The Blue Bistro

12

It’s Okay if

You Don’t Love Me

Darla and Grayson Parrish were getting divorced. They had been married forty-two years, but twelve of those years were tainted by Grayson’s adulterous relationship with Nonnie Sizemore from Darla’s bridge group. Nonnie Sizemore was six months older than Darla and fifty pounds heavier. She was a clownish woman, Darla told Adrienne, jolly, she talked a lot, laughed a lot, ate and drank a lot. She smoked. Darla wouldn’t say she had always pitied Nonnie Sizemore, who had been divorced from her husband since 1973, but she would say she had never envied her. And she certainly never believed Nonnie was capable of betrayal-but, in fact, Nonnie had been sleeping with Grayson for a dozen years. They had even snuck off for a week together some years earlier to Istanbul. Grayson had claimed business-the hunt for tile and stone-in Europe. But Istanbul! It was a place that held zero appeal for Darla, and she had to admit it was possible that she’d lost touch of how different her predilections were from those of her husband. They had practically nothing to talk about.

“I did notice your dinners this summer were a little… quiet,” Adrienne said. She and Darla were sitting at table nineteen in the most secluded corner of the restaurant. It was occupied every night, but Adrienne always thought of it as the table where Leon Cross sat when he ate with his mistress. She thought of it as the table where Thatcher did the bills each night. Now it was the table where Darla Parrish had bravely decided to eat alone. She wouldn’t give up the standing Tuesday and Friday night reservations, not when the restaurant was less than two weeks away from closing. She could have invited other people to dine with her-her sister Eleanor, her best friend Sandy Beyrer-but that felt like denial somehow. She was to be a single woman; she would eat alone, with Adrienne as occasional company. Ten minutes here or there; Darla appreciated whatever time Adrienne could spare.

“Watching you gives me hope,” Darla said. “When you leave this island for the next fabulous place, you call me. I’m going with you.”

For three nights running, Thatcher had spent the night at Fiona’s house. Fiona slept hooked up to an oximeter, and when her O₂ sats dropped, an alarm sounded. Thatcher was there to respond to the alarm, call an ambulance, get Fiona to the hospital, and although this hadn’t happened, he wasn’t sleeping. He showed up at work with his hair parted on the wrong side and his cuffs buttoned incorrectly. He misplaced his watch for twenty-four hours. In the days since Holt Millman’s party, the only real conversation that Adrienne had had with Thatcher was about the lost watch. He bought it for himself with his profits from the Bistro the first year. The watch and the Bistro were linked in his mind. He received compliments on the watch every night; once, Charlie Sheen had tried to buy it right off his wrist.

Adrienne understood how certain objects could hold real value, though she didn’t have anything herself that was worth anything-except now, a couple of great pairs of shoes. She offered to help Thatcher search Fiona’s place, but when she suggested this, he backed up.

“Whatever,” he said. “It’s just a watch.”

The following morning, however, when Fiona’s cleaning lady found the watch on the windowsill of Fiona’s bathroom, Thatcher’s mood improved. He led Adrienne from the podium into the wine cave, where they made love standing up with Adrienne’s back against the cooling unit. It seemed sneaky and cheap, and Adrienne thought miserably of the one-night stands Fiona had mentioned.

“I love you,” Adrienne said.

Thatcher kissed her neck in response, then he laughed. “Ha!”

She could tell he was thinking about the watch, and sure enough, once Adrienne was back at the phone, Thatcher asked her to clear a table for Consuela, Fiona’s cleaning lady-dinner for two, on him.

Three nights without Thatcher turned into five, six, seven.

“It’s been a whole week,” Adrienne said to Caren. It was another hot, sunny morning. They sat at the sawed-off table in the shade of the backyard, Adrienne drinking tea, Caren drinking espresso and poring over the Pottery Barn catalog. She needed furniture for her new apartment.

Caren looked up from a page of leather sofas. “Are you worried?”

“I’m furious,” Adrienne said. She was in her running clothes, ready to put on her shoes and go. But now that she had Caren’s attention, she wanted to keep it. “I know I should feel sorry for Fiona, but I can’t.”

Caren bit her thumbnail. “That’s tricky.”

