m not eating at the bar,” he said. “I’m eating in the dining room. I have a reservation.”

“You had a reservation,” Adrienne said. She was shaking, but it felt good to be enforcing the rules, especially with a cretin like this. He beat his wife; there wasn’t a doubt in Adrienne’s mind.

Doyle Chambers looked at the ground and said nothing. His face and neck were red, the part in his sandy blond hair was red. Adrienne thought he was collecting himself. She thought maybe he would apologize and maybe he would agree to sit at the bar. Duncan, who prided himself on being a man’s man, would buy him a round of drinks and put in a VIP order. But when Doyle Chambers raised his head, Adrienne could see nothing of the sort would happen. He lifted his hand and Adrienne thought he was going to strike her, but what he did was more devastating. He grabbed Adrienne’s reservation book and ripped out the page for that night, crumpling it in his fist. “No!” Adrienne cried. But before she or Joe or Duncan could comprehend the full meaning of his action, Doyle Chambers was out the door, pushing past a party of eight that was on their way in. Adrienne darted out from behind the podium and made it to the doorway in time to see Doyle and Gloria Chambers tear out of the parking lot in their convertible Jaguar.

“There goes my night,” Adrienne said. “Literally. There goes my night.” One of the men in the party of eight looked at her expectantly; she didn’t know who he was or where he belonged. Joe and Duncan stared at Adrienne with dumb, shell-shocked expressions. “What am I going to do?” Adrienne asked them. Joe retreated to the dining room to pass the bad news on to the other servers.

Duncan repaired to the bar. “Let me get your drink,” he said.

Adrienne returned to her post behind the podium. Her book was destroyed. In addition to Saturday, Doyle Chambers had ripped out half of Sunday. Adrienne tasted the grilled sausage she’d had for family meal in the back of her throat.

“I’m sorry?” said the man with the party of eight. “We have a reservation at six o’clock. The name is Banino. The Banino family from Oklahoma.”

A glass of Laurent-Perrier materialized at the podium and Adrienne felt Delilah give her arm a squeeze. She could do this. She remembered that there were three eight-tops first seating and Adrienne sat Mr. Banino at the best of the three, handed out menus, and said, “Someone will be your server tonight. Enjoy your meal.” On the way back to the podium she wondered if she could call the police and press charges against Doyle Chambers. Attempted assault with a pack of matches. First-degree rudeness.

Adrienne sat the restaurant as best she could on the fly. The local author and her entourage were one of the other parties of eight and the author told Adrienne, a bit impatiently, that Thatcher had promised her a table under the awning, the table that she had already given to the Oklahoma contingency. Adrienne was flummoxed; she nearly launched into the whole long story because an author would appreciate the drama. You couldn’t even put a character like Doyle Chambers into fiction. He was too awful; no one would believe him. But as Adrienne was short on time she offered to put the author out in the sand at two of the fondue tables pushed together. This solved the problem temporarily. Adrienne just waited for those tables to show up and complain about being stuck inside on such a lovely night. Call Doyle Chambers, she would say.

Thatcher didn’t show up until everyone from first was down. When Adrienne saw his truck pull in, she checked her watch: six forty-five. What a night to be late. She tried to summon words poisonous enough to describe what had happened. She had quelled some of her rage by writing across the top of Sunday’s ripped page: “Doyle Chambers never allowed back.” Never in the next twenty-one days. So there, Adrienne thought. Take that. She would throw the remainder of her fury against Thatcher the second he walked in. He should have a computer like every other restaurant! He should make a backup copy of the book! But most of all, he should have been here where he was needed and not at church.

When he stepped through the door, he looked somber, verging on mournful. Fiona and Father Ott trailed him in. Fiona gave Adrienne a weary glance then vanished into the kitchen with Father Ott in her wake. Adrienne dropped her load. There was no one like Thatcher and Fiona to make her feel like the restaurant business really was not all that important.

“How was mass?” she said.

“Good,” he said dully. “Everything okay here?”

“Sure,” Adrienne said. “Doyle Chambers absconded with tonight’s page from the reservation book, but I got everybody down. It’s not perfect, but…”

“Looks fine,” he said, scanning the dining room with disinterested eyes. “Father Ott is going to sit with Fiona in the back office for a while. Her O₂ sats are low and she’s afraid she’s getting another infection. She’s lost seven pounds since we got back from Boston. The doctors want her in the hospital.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

He flashed Adrienne a look she had never seen before. He was angry. “Well, she can’t breathe.”

This was enough to push Adrienne over the edge into hysteria. Doyle Chambers, the precarious state of her future: job, relationship, and all. And she was premenstrual. But Adrienne simply nodded. “Okay, I understand.”

Thatcher backed down. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just…”

“It’s all right,” she said.

“So let me see the book,” he said. He regarded Doyle Chambers’s damage, then whistled. “In twelve years, this has never happened to me.”

“He isn’t allowed back,” Adrienne said. “If you let him in, I’ll quit.”

“You’ll quit?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t want that,” Thatcher said. He squeezed Adrienne’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were invited to a party.”

“A party?”

“At Holt Millman’s house.”

Holt Millman’s house. Duncan had told Adrienne about this party a few mornings earlier over espresso. Holt Millman threw a legendary cocktail party every August. Two hundred guests, vintage Dom Pérignon, flowers flown in from Hawaii, a full-blown feast by Nantucket Catering Company, and a band from New York City. Every year people got so drunk that they jumped in the pool with their clothes on.

“Are you going?” Adrienne had asked Duncan.

“No,” Duncan said. “I never get to go anywhere.”

Now Adrienne stole a glance at Duncan. He had four people eating at the bar and he was shaking up martinis.

“We can’t go,” Adrienne said. “Who’s going to work?”

“Caren,” Thatcher said.

“You’ve asked her?”

“I’ll ask her right now.”

“And who’s going to take her tables?”

“The other waitstaff can cover. Heck, I’ll give Tyler and Roy a table or two. They’ve been begging me for one all summer.”