“You think I’m horrible,” Adrienne said. “I am horrible.” She stared at her bare feet. They were tan with white lines from the straps of her flip-flops; her toenails were painted “ripe raspberry.” These were the feet of a woman who had learned to stand for eight-hour stretches, and who had learned to walk in slides and sling backs with a four-inch heel. These were the feet of a woman who had kicked the bad habit of lying about her past and who had learned to trust a man and love him. The summer had been so brilliant. What was happening to her sense of peace, her happiness? What was happening to her?

Since her dinner with Fiona, Adrienne had tried to stay out of the kitchen, but she couldn’t avoid the normal course of her job. She had to pick up the chips and dip; she had to help the waitstaff. The previous evening, when Adrienne walked into the kitchen to put in a VIP order for the owner of American Seasons, she found Fiona whipping a side towel against the pass like she was a jockey in the Kentucky Derby. The sweat streamed down her face, her hair was matted to her head.

“Ordering table one: one chowder, one bisque. Who are these people eating soup when it’s so hot?” She glanced over at Adrienne. “And you, my dear, look as fresh as a fucking daisy.”

Adrienne could not get past her fury. It was a boulder blocking her path.

Adrienne left Caren to her armchairs and ottomans. Caren couldn’t handle Adrienne’s anger. There was, perhaps, only one person who could.

Adrienne pulled Drew Amman-Keller’s card out of the top drawer of her desk.

She thought he might sound smug, or victorious, but when Drew Amman-Keller answered the phone and learned it was Adrienne calling, he treated her like a friend.

“Adrienne, how’s the summer going? I mean to come in one more time before you close, but, as you know, I’m at the mercy of Mr. Millman. That was some party last week, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Adrienne said. She closed the door to her bedroom even though Caren was still outside. And Duncan-was he lurking around somewhere, or was he golfing? Adrienne hadn’t even thought to ask. She was discombobulated. She had mustered the guts to call, but now what?

“So…” Drew said. “Is there something I can do for you or did you just call to chat?”

She pictured him licking his womanish lips.

“I called to talk to you about Fiona.”

Drew Amman-Keller cleared his throat. “Would you like to talk in person? You could come here or I could come to you.”

His voice was low and smooth, like a lover suggesting a rendezvous. Adrienne moved into the doorway of her closet.

“No,” she said.

“Okay, then, the phone.”

“The phone.”

There was silence. Drew Amman-Keller was either feeling as awkward as she was or else his silence was a tactic to get her to talk. And what, exactly, was she going to tell him? Did she tell him about the concealed illness, the transplant list, the affair with the married delivery driver, the smothering friendship with Thatcher? What Adrienne needed was a friend-someone to take her side, someone to sympathize with her. She had shown up on this island with an empty Future box. Now she had plenty of money but she had nowhere to go and no plans. Her life was so devoid of people who cared that she was forced to talk to a reporter.

Drew Amman-Keller took a breath. “I can pay you,” he said.

Adrienne hung up.

She spent the rest of the day feeling both proud of herself for shutting the lid on Drew Amman-Keller and ashamed of herself for calling him in the first place. She went to Dionis Beach and lay in the hot sun at low tide. She felt her anger wilting. On the way to work that night, she stopped at Pam’s salon and bought Thatcher a gift certificate for a massage. She gave it to him before menu meeting.

“Ha! When am I supposed to use this?”

“I don’t know,” Adrienne said. “It only takes an hour.”

“Ha!”

“What is wrong with you?” Adrienne said. She felt blood rise to the surface of her face; the hair on her arms stood up. They were going to fight, and she was glad. She wanted a fight. The phone rang, the private line. Tempting, but she ignored it.

Thatcher didn’t even seem to hear the phone. “I’m tired,” he said.

“That’s a cop-out,” Adrienne said. “We’re all tired. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on. You don’t…”

He pointed a Blue Bistro pencil at her nose. “I don’t what?”

“You don’t say you love me anymore.”

“I love you.”

“That wasn’t very convincing.”

“Why do I have to convince you?”

“Because!” she said. “Our sex life … you don’t stay over…”

“I’ve been up for seven straight nights at Fiona’s, hoping and praying that she doesn’t stop breathing!” He snapped the pencil in half across the back of his hand, and the pieces sailed through the air, bounced off the wooden floor, and rolled under the podium.

“Father Ott said he’d spell you. Let him take a night or two.”

“So I can focus on our sex life?”

“No,” Adrienne said.

“No, my ass. That’s what you want.”

“I want you to get some sleep,” Adrienne said.

“I thought you said my being tired was a cop-out.”

The phone rang again. Private line. Adrienne watched the blinking light. Pick it up? She was getting nowhere with Thatcher.

“You’ve stopped caring about me,” Adrienne said.

“You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?”

“I told you it was going to be like this,” Thatcher said. “I told you I was limited in what I could give and you said that was okay. You said you understood. However, it sounds very much like you don’t understand. Now, answer the phone, please.”

Adrienne snatched up the private line, glaring at him. “Good evening, Blue Bistro.”

“Harry Henderson calling for Thatcher, please.”

Thatcher disappeared into the kitchen.

“He’s not available right now, Harry.”

“Not available? He and Fiona are supposed to sign the closing documents tomorrow morning. We have ten days to put this deal to bed. I expect them at noon, and I don’t want to hear that they’re too busy making bouillabaisse. Not available? Really, Adrienne, I expected more from you.”

August twenty-fourth: two hundred and fifty covers on the book, thirty-two reservation wait list, and then Adrienne disconnected both of the public phone lines. The special was lobster ravioli with a charred tomato cream sauce. They served it at family meal and Adrienne ate until she felt heavy and lethargic.

The Elperns arrived at six o’clock with their new baby, Sebastian. Adrienne tried to exude enthusiasm when she gazed at Sebastian’s chubby cheeks, but she contradictorily felt both stuffed and deflated. Scott held the baby in the infant car seat, and Lucy held out the blueprints for their fat mansion. They had been to Harry Henderson’s office to sign the closing documents that morning and tonight was a celebration of that. In ten days, the restaurant would be theirs. Adrienne was the only person they knew at the Bistro; she had somehow become intimately involved in this new phase of their lives. They thought of her as a friend, and while she was flattered, it took all of her strength just to smile and coo at the baby appropriately. She envied them-not because they were technology billionaires and not because they were buying the building that Adrienne now loved better than any building on earth-but because of their family-ness: Mama, Papa, baby. They were smug without meaning to be, smug about the simplest and yet most enduring things in life-their love for each other, their love for their child.

Adrienne was amazed at the transformation in Lucy Elpern; only four weeks after giving birth, every part of her previously swollen body was now slender and tight, except for her breasts, which were alluringly large. Tyler Lefroy ogled Lucy when he walked past with a sweating water pitcher.

“You’re under the awning tonight,” Adrienne told the Elperns. She led them to the far edge of the awning, table twenty-two, where nobody would be bothered by a crying baby, or startled by the sight of Lucy Elpern’s enormous, exposed breast as she nursed Sebastian.

“I just love this restaurant,” Lucy Elpern said. “It seems such a shame to tear it down.”

Scott Elpern locked eyes with Adrienne. He grinned. “But wait until you see the plans for our indoor pool!”

“Indoor pool!” Adrienne said to Duncan five minutes later at the bar. He slid her a flute of champagne that she was too full to drink. “They’re building an indoor pool.”

Duncan shrugged. “It’s their house,” he said. “They can do whatever they want.”

“Indoor pool!” Adrienne said to Caren as they walked to the kitchen. Adrienne had to put in a VIP order for the Elperns.

Caren said, “Can you run apps for me? Table five?”

“Did you hear what I said? About the indoor pool?”

“I heard you. Did you hear me?”

“Indoor pool!” Adrienne said to Mario between seatings. The Elperns had further regaled her with details of their new house and had asked her if she wanted to hold the baby. She declined, claiming an oncoming cold. “They’re building a six-thousand-square-foot house with an indoor pool. The HDC didn’t bat an eye. They break ground September fifteenth.”

“These people are loaded, right?” Mario said. “You think they want to invest in our new restaurant? You know them. It couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Adrienne thought she tasted blood in her mouth. Her eyes stung and she bowed her head. Only ten days left and nobody seemed to care. Everybody was already gone.