“They have?” Adrienne said. This didn’t sound right. Tyler, especially, would not want more work. Adrienne looked around the dining room. The waitstaff was humping-it wasn’t even seven o’clock and Christo was sweating. Every single table was packed, food was just starting to come out from the kitchen. Caren was at table seventeen opening champagne, Joe was delivering appetizers. Spillman was at the Baninos’ table taking their order. Adrienne wondered if Thatcher saw what she saw. “I think it’s too busy for us to just disappear.”

“I’m the boss,” he said. “I have to get out of this place for a little while.”

“You go, then,” Adrienne said. She could sense he was about to lose his cool. “I’ll stay here and cover.”

“I will not go without you,” he said.

“Thatch.”

“We’re going,” he said. “It’s just down the road. We’ll stay an hour. We’ll be back before second seating. They won’t even notice we’re gone.”

He sounded so irresponsible, Adrienne thought he must be joking. He grabbed her by the wrist.

“Wait,” she said. “You have to tell Caren, at least.”

He took a deep breath, then made a face like a judge deliberating.

“Okay, I’ll tell her. Be right back.”

He pulled Caren away from a four-top and whispered in her ear. Caren did not seem pleased. She glanced at Adrienne at the podium. Adrienne stared down at her ruined reservation book. Why did there have to be nights like these?

Thatcher dragged Caren back to the podium. Adrienne chose not to meet her gaze.

“I’ll just stay here,” Adrienne said.

“No,” Thatcher said. “You won’t. You’re coming with me or you’re fired.”

Adrienne rolled her eyes for Caren’s benefit, but Caren would have none of it. She was pissed. The first thing she did was march to the bar to tell Duncan. They’re going to the party. Adrienne said, “Okay, let’s get out of here, then.” And they left.

Holt Millman’s house was located on the harbor side of Hulbert Avenue. It was a thirty-second drive from the bistro.

“See?” Thatcher said as he pulled up to the white gates. A valet came out to take his keys. “We could have walked.”

Adrienne tried to exude nonchalance. She had come to terms with Holt Millman’s wealth during her sail on Kelsey. But she had never seen a house or grounds-or a bash-like this one. She and Thatcher walked through the white gates onto an expansive lawn bordered by lush flower gardens. A tent was set up in the middle and there were people everywhere-people and tables of food and waiters in white jackets with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Adrienne took a glass and Thatch said, “I’m going to get a club soda.”

“I’ll come with you,” Adrienne said.

She and Thatcher weaved between the clumps of laughing, chatting guests. The house loomed in front of Adrienne; it was the biggest house she had ever seen at this proximity. It had classic Nantucket features: gray shingles, climbing New Dawn roses on trellises, huge windows, and five brick chimneys. Adrienne snatched an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray. She had eaten a sausage grinder for family meal but this food was too gorgeous to pass up. She stopped at the buffet table and dipped a crab claw in a lemony mayonnaise. Her champagne was ice cold; it was crisp, like an apple. Across the tent, she saw Darla Parrish and her sister Eleanor standing in front of a table where a man was slicing gravlax. Adrienne turned away; she wasn’t in the right mood for Darla. She saw Brian and Jennifer Devlin talking to the manager of the Nantucket Golf Club and his pregnant wife. Everywhere Adrienne turned-guests! She looked for Thatcher but he was gone. She moved through the crowd to the bar hunting for his blue blazer. Nearly every man at the party wore a blue blazer, so she cast her eyes at the ground hoping to pick out his Gucci loafers.

Where was he? Adrienne experienced a twinge of panic, like when she had gotten lost as a child (the Christmas light show at Wanamaker’s-her mother had been hysterical with worry). The panic gave way to guilt; she should leave now, escape, run down the road back to work. But mostly what Adrienne felt was curiosity, a pressure behind her eyes, urging her to see, to soak it in. Tomorrow, she would e-mail the details to her father.

Behind the tent, a slate walkway led to a tall privet hedge and through an archway was the pool area. The pool was a simple rectangle, dark and exotic-looking. There was a waterfall at one end. There were people surrounding the pool, another bar, more tables of food. Adrienne saw Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy talking to another couple and when Mrs. Kennedy saw her, Adrienne felt like she had no choice: She had to go over and say hello.

She positioned herself at Mrs. Kennedy’s elbow. “Hello,” she said.

The man Adrienne didn’t know was telling a story. He paused when Adrienne spoke and looked at her briefly, then went back to telling his story. Something about a flight he had recently been on, an aggressive passenger, a pilot who had been sent back from the cockpit with pepper spray. Adrienne was trapped at Mitzi Kennedy’s elbow-it would be too awkward to walk away and yet no one in the circle had acknowledged her presence. So walk away. But then the man finished his story and there were ohs and ahs and then a brief silence. Adrienne touched Mrs. Kennedy’s arm.

“Mrs. Kennedy, hello.”

Mitzi Kennedy stepped back; it seemed Adrienne had caught her off-guard. She regarded Adrienne with a blank expression, and Adrienne thought, I have sat you every week since the first of June, I have opened your champagne and chatted with you about your son’s college applications, and I have bent over backward to give you a better table. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me. But sometimes, if you saw someone out of context… so Adrienne identified herself. “Adrienne,” she said, “from the Blue Bistro.”

“I know who you are,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “I’m just trying to figure out what you’re doing here.”

“I…” Adrienne was at a loss for words. She smoothed the material of her dress and wished she was wearing something new. “We were invited. Thatcher and I. He’s around here somewhere.”

Mrs. Kennedy looked nonplussed. Adrienne considered drowning herself in the pool. She tried to catch Mr. Kennedy’s eye-he was always friendly, friendlier than his wife. But he was deep in conversation with the man who had been telling the story about the airplane and he didn’t notice Adrienne.

She drifted away in what she hoped was a graceful fashion, like a flower petal being carried off by the breeze. Who was she kidding? She qualified as staff to 99 percent of the people at this party and no one wanted to be caught chatting with the staff.

Her main objective now was to find Thatcher and convince him to return to the restaurant. She wasn’t wearing a watch but it was nearly dark and she guessed it must be almost eight. They would have to be back by nine: thanks to Doyle Chambers, Caren didn’t even have a book to work from to get second seating down. So Adrienne decided to return to the tent to track down Thatcher. Problem was, the Kennedys were standing on the slate path that led back to the tent and now, worse than almost anything Adrienne could imagine, they were talking to Drew Amman-Keller. Adrienne spun around and headed in the opposite direction, praying Drew hadn’t seen her. She followed a path that led around the right side of the house-over a white shell driveway, through an arbor hung with grapevines, toward the ocean. This was the front lawn, which had a stunning view of the harbor: sailboats, Brant Point lighthouse, the jetty. Adrienne wished she could enjoy the party instead of negotiating it like a live minefield.

There were fewer people on the front lawn: several couples who, like herself it seemed, had strayed from the heart of the party and wanted to get a look at the water. Then Adrienne heard a burst of joyous laughter and she knew a group of people was approaching behind her but she was afraid to turn around.

Someone took her arm at the elbow. “Adrienne? My God, it’s you, it’s really you.”

A wave of relief and salvation rolled over Adrienne. She wished Mitzi Kennedy was nearby to see the look of delight on Holt Millman’s face.

“You must meet my friends,” he said. “Frank and Sue Cunningham. Jerry and Ann Longerot. And certainly you know Catherine.”

Catherine. For the first time since she walked through the white gates, Adrienne smiled. It was Cat. Conservative tonight in a blue seersucker sundress and flats.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Holt said. “I’m honored. I’m thrilled. I want to give you a tour of my house. Would you like more bubbly?” He took Adrienne’s glass and handed it to one of his friends. “Jerry, your job is to get that filled, pronto. And bring Adrienne one of those shrimp puffs. Those are good.”

“I’m fine,” Adrienne protested. “Actually, I have to find Thatcher. We just stopped in for a minute. We have to get back to work.”

“Work?” Holt Millman said. “No, no, no, sweetie. I’m not willing to let you leave.”

Adrienne turned her eyes to the house. They were now standing on a gorgeous semicircular deck-another bar, more food. Jerry Longerot handed Adrienne a filled champagne glass and a shrimp puff. A tour of the house would take forever. It was not an option.

“I must find the ladies’ room,” Adrienne said. She grabbed Cat’s forearm. “Do you know where there’s a ladies’ room?”

“Follow me, girlfriend,” Cat said. “I wired every inch of this house.”

They left Holt Millman standing on the deck. “We’ll be back,” Adrienne said.

“Because I want to give you a tour!” he called out.

Adrienne followed Cat to the pool house. Adrienne was feeling happier. The eleventh richest man in the country-the owner of all this and more-loved her. And she had found Cat, who was ten times more glamorous than Mitzi Kennedy.

“Where’s your husband?” Adrienne asked. “Is he out back?”

“He’s in Montana,” Cat said. “Fly-fishing.”

“Oh,” Adrienne said. “I have to find Thatcher. You haven’t seen him?”

“I’ve never seen Thatcher at a party before in my life,” Cat said. “I didn’t think he went to parties.”

“He doesn’t,” Adrienne said. “This is an aberration.”

They opened the door to the pool house. Adrienne heard a strange noise; it sounded like a hurt kitten. Cat disappeared into the powder room and Adrienne poked her head into the changing room. A woman sat at an old-fashioned dressing table, crying into her hands. Adrienne said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” and the woman looked up. Adrienne saw her face in the mirror. Darla Parrish.

Again, Adrienne wondered why there had to be nights like this. Why had she agreed to come to this party? And why, oh why, had she strayed from Thatcher’s side?

“Darla,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“Adrienne, honey,” Darla said. She held her arms out. “Give me a hug.”

Adrienne bent down and embraced her. She watched herself in the mirror. From the back, she thought, Darla could have been her mother. They could have been mother and daughter hugging. Gently, Adrienne released her hold. She heard the toilet flush, then water, then Cat’s face appeared in the mirror. Cat pointed at the door. Adrienne nodded and Cat left.

“Is everything okay?” Adrienne asked. She felt herself slipping back into restaurant mode. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I need another drink,” Darla said, though Adrienne could smell the Southern Comfort on Darla along with her Shalimar. She eyed the glass of melting ice on the dressing table. Did Darla expect Adrienne to fetch her another drink? Maybe she did. Adrienne considered it, but instead she said, “Let’s go out. I’m trying to find Thatcher and we can look for your husband.”

“Grayson isn’t here,” Darla said, and she started to weep again.

“Oh, right,” Adrienne said. “You came with Eleanor?”

Darla nodded, face in her hands. Adrienne plucked a tissue from a box on a nearby table and held it out to Darla. It was getting later and later; it might be as late as eight thirty. Adrienne started to panic. She had to get back to the tent and find Thatcher-if she couldn’t find him, she was leaving anyway. Either way, Caren was going to be bitter and with good reason.

Darla dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “He’s having an affair,” she said. “He’s been having an affair for twelve years.”

“Oh,” Adrienne said.

Darla nodded firmly as though Adrienne had just said something she very much agreed with. “One of my bridge partners back home.”

Back home was Short Hills, New Jersey. Darla had cancelled once, and another time come to the Bistro with Eleanor, because Grayson had business back in Short Hills.

“I’m sorry, Darla. That’s awful. Shall we try to find your sister?”

Darla gripped Adrienne’s arm in a way that made it clear she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Promise me you won’t marry Thatcher,” Darla said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re as free as a bird,” Darla said. “That’s always what I think of when I see you. Drinking champagne, in your beautiful silks, flitting here, flying there-you’re a bird. Free, free. I wouldn’t want to see Thatcher or anyone else clip your wings. Promise me you won’t marry Thatcher.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Adrienne said. “Life has too many surprises.”

“Oh, honey,” Darla said. She had a smudge of lipstick on the bottom of her front tooth. Adrienne nearly pointed it out, but she didn’t have the heart. She excused herself for the powder room. When she peeked back in a minute later, Darla was gone.