At midnight, Adrienne had a line forty people long and the bar was hopping. Duncan blared the CD player-no need to comply with the noise ordinance at this late date-he was convinced that the louder the music, the more people drank. Thatcher emerged from the dancing crowd with the cash box and receipts clutched to his chest. For the first time in days, he was smiling. On his way into the kitchen, he stopped and kissed Adrienne in a slow, searching way. Someone from the back of the line yelled, “Get a room!”

Adrienne felt a surge of hope. “What did I do to deserve that?” she asked.

Thatcher answered, but the music was so loud, she didn’t hear what he said.

The kiss changed her channel. She let two people into the bar just for the heck of it, she sang along to the music. The questions in her brain melted away: Are you okay? Am I okay? It’s okay if you don’t love me. Do you love me?

When Thatcher ran out of the kitchen and grabbed both her wrists and shook her-he was shaking her and yelling, yelling! but she couldn’t hear what he was saying-she knew that this was the beginning of the end. Bruce Springsteen was assaulting the room at ninety decibels and it took Adrienne several seconds to make out the words coming from Thatcher’s mouth. It’s Fee. It’s Fee. Get everybody out! Everybody out!

Adrienne didn’t know what to do. She picked up the phone. 911? Thatcher slammed the receiver back down. He raced to the bar and turned off the music; the crowd booed. Duncan whipped around. “Hey!”

“The bar is closing,” Thatcher announced. “Right now. Tabs are forgiven, but I have to ask you all to leave immediately. We’ll reopen tomorrow night at six.”

There was a din of chatter. Adrienne could sense the guests’ confusion, their resistance. Thatcher grabbed the hand bell and swung it through the air like a madman swinging a hatchet. Adrienne eyed the kitchen door. It’s Fee.

People filed past her. “Sorry about this,” she said, as calmly as she could. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” The stench of emergency was in the air-this was even before Adrienne heard the approaching sirens-and someone said the word “fire.” There was pushing. One woman stumbled; the heel broke off her shoe and the people behind her piled up, yelling, “Get up! Get out!”

“There’s no fire,” Adrienne said loudly. “But you have to go. No fire. Please go. See you tomorrow.”

Because there was still a crowd in the parking lot-guests lingering, trying to figure out what was going on-the paramedics took Fiona out through the back door. Adrienne saw her on the stretcher, and she rallied the staff to act as a barrier to the public. Adrienne stood shoulder to shoulder with Caren and Joe and next to Joe was Spillman and next to Caren was Duncan and Elliott and Christo and Louis and Hector and young Jojo on the end, crying. And Delilah was crying. Fiona was unconscious, her face ashen, her lips blue. The paramedics slapped an oxygen mask on her face and they did a lot of shouting, numbers, a code. Thatcher climbed into the back of the ambulance and the doors slammed shut behind him. Adrienne felt an arm around her-Mario. The ambulance cut a path through the crowd and sped off, sirens wailing.

Adrienne turned to Mario. “Now what?” she said. “What do we do?” She wanted to hitch a ride to the hospital. She wanted to be with Thatcher, but Mario steered her back toward the Bistro.

“Close out the bar,” he said. “Get the money. Go home.”

“Go home? But what about…”

“They’ll medevac her to Boston,” Mario said. “She’ll be at Mass General in less than an hour. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know how you can say that,” Adrienne said, and she went inside.

August twenty-fifth: two hundred and fifty covers on the book, twenty reservation wait list. There was no tomato special; Antonio was too distraught to put one together. Adrienne had received a phone call from Thatcher at five o’clock that morning. He talked, Adrienne listened.

“Keep the restaurant open. No matter what happens, keep it open. She’s in and out of consciousness. She wants the restaurant open. That’s all she asks, Is the restaurant open? I tell her yes. The answer has to be yes.”

Adrienne swallowed. Her voice was thick with sleep. “Should I call JZ?”

“I already called him.”

“Is he coming?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She says she doesn’t want to see him.”

“She’s lying.”

“That’s not for you to say.” Thatcher paused. “It’s really not.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said. “Sorry.”

“You don’t know what this is like for me,” he said.

“Sure I do,” Adrienne said. “I watched my mother die.”

“How is that the same thing?”

“Because…”

“Because Fiona is dying. Is that what you mean? It just so happens, they’re trying another drug today, okay? Another drug!”

“Why are you fighting with me?” Adrienne said. “Thatcher, I love you.”