At ten minutes to nine, Adrienne found Thatcher standing at the main buffet table eating stuffed mushrooms. She took his arm. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “How do we get the car from the valet?”

Thatcher smiled at her. Something was funny about him. Funny peculiar.

“What?” she said.

“I love you,” he said. “I was just standing here thinking of you and how much I love you. And I was also thinking about Fiona. Fiona is really fucking sick.”

Discreetly, Adrienne surveyed their surroundings. There was a man replenishing the buffet and a couple of guests lingering at the end of the table by the crab claws. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” Adrienne said.

“It’s true,” he said. “She’s sick. She can’t breathe. Her lungs are polluted. They’re a junkyard.”

“Thatcher?”

He grinned, then pulled her in close. “This is a great party. You know how many years I’ve been invited to this party? Twelve. And I’ve never come. You know, I heard the band warming up. They start playing at nine.”

“That’s nice,” Adrienne said. “But we have to go back. Second seating. Caren has no book.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“What?”

“And you’re not leaving, either. We’re going to dance. I’ve been dying to dance with you all summer.”

Adrienne picked up Thatcher’s glass. She took a sip. It looked like club soda with lime but it was the tail end of a gin and tonic.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said.

“Yep.”

“How many of these have you had?”

“Several.”

“Several?”

“Yep.” Thatcher took the glass from her hand and emptied it into his mouth in one gulp. “Come on, let’s find the dance floor.”

“No, Thatcher.”

“Yes.” He kissed her. As angry and agitated as she was, she succumbed. She’d had two glasses of champagne herself, three including the one she drank at work to calm her Doyle Chambers-induced stress, and she had a little buzz. For the second that Thatcher kissed her, she let her mind wander. How bad would it be if she just went along with this reckless course of action? Allowing Thatcher to get drunk and dancing to this band from New York instead of heading back to the Bistro to work second seating. Caren could get everyone down with a little creativity; she knew the guests as well as Thatcher and better than Adrienne. How bad would it be to blow off a little steam?

Bad, she decided. The bar would be packed. They still had the stealing problem. Fiona was sick and the priest was there. As for Thatcher’s drinking, Adrienne didn’t know what to think. He once told her that drinking, for an alcoholic, was like falling into a river filled with raging rapids. It was easy to get swept away, to drown. So should she stop him? Yes. Get him a Coke. Or a coffee.

“We’re leaving,” Adrienne said. At that minute, she heard Thatcher’s cell phone ringing. She removed it from his blazer pocket. She didn’t check the number; the only place that ever called him was the restaurant.

“We’re on our way back,” Adrienne said.

“Don’t bother.” It was Caren. “I’m calling to tell you that Chambers’s wife came in with the page from the book. Is it me or does that woman look like Stevie Nicks? Anyway, she apologized and I can get second down. Fiona and the padre left-she went home to sleep and Antonio said everything was fine. The kitchen is cranking the plates. We’re all set. You stay and enjoy yourself.”

“No, we can’t,” Adrienne said.

“Sure you can.” And Caren hung up.

Adrienne slipped the phone back into Thatcher’s blazer. Now what to do? Thatcher didn’t ask about the phone call. He was too busy attacking the buffet table-tenderloin, crab claws, gravlax, mushrooms, cherrystones on the half shell. He held one out to Adrienne.

“Eat this,” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“Come on.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry?” he said. He piled his plate with Chinese spare ribs. “This food is incredible.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said. “We can stay. But you have to promise me you’ll stop drinking. You have to promise, Thatch.”

He gave her big eyes as he gnawed on a spare rib. “I don’t need to stop drinking,” he said. “Because I feel fine. I feel better than I have all summer. When the restaurant is closed, this is what I’m going to do. Party like this.”

Adrienne surveyed the tent. Across the lawn, she saw Eleanor leading Darla Parrish out of the party. Home for ice water, aspirin, and bed. Adrienne was relieved. Darla’s news was still ticking in her brain like a bomb that had yet to go off.

“If you feel good now,” Adrienne said, “you should stop drinking.”

“What are you drinking?” Thatcher asked.

“I was drinking champagne,” Adrienne said. “But I’m ready for coffee. Do you want coffee?”

“No.”

“Okay. We don’t have to drink anything. We can dance. There’s the band over there. Come on.”

“I have to use the bathroom,” Thatcher said.

Adrienne regarded him. She had no idea if he was going to sneak another drink and she was too worn down to care. She remembered back to a time in high school, her senior year in Solon, Iowa, when she snuck out of her house to go to a party in one of the cornfields. She drank beer and smoked a cigarette and after the party she sat in the back of one of the kids’ vans and played strip poker and drank more beer. To recall the events in this way made them sound like fun, but they hadn’t been fun at all because the entire time, Adrienne experienced fear like a cold hand gripping the back of her neck. She was afraid that her father would find out, that he would call the police and start a manhunt. At five o’clock in the morning, the kids she was with wanted to go to the Egg & I for breakfast and at that point Adrienne finally relaxed. Sure enough, when her friends dropped her off at six thirty and Adrienne slipped back into the house, her father was asleep. He hadn’t realized she’d been gone.

She convinced herself that this was a similar moment. It was a Saturday night in August, it had been weeks since she’d had a night off. And here she was at the fanciest party she could ever hope to attend with a man she loved. If she got swept away in the spirit of things, who would ever know-and who would blame her?

Adrienne drank and Thatcher drank.

They danced. Thatcher spun and dipped her, and through the crowd, Adrienne caught sight of Cat dancing with Holt Millman, and a few minutes later, Cat dancing with one of the handsome male waiters. Only Cat. The band slowed down. They played “Wonderful Tonight.” Adrienne clung to Thatcher; they were holding each other up.

Someone tapped Adrienne’s shoulder. She turned, a flash went off. Drew Amman-Keller had snapped their picture.

Thatcher recoiled. “Hey,” he said. He blinked. “Hey, fuck you, Drew.”

Drew Amman-Keller smirked. “It’s good to see you out, man.” He held out his hand. Thatcher and Adrienne stared at it. “Hey, come on. Adrienne?”

“Don’t talk to her,” Thatcher said. “Don’t talk to either of us, you fucking parasite.”

“Thatcher,” Adrienne said. Her mind was fuzzy, buzzing television snow. “Don’t give him anything to write about. That’s what he wants.”

Drew Amman-Keller bowed and shuffled backward off the dance floor. “I’m still waiting for you to call me,” he said to Adrienne. “Callmecallmecallme.” He was drunk, too. Adrienne looked around. Everyone at the party was drunk.

“Let’s get out of here,” Adrienne said. “Let’s go look at the water.” They stumbled through the tent (where coffee and dessert were set up), past the pool (where people were indeed swimming with their clothes on), and out onto the small beach in front of Holt Millman’s house. They fell over into the sand, Adrienne first and Thatcher on top of her. Adrienne felt a shell behind her ear, some damp seaweed under her left leg. Was anyone watching them? Was Drew Amman-Keller going to take a picture of them in this compromising position? Thatcher started to kiss Adrienne in a sloppy way. She struggled to sit up but Thatch pressed her down.

“We’re not,” she said. She lifted her knee between Thatcher’s legs. “Thatch, I mean it.”

She had sand in her hair and inside her dress. Thatcher fiddled with her bra; it came unhooked. “We’re not going to do this,” Adrienne said. She pushed him off her and he fell heavily to the side with a grunt. His eyes were closed, his features were blurry. He didn’t even look like himself. Adrienne poked him in the ribs harder than she meant to. She reached inside her dress to shake out the sand and rehook her bra.

“I want to ask you something,” she said. She was feeling so confrontational, she scared herself. Off to the right she saw the red light of Brant Point, warning, warning. She had read somewhere that the definition of elegance was restraint. Adrienne wanted to be elegant-what woman didn’t?-but it was hard to be elegant when her skirt was hitched up and her bra was left of center and she had sand in her ears and under her fingernails. It was hard to be elegant when she was drunk. Restraint was a good idea, noble, but at that moment it was too flimsy to hold back the urgency of her question. “Are you and I going to make it past the summer?”

Thatcher opened his eyes for a second, then closed them again. “I don’t know,” he said.

Later, Adrienne would call a cab and have the driver take them to her cottage, where Thatcher would vomit until sunrise and then fall into a comatose sleep. Over espresso the next morning, Caren and Duncan would berate Adrienne for letting him drink. “Couldn’t you see he was in a dangerous state when you went to that party?” Caren would ask. And Adrienne would counter that Caren had granted them permission to stay and that was when things had gotten out of hand. Duncan would concede that Thatcher was an adult and not Adrienne’s responsibility. He and Caren would pump her for details of the party and various images passed through Adrienne’s mind-the crab claws, the dark-tiled pool, the smell of the powder room, the distaste on Mitzi Kennedy’s face, the smudge of lipstick on Darla Parrish’s tooth, the semicircular deck-but all Adrienne would really retain, the only part of the night that had any meaning for her, were those three words spoken as she buried her feet in the cold sand and gazed out across Nantucket Sound. I don’t know.

The next morning, Fiona was at work as usual. Adrienne went in early to answer the phones and generally atone for her many sins of the night before. The only two cars in the parking lot belonged to Fiona and Hector. Through the window of the kitchen door, Adrienne saw Fiona behind the pass portioning swordfish. The restaurant had a Sunday hush, which was a good thing since Adrienne was suffering from a dreadful hangover. She poured herself a Coke at the bar and sat down with the phone and the reservation book. There were two hundred and fifty covers and a fourteen reservation wait list. The two halves of Sunday’s page had been smoothed out and carefully repaired with Scotch tape.

Adrienne jumped when the door to the kitchen opened and Fiona came out. Adrienne wanted to ask how she was feeling, but she was too afraid. Fiona set down a plate of toast, a cake of butter, a Ball jar of apricot jam. The same toast that Adrienne had eaten at her first breakfast.

“You didn’t have to…” Adrienne said. “I mean, how did you know I was here?”

“I heard the brakes of your bike. You should have those oiled.”

“Oh.” Adrienne looked at the toast. “Thank you for this. I really need it.”

“Yeah.” Fiona stared at her and Adrienne attempted a smile. Fiona didn’t look sick. She was wearing white cotton drawstring pants, a white tank, clogs. She was tan, she wore lipstick.

“I want you to have dinner with me tonight,” Fiona said.

“Tonight?”

“At the table out back. Around midnight. Thatcher can take the bar while we eat. I want to talk to you.”

“About what?” Adrienne said.

“Stuff,” Fiona said. “I’m tired of Thatcher. I’m tired of him worrying about me. He worries so much that I start to worry and I made a decision this morning that I’m done worrying. Whatever happens, happens. To think that I can control it, or the doctors, or the priest… no, it doesn’t work like that.”

Adrienne sat, speechless.

“So midnight?” Fiona said.

“Yes,” Adrienne said. “Of course.”

The special was a tomato salad with bacon, basil, and blue cheese. It was a work of art. Fiona had found a rainbow of heirloom tomatoes-red, orange, yellow, green, purple, yellow with green stripes-and she stacked them on the plate in a tower as colorful as children’s blocks. It flew out of the kitchen; by the end of first seating, it was eighty-sixed.

Adrienne didn’t see Thatcher until five, though he’d called her at noon to say he’d woken up and, first thing, cleaned the bathroom. Then he’d gone to an AA meeting.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

“I’m sorry, too,” Adrienne said. There was no denying the regret she felt about letting Thatcher stay at the party and drink. It was monstrous of her. The worst thing was, she had wanted him to drink. She had wanted to see what he was like and she had hoped that with his guard down she might wheedle some promises out of him about the future. But all she had gotten was the truth: He didn’t know.

At menu meeting, Thatcher looked and smelled chastened. He was clean-shaven, his red-gold hair held teeth marks from his comb. He wore his stone white pants and a new shirt from Thomas Pink with cuff links. He had shined his loafers. He was professional, in charge, sober. It was time to move on.

At family meal, Adrienne ate only a salad.