“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll call you later.” And he hung up.

At ten o’clock, Adrienne fielded phone calls, including a call from the Inquirer and Mirror with a reporter asking about the emergency vehicle the night before. Adrienne offered no comment. She was edgy, distracted. After she’d hung up with Thatcher she’d lain awake until the sun rose. Adrienne felt like she had just thrown something of enormous value into the ocean and watched it sink. Lost forever.

When the Sid Wainer truck pulled into the parking lot, she went to the door, her heart knocked around. She would talk to JZ. But the driver wasn’t JZ; it was some young kid, blond, tan, too good-looking.

“Where’s JZ?” Adrienne asked.

“He’s out,” the kid said. “Sick.”

That night, family meal was ten pizzas from the Muse. Adrienne wanted to say something at menu meeting, but what to say? Fiona’s left lung had collapsed, she was coughing up blood, her O₂ sats were very low. The lung infection she’d been battling all summer was back, but they were trying a new drug. That, and praying for a lung donor. Thatcher had given Adrienne these stark details but had asked her not to share them. And so, Adrienne sat quietly at the twelve-top while the staff ate pizza. She watched Tyler stuff half a piece in his mouth like a healthy eighteen-year-old boy who was ten days away from having every freedom of his young life rescinded at military college. She watched Caren, who was eating a bowl of lettuce that she had swiped from the reach-in. She watched Joe, who ate his pizza neatly, with a knife and fork. The staff looked tired, worried, uninspired. Adrienne lifted a slice of pepperoni off the greasy paper plate, but she couldn’t eat. She was starving, ravenous, but food wasn’t going to help. She was hungry for something else: the phone ringing, Thatcher’s voice, good news, love.

And yet, the restaurant opened at six and service began: the pretzel bread, the mustard, the doughnuts, the VIP orders, the crab cakes, the steak frites, the fondue. Antonio expedited, the kitchen sent out impeccable plates, Rex played the piano, Duncan poured drinks, Tyler Lefroy complained that he was working twice as hard as Gage who, he informed Adrienne, had gotten stoned before work. The guests laughed, talked, paid their bills, left tips, raved about the food. No one could tell there was a single thing wrong.

Holt Millman was in, table twenty, party of four. Better than ever, he said. Tell Fiona I said so.

Thatcher didn’t call. Adrienne left him a message with the totals from the floor and the bar. She said nothing else.

August twenty-sixth: two hundred and fifty covers, thirty-six reservation wait list. The special was an inside-out BLT: mâche, crispy pancetta, and a round garlic crouton sandwiched between two slices of tomato, drizzled with basil aioli. Adrienne’s stomach growled at the sight of it, but she couldn’t eat.

Cat was in, having fondue at one of the four-tops in the sand. They polished off a magnum of Laurent-Perrier, then ordered port. So Cat was tipsy and then some when, at the end of the night, she pulled Adrienne aside.

“There are rumors going around,” Cat said.

“Really?” Adrienne said. “What’s the word?”

“The word is that Fiona is dead.”

Adrienne laughed; it was a strange sound, even to her own ears. “No,” Adrienne said. “She’s not dead.”

The next morning, Adrienne called her father at work. She got Mavis on the phone, who said, “Adrienne, doll, he’s with a patient. Can I have him call you?”

“I have to speak with him now,” Adrienne said.

Mavis put Adrienne on hold to some awful Muzak and Adrienne stared at the calendar in the front of the reservation book. One week left. That was it. She took a deep breath. Well, there was always Darla Parrish, who kept insisting she was going to accompany Adrienne into the next chapter. Adrienne couldn’t decide if that made her feel better or worse.

Her father came on the phone. “Honey, is everything all right?”

When Adrienne took a breath to answer, a sob escaped. She cried into the phone and imagined herself facedown on a childhood bed she had long forgotten-her father and her mother, too, smoothing her hair, patting her back, telling her not to worry, telling her everything was going to be just fine.

August twenty-seventh: two hundred and fifty covers, twenty-three reservation wait list. Special: whole ripe tomatoes cut into quarters and served with salt and pepper. Antonio decided on this simple preparation as a tribute to Fiona. A man at table two complained that it wasn’t fancy enough. “I’ve been hearing all about these tomato specials,” he said. “And this is what you give me?”