Caren said, “On a diet?”

“No. I’m eating tonight with Fiona.”

Caren’s eyebrows arched. She said nothing, though Adrienne knew she was curious. Adrienne was not only curious but worried. She expected to be chastised for running out of the restaurant and allowing Thatcher to drink. Adrienne had no words to offer in her own defense; she was going to take her punishment. She had to admit, though, that Fiona hadn’t seemed angry or perturbed that morning when she invited Adrienne to dinner, and so what really worried Adrienne was that Fiona might not even know that Thatch had been drinking, but she was sure to find out over the course of the night. Every time Adrienne went back into the kitchen for chips and dip, she expected Fiona to cancel. But Fiona treated Adrienne normally, which was to say, with complete indifference. She was expediting, the kitchen was brutally hot-so hot they had the oscillating fans going-and they were too busy to gossip.

“Ordering table four,” Fiona called out. “Two Caesars, one crab cake SOS. Ordering table twenty-three, three bisques, one foie gras, killed. Another person who doesn’t know how to eat. Jojo, baby, I need more of those square plates. Stop the cycle now and finish them by hand, please.”

Adrienne inhaled the smells of grilling and sautéing and frying. Three weeks until the end of the world.

Between seatings, Adrienne stood with Thatch at the podium. His hands were shaking.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Fine.”

“Fiona seems better.”

“I just hope she isn’t wearing herself down.”

“She thinks you worry too much.”

“Ha!”

“I’m eating with her tonight,” Adrienne said.

“Yes. She told me.”

Adrienne wished the news had come as a surprise to him. But Thatcher and Fiona were like an old married couple; they shared everything with each other first.

“What do you think she wants?”

“A woman’s perspective.”

“Why not Caren?”

“Do I really have to answer that?”

“I guess not.” Caren wasn’t exactly the girlfriend type. “I just wonder what she wants to talk about.”

“She didn’t tell me and I didn’t pry. I assume it’s something that I, as a man, wouldn’t understand.”

Christo approached the podium with a pepper mill. “This thing’s empty. I twisted it over a Caesar at table fifteen for, like, five minutes until we figured there wasn’t anything coming out. Unless it’s white pepper. It’s not white pepper, is it? Because if it is, that old guy eating the Caesar is going to croak.”

“Your former boss told me you were smart, Christo,” Thatcher said. “That’s why I hired you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There are peppercorns in the pantry,” Adrienne said. “They’re black.”

“I don’t have time. I thought the busboys were supposed to do it. I thought they filled them every night.”

Thatcher nodded at the kitchen door. Christo went, huffing.

“Are you angry?” Adrienne asked.

“You mean because it’s August and one of my servers hasn’t deciphered the pepper mill?”

“No, because I’m eating with Fiona.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

By midnight, Adrienne was starving. The crackers came out and she could have eaten the whole basket. But she held herself to two, then two more the next time Louis passed by. She longingly contemplated two more, but then she saw Thatcher coming toward her with the cash box and receipts. He was smiling.

“Lots of expensive wine tonight. Table twenty-six ordered two bottles of the Chateau Margaux. I don’t even know who those people are, do you?”

Adrienne checked the book. “Beach Club. Mack sent them.”

“Guy knew his wine.”

“Mack said he was a doctor in Aspen.”

“You know him?”

“No. Duncan knows him. Can I go?”

“You can go.”

“And what will you eat? Are they sending something out?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Go.”

“Are you sure, because…”

“Adrienne,” Thatcher said. “Go.”

It felt awkward, like a first date. Fiona was in the walk-in checking inventory, telling Antonio what she needed to get up at the farm and what they should order from Sid Wainer. Adrienne poked her head in and said, “I’m here.”

Fiona looked confused, sweaty, and pale. Then, it seemed, she remembered. “What do you want to eat?” she said.

Adrienne was so hungry she would have eaten straight from the industrial-sized container of sour cream on the shelf in her line of vision. “I don’t know,” Adrienne said. “What are you having?”

“What I’m having is neither here nor there. You should order what you want. You know the menu?”

“Yes.” Already, Adrienne felt like this was a test she was failing. Think, she implored her brain. What did she want for dinner? “Steak frites. Actually, no, the crab cake.”

“Start with the crab cake. Then you can have the steak. What temp?”

“Rare.”

Fiona looked sideways at Antonio. “Got that?”

“Yes, chef,” he said. “You feel okay?”

“I’ll just have some bisque,” Fiona said. She wiped her forehead with a side towel. “I may not come in tomorrow.”

“I’m making you a sandwich, too,” Antonio said. “You have to eat.”

Fiona shooed Antonio out of the walk-in. “All these men telling me what to do,” she said. “Did you bring a drink from the front?” she asked Adrienne.

Adrienne held up her champagne. “Would you like anything?”

“I drink water,” Fiona said. “Wait for me outside. I’ll be just a minute.”

Adrienne got a glass of ice water with lemon and carried it out to the plastic picnic table. It was another lovely night. The full moon lit up the whole beach; Adrienne could see her shadow in the sand. She sat in one of the plastic chairs. It was peaceful here. The noise from the bar was reduced to a faint bass line.

Adrienne waited for what seemed like an eternity-she was nervous and hungry-but then Fiona appeared holding two plates and two sets of silverware. She had taken off her chef’s jacket to show a white tank top underneath and had let her hair down. Adrienne rose to help her.

“The crab cakes,” Fiona said. “Go ahead and sit. I sent Jojo to the bar to get us a bottle of champagne.”

“You did?”

“I decided I want some. I haven’t had a drink in forever.”

Adrienne sat down, staring at the two plump, golden brown crab cakes floating in a pool of Dijon cream. She restrained herself until Fiona sat, then she took a bite, and another. Then, she felt, she had to confess.

“Thatcher was drinking last night,” Adrienne said.

“He told me.”

“He started while I wasn’t looking. I was… off somewhere.”

“But once you got back, you asked him to stop?”

“I asked him. He didn’t stop.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Fiona said. “He’s an alcoholic.”

“I know.”