Adrienne removed his plate. “Don’t you get it?” she said. “The tomato is perfect as it is.”

He didn’t get it. He ordered the foie gras cooked through.

That night, at quarter to three, the phone rang. Adrienne had just gotten home. Caren and Duncan were opening a bottle of Failla pinot noir that they had stolen from the wine cave.

Caren said, “Who calls at this hour?”

Adrienne had a funny feeling and she snapped up the phone.

“Hello?” she said.

“Adrienne?” It was Thatcher, but something was wrong with his voice. Then she realized he was crying.

“Thatcher?” she said.

The line clicked. She held a dial tone. She called Thatch back on his cell phone but it went to his voice mail. “It’s me,” she said. “Call me back.”

Caren glanced up from the Pottery Barn catalog. She and Duncan were talking drapes.

“Thatch?” she said.

Adrienne managed a nod.

“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Want a glass of wine?” Caren said.

“Yes,” Adrienne said.

She didn’t sleep. She finished the bottle of wine and opened another, then she sat at the kitchen table and listened to the muted sounds of Caren and Duncan’s lovemaking. She called Thatcher three more times-all three calls went to his voice mail, but she didn’t leave a message. Caren came out to use the bathroom and when she saw Adrienne sitting at the table, she offered her a Percocet. Adrienne took it. It made her loopy and vague, but it didn’t put her to sleep. At five thirty, the sun rose. Adrienne watched the light through the leaves of the trees in the backyard, and when she couldn’t wait another second, she hopped on her bike and rode to the restaurant.

The red Durango was in the parking lot. Mario was in way too early for work. The door to the Bistro was swinging open; when Adrienne stepped through, she saw him sitting at the bar with a drink, a Scotch. He looked at her.

“She’s dead?” Adrienne said.

He tossed back the last of his drink, then brought the glass down so hard that it cracked in his hand. He left the damaged glass on the bar and walked toward Adrienne. Adrienne was numb; she had no thoughts.

“There’s something else you have to know,” Mario said. He hugged her.

“What’s that?” Adrienne asked. Her fingers and toes were tingling. She pressed her tongue into the fibers of Mario’s cotton shirt. She wanted to taste something.

“Thatcher married her yesterday afternoon. Father Ott was there. He married them in the hospital chapel at two o’clock. Fiona slipped into a coma at nine. She died at two this morning.”

“Thatcher married her?”

“He married her.”

Adrienne waited to feel something. She thought of Thatcher carrying Fiona toward the phosphorescent ocean, carrying her the same way a groom carries a bride over the threshold. Adrienne had been so jealous then, so typically sorry for herself, as she wondered, Who is going to carry me? But now she didn’t feel jealous or sad or lonely. She didn’t feel anything.

She sat next to Mario on a bar stool and rested her cheek on the cool blue granite. Her eyes fell closed. She felt her mind drifting away.

When she awoke, with a crick in her neck and a flat spot on her face, it was because the phone was ringing. She went to the podium. Line one. Adrienne checked her watch: nine o’clock. Reporter, she thought. Drew Amman-Keller. She hadn’t told him anything. In the end, she hadn’t told him a thing.

She pushed open the kitchen door. It was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerators, and it was clean. The floors had been mopped the night before, the pass buffed to a shine, the trash had been emptied, there was a stack of clean side towels on the counter. Adrienne picked one up and pressed it to her face. This was Fiona’s kitchen without Fiona. Fiona was dead.

Adrienne found Mario in pastry, surrounded by his usual tools: the mixing cups, the measuring spoons, the stainless-steel bowl that was as big as a wagon wheel. He had flour out, baking powder, butter, and a brick of Gruyère cheese. “Good, you’re awake,” he said. “You can help me.”

“You’re cooking?”

“I want to make crackers.”

“Crackers.”

“We have to call the staff in at eleven,” he said. “We have to tell them the restaurant is closing. I want to have the crackers. You know, as something nice.”

“The restaurant is closing?” This, somehow, pierced her. No more restaurant. Dead, like Fiona.

“Oh, honey,” Mario said. He patted a high stool where she sat like a child to watch Mario work. He measured flour, grated the Gruyère with his microplane rasp until the brick was a fluffy mound, cut in the butter, mixed up a dough. He rolled the dough into three logs, wrapped them in plastic, and put them in the reach-in to chill. He made Adrienne an espresso, which she threw back joylessly. That, she vowed, would be the last espresso of her life.

“How do you make yourself do it?” she asked him. “Cook at a time like this. Aren’t you sad?”

“Sad?” he said. “My compadre, my mentor, my friend, she’s dead. I’m more than sad, honey. I’m something else, something I don’t even have a word for. But cooking saves me. It’s what I do, it’s who I am. I stop cooking, I’m the one who dies.”

“I want something like that,” Adrienne said. “I want something to do, someone to be. I don’t have that. I’ve never had that.”

“You’re good at being beautiful.”

She knew he meant this as a compliment, but it only proved her point. She was nothing. She had nobody.

Mario retrieved the dough from the walk-in and sliced the logs into thin discs, then laid them out on three cookie sheets. He handed Adrienne a jar of dried thyme and showed her how to lightly dust the crackers, then he put the cookie sheets in the oven.

“I’m going to have a cigarette,” he said.

“You don’t smoke,” she said.

“I do today. You want to come?”

“I’ll stay here,” she said. She sat on the stool and felt the heat rise from the oven; minutes later, pastry was filled with the smell of the cheese and the thyme. Mario reappeared. He pulled the cookie sheets out of the oven. The crackers were crispy and fragrant. Ninety-nine percent of the world think that crackers only come out of a box…

Mario offered her one and Adrienne let him place it on her tongue like a Communion wafer.

“This,” he said, “was the easy part.”

As Adrienne returned to the dining room, the Sid Wainer truck pulled into the parking lot. She hoped and prayed for the blond kid, but no such luck. JZ walked in. The phone rang, Adrienne ignored it. She was frightened when she looked at JZ. He was filled with something and about to burst from too much of it. Grief, rage, and the something else that nobody had a word for. She stepped out from behind the podium and hugged him.

“I’m so sorry, JZ.”

“No one is as sorry as I am.” Adrienne let him go. His eyes were watering and Adrienne held out the side towel, but he just stared at it. “You’re closing?” he said.

“Yes.”

He picked up the bowl of matches and Adrienne feared he might smash it against the wall, but he just held it for a few seconds, then put it back down. “I bought that bowl for her in Boston two years ago,” he said. “She was at Mass General then and I went to visit her. We’d just started dating.”

“I can’t imagine how awful this must be for you,” Adrienne said.

“She wouldn’t let me come this time,” he said. “I didn’t get to see her.”

“JZ…”

JZ stared into the bowl. “Thatcher married her.”

“I know.”

“She really wanted to be married. I should have done it a long time ago.”

“I would have liked that better,” Adrienne said.

“But I couldn’t. My hands were tied.”

“So you’ve said.”

“She never believed that.”

“I’m sure she understood.”

“She said she did, but she didn’t. And now she’s dead.”

Adrienne nodded.

“I wanted to see her. But Thatch is taking her body…” Here, JZ paused, put his hands over his eyes. His left leg was shaking. “He’s taking her body back to South Bend. Her parents want a family-only service at their church.” He looked at Adrienne, tears falling down his face. “I can’t even go to her funeral.”

Adrienne held out the side towel again, but JZ didn’t take it. The phone rang. Line one. Adrienne wanted to smash the phone against the wall. She still had to call everyone on the staff and have them in here in an hour. The ringing phone seemed to keep JZ from careening into the abyss of his own sadness. He straightened, cleared his throat.

“I should go. I’m making deliveries today. Today’s my last day.”

“You’re quitting?”

“I need to be closer to my family. Shaughnessy.”

“That makes sense,” Adrienne said. Suddenly, she felt angry at JZ. She guessed being “closer to my family” meant that he would get back together with his wife. So Thatcher had been right. JZ had never risked anything for Fiona at all, not really. He was nobody’s hero. Sorrow flooded Adrienne’s stomach; she couldn’t even fake a smile. “I guess I’ll see you later?”

“No,” he said. “I’m never coming back.”