“Do you know? It’s a disease. Thatcher has a disease just like I have a disease.”

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Adrienne said. “I didn’t know anybody at the party except for guests and I didn’t feel like I could ask a guest for help.”

“It’s okay,” Fiona said. “I don’t mean to scold you.”

“But I feel awful…”

“Don’t,” Fiona said. “It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I’m the reason why he drinks. I’m the albatross around his neck.”

“No, you’re not,” Adrienne said.

“Yes, I am,” Fiona said, in a voice that ended the topic.

Adrienne took another bite of her crab cake and gazed at the water. Next to her, Fiona spooned soup in tiny bites. Adrienne looked at Fiona’s hands. There was something funny about her fingers. They were clubbed on the ends and her nails were bluish. Fiona caught Adrienne staring, and Adrienne looked at the sky.

“Full moon,” she noted.

“The Native Americans call it the sturgeon moon in August,” Fiona said. “That’s one of the useless things I happen to know.”

Fiona was sweating despite the breeze; she looked sick for the first time to Adrienne, but sick like a normal person, like she might vomit or faint. She took a huge breath and Adrienne could hear the struggle it took to get air in. Then Fiona coughed. She coughed and coughed until her eyes were watering and it looked like her face was falling apart. Adrienne didn’t know what to do. Was this the time to call the ambulance? Just then Jojo came out with a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. He set the bottle down and walloped Fiona on the back, like it was the most normal action in the world.

“You okay, chef?” he said.

She coughed a bit more then stood up, moved into the shadows, and spat. When she came back, her face was dark red. “Sorry,” she said.

“Please don’t worry,” Adrienne said. “Would you like some water?”

Fiona chugged the whole glass of water. “Thanks for the bubbly,” she said.

“No prob,” Jojo said. He was the only Subiaco who was still boyish. Adrienne loved his long eyelashes and his slow smile. He was what a Subiaco looked like before he became smooth like Mario or capable like Antonio or gross like Hector. “I’m going to call it a night.”

“Okay,” Fiona said. “See you tomorrow.”

Jojo left and Fiona reached for the champagne. Gently, Adrienne took the bottle from her, opened it with the softest pop, and poured two glasses. It might be worse for Adrienne to drink with Fiona than it had been for her to drink with Thatcher. She had no idea. But Fiona seemed eager-she raised her glass in Adrienne’s direction and took a long sip.

“How’s JZ?” Adrienne asked.

“Married.”

“Married,” Adrienne agreed. “But you can’t doubt that he loves you.”

“Sure I can.”

“He loves you.”

“Yes. But it’s not enough. I want him to marry me.”

“Oh.”

Fiona took another drink and pushed her soup bowl away; she’d barely eaten anything. “You will, no doubt, find this surprising, but I am a big believer in marriage.”

“Are you?”

“My whole life that’s all I’ve ever wanted-to be married and have kids. Probably because I’ve been told since I was young that those two things would never happen. No kids, certainly. My body couldn’t handle it. And probably no marriage. No one wants damaged goods.”

“Fiona…”

“It’s true,” she said flatly. “If JZ really wanted to, he would have gotten a divorce. He would have taken Shaughnessy and left that awful woman. Jamie. She’s manipulative and dishonest. But she’s not damaged. He doesn’t make love to her like she might break.”

“Fiona.”

“Even if I get off the damn transplant list, there’s no guarantee that I’ll survive the operation, and if I do survive, they give me another five years. Five years is hardly worth leaving your wife over.”

Antonio appeared at the table with their entrées. He set down the steak frites for Adrienne and a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich with frites and a dill pickle for Fiona.

“I’m going home, Fee,” he said. “Take tomorrow off, if you want. I can do the special.”

“What would you do?” she asked.

“Those tomato flans,” he said. “With a red pepper coulis.”

“Okay,” Fiona said. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Yes, thank you,” Adrienne said.

Antonio kissed the top of Fiona’s head like she was indeed someone who might break. He nodded at Adrienne and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me,” Fiona said. “Because I have things in my life other than JZ. I’m a damn good chef. I have a devoted staff. I’ve had my own restaurant since I’ve been twenty-four years old and I’m a woman, okay? It’s unheard-of.”

“You’re the best,” Adrienne said.

“You’re trying to flatter me,” Fiona said. “But I am the best. I never wanted to be famous. I never wanted to have my own TV show or my own cookbook or a line of salad dressings. I just wanted to be the best, pure and simple. Next year, when this restaurant is closed there won’t be anyone on this island or anywhere else who does things the way we do them. It ends with us.”

“You’re right,” Adrienne said.

“You’re still trying to flatter me,” Fiona said. “But I am right. And that’s what I’ve always wanted, too. Immortality. When I die, I want people to say, ‘Nobody cooks like Fiona Kemp anymore. Nobody makes foie gras like Fiona. Nobody makes shrimp bisque like Fiona.’ ” She slammed back the remainder of her champagne and narrowed her blue eyes. “All these years I’ve been claiming I cook out of love. But I don’t. I’ve been cooking out of ambition.”

“That’s okay,” Adrienne said.

“Ambition is okay.”

“Love would have been better,” Fiona said.

Somehow they made it to the bottom of the champagne bottle. Adrienne couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw Fiona empty the last drops into her glass. Suddenly, Adrienne became aware of certain things: she had finished her steak frites, though she barely remembered eating them. Behind her, the restaurant was quiet and dark, though she didn’t recall seeing the lights go off and no one had come out to check on them. According to Adrienne’s running watch, it was five past two. Everyone had gone home, including, Adrienne presumed, Thatcher. For the last who-knew-how-long, Adrienne had been talking about herself in a way that used to make her shudder. She was giving herself up, turning herself over. She wanted Fiona to know her.

On the subject of her mother, Adrienne said: She was a lovely person. The loveliest. Gracious, kind, funny. She died when I was twelve of ovarian cancer.

I’m sorry, Fiona said. Do you worry that you’ll get it?

Get what?

Cancer.

No.

On the subject of her father: He’s getting married again after sixteen years. To the woman he brought here, Mavis.

Will you go to the wedding?

Yes.

When will that be?

October sixteenth.

Oh, Fiona said. That’s my birthday. I’ll be thirty-six.

This was followed by a space of silence.

On the subject of her travels: My favorite place aside from Nantucket has been Thailand.

Never been, Fiona said. Never been anywhere. Not going anywhere.

Right before Adrienne became aware of the time, she had been regaling Fiona with the story of Doug, the cocaine, the theft of Adrienne’s Future, the arrest. Fiona was shaking her head, coughing. She drank some water, then she poured the last of the champagne, and watching it dribble out of the bottle snapped Adrienne out of her reverie. And Fiona, too, because she said, “I think we should talk about Thatcher.”

“Should we?” Adrienne said. She was drunk now-again-and talking about Thatcher sounded like a bad idea. And yet, the tone of Fiona’s voice made it seem like this had been the point of the whole dinner: to talk about Thatcher.

“We should,” Fiona said. Her long hair hung over the back of her chair and her face had regained its color-lightly suntanned with freckles across her nose. Adrienne felt her eyes drooping, but Fiona seemed as alert as ever. Alert, intense, focused. What was the first thing Thatch had ever said about her? My partner, Fiona. She never sleeps.

“Go ahead,” Adrienne said with a grand sweep of her hand. “Talk.”

Fiona fidgeted with the crusts of bread on her plate. She’d eaten nearly the whole sandwich and half the pickle. “I’ve never talked to one of Thatcher’s girlfriends like this before,” she said.

“He told me he didn’t have girlfriends.”

“He had a girlfriend in high school. Carrie Tolbert. She hated me,” Fiona said. “And he had a girlfriend in college, Bridget, her name was. Hated me. And since he’s been on Nantucket… the occasional one-night stand he never wanted me to find out about.” She took a huge breath, like she was planning on going underwater. “Anyway, here’s what I want to tell you, because I think it’s only fair you should know. Thatcher and I have a special bond.”

For whatever reason, these words incensed Adrienne. They made her as mad as a bee sting, or a glass of ice water in her face, or lemon juice in her eye. Something clicked in her, or unclicked.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Adrienne said. “You can start by telling me how you’ve known each other since you were in diapers. Then you can tell me about how you walked together on the first day of kindergarten and about how he tried to kiss you on top of the slide the night before tenth grade started when you were out drinking on the elementary school playground. I’ve heard it. You pushed him away. But you never let him go. You invited him to Nantucket because you knew he would sell everything he had and hand it over to you. Now it’s twelve years later and the man is as devoted to you as ever. You wonder why he never has girlfriends, and why the ones he did have resented you. You wonder!” Adrienne paused. She felt like a bottle of Laurent-Perrier that had been violently shaken and then opened, spewing everywhere. Restraint was a mountaintop on a faraway continent. She couldn’t stop herself. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to tell me you have a special bond like I am too stupid to have figured it out on my own. Where do you think I’ve been the last three months, Fiona? He’s my boyfriend. I sleep with him every night. But you think I don’t know that you’re in bed with us, too? That you never leave his mind? I get it, Fiona. Your relationship is special. It is more special than my relationship with Thatcher. It is the most special.”

Fiona was quiet, staring out at the moonlit water like she hadn’t even heard. “I was afraid this would happen.”

“What?”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Adrienne shouted. “I’d just like some credit for understanding how things are. My first date with the man he ate exactly nothing and left me cold as soon as you called. The night he first told me he loved me he made sure he mentioned that he loved you, too. ‘Differently,’ he said, whatever that means.”

“It means we’re friends,” Fiona said. “Nothing but friends.”

“Nothing but friends!” Adrienne said incredulously. “Thatcher is yours and he’s been yours all along.”

“I’ve never seen him like he is this summer,” Fiona said. “You changed him. He’s different. He’s happy.”

“That may be,” Adrienne said. “But it won’t mean much in the end. You know it and I know it.” She threw her napkin onto her empty plate and moved her chair back from the table. “This was a nice dinner. I enjoyed myself. But just now I can’t figure out why you invited me here. Did you want to gloat?”

“No,” Fiona said. In the moonlight, her tank top and pants looked very white, like she was an angel. Or a ghost. “I wanted to say I was sorry.”

TO: DrDon@toothache.com

FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com

DATE: August 16, 2005, 9:33 A.M.

SUBJECT: the sturgeon moon

The full moon in August is called the sturgeon moon by the Native Americans. There’s a piece of useless trivia to share with your patients.

Did you know that the summer you sent me to Camp Hideaway I lied to all the girls in my cabin? I told them my brother was dying. Jonathan. I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t exactly a lie because I did have a brother Jonathan who died. But for years I wondered what it was that made me say that. Why not just say Mom was sick? I wasn’t okay saying she was sick and I’ve never been okay saying that she’s dead. I never learned to deal with it, Dad. I never learned how to make it okay in my own mind.

I know the girls in my cabin had a reunion later that summer. Pammy Ipp told me about it in a letter. They all met at the Cherry Hill Mall and ate at the food court. She wrote to let me know I hadn’t been invited.

Love.

TO: Ade12177@hotmail.com

FROM: DrDon@toothache.com

DATE: August 16, 2005, 10:27 A.M.

SUBJECT: none

Honey, are you all right? Love, love, love.

TO: kyracrenshaw@mindspring.com

FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com

DATE: August 16, 2005, 9:42 A.M.

SUBJECT: Another season

I don’t know how things got so messed up. I came here for money and money I now have. I thought that was what I wanted-money saved up for my Future. Then I fell in love and now my wanting is ten-fold but the problem is that what I want doesn’t have a price. It’s this big, important, shapeless thing-I want to be loved in return, I want my situation to be different, somehow, but I don’t even know how. I thought I had problems in Aspen. Ha! I did not. In comparison, I did not.

TO: Ade12177@hotmail.com

FROM: kyracrenshaw@mindspring.com

DATE: August 16, 2005, 12:02 P.M.

SUBJECT: Another season

Adrienne, are you all right?