At eleven, the staff sat around table nine much as they had at the very first menu meeting of the summer: Delilah next to Duncan, Joe, Spillman, Elliott, Christo, Caren, Gage, Roy, Tyler. The Subiacos sat at the adjoining table-Antonio, Hector, Louis, Henry, Eddie, Paco, Jojo. Bruno was in the kitchen brewing espressos and Adrienne stood with Mario holding the baskets of crackers. The place was silent. Everyone knew Fiona was dead, and yet Mario took it upon himself to announce it.

“Fiona died at two o’clock this morning at Mass General. Thatcher was with her.”

There was crying. The loudest crying was from Delilah, but the men cried, too-Spillman and Antonio and Joe. Adrienne didn’t cry and neither did Caren. Adrienne squinted at the ocean. It was an exquisite day, which seemed so wrong. Everything was wrong.

“Are we staying open?” Paco asked.

“No,” Mario said. “We’re closing.”

“So that’s it, then?” Eddie said. “It’s over?”

“It’s over.”

Mario had a sheaf of envelopes and he handed one to each staff member. Checks. Five thousand dollars for each year employed at the Blue Bistro. Caren’s check was for sixty thousand dollars; Adrienne’s was for five. Adrienne studied her name typed on the light blue bank check: Adrienne Dealey. She remembered back to her first morning, the breakfast. She had taken a gamble, and she had lost. It’s okay if you don’t love me, she thought. But it wasn’t okay.

There was still work to do. Adrienne had to call every guest who was on the books for the next five days. It took several hours and she was worried her voice would falter, but it didn’t. The restaurant is closing early. All reservations are cancelled. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. I’m sorry… that’s all I can tell you. Mario brought her a pile of crackers on a napkin. The rest of the staff was getting drunk at the bar-Duncan was pouring-though some, like Tyler, Elliott, and Christo, had left right away. Adrienne cancelled with Holt Millman’s secretary, Dottie Shore, she cancelled with Darla, she cancelled with Cat, the Devlins, the Kennedys, Leon Cross, and the local author.

What happened? Darla asked, Dottie Shore asked, the local author asked.

I’m sorry, Adrienne said. She felt bad because she liked these people, she felt she knew them though she probably didn’t and they certainly didn’t know her. They would never understand the blow she’d been dealt: Thatcher married Fiona before she died. They would never know how her heart felt stripped and exposed, like the yolk of an egg separated from its whole, like a child without a mother.

I’m sorry, she said. That’s all I can tell you.

The last person Adrienne called was Mack Peterson. Guests from the Beach Club held thirty-seven reservations in the last five nights. Thatcher had been right about Mack: He was good for business.

“We’re closing early,” Adrienne said. “Please convey to your guests how sorry we are for the inconvenience.”

“They’ll get over it,” Mack said. “The important thing is that everyone there is all right. Is everyone all right?”

“I’m sorry,” Adrienne said. “All I can tell you is that we’re closing. But thank you, Mack, for all the business you sent us.”

“Half my staff leaves on Labor Day and we’re open another six weeks,” Mack said. “If you’re looking for a job, call me. I would love to hire you.”

“That’s very kind,” Adrienne said. “Thank you.”

She crossed the last names from the reservation sheet and double-checked her list to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anyone. She called Bartlett’s Farm to cancel their vegetable order, she called East Coast Seafood, she called Caviarteria in New York, she called the mushroom company in Kennett Square, she called Classic Wines, she called Flowers on Chestnut, she called the cleaning crew. Closing, closing, closing. And then it was done.

Mario walked out of the back carrying two steaming plates: omelets.

“You want?”

“No,” she said.

“Come on, you have to eat something.”

“Something,” she said. “But not that.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Mario said. “Me and Louis and the cousins are looking to buy Sloop’s down on Steamboat Wharf. Maybe this fall if we can get the money. Open it up next summer as Calamari Café, Italian with Cuban accents. Antonio as chef. We want you to work the front.”

Adrienne shut her eyes. She was shocked that Mario would mention his new restaurant on the very morning that Fiona had died. And yet, wasn’t that human nature-the desire to move forward, to move away from the bad, sad news? Wasn’t that what Adrienne and Dr. Don had been doing their whole lives? Hadn’t they always hoped that grief was something they could run away from? Adrienne imagined the Italian-Cuban café that the Subiacos would open next June. It would be a great place. Another great place.

“Sorry,” Adrienne said.

Mario cocked his head. “Come on, you think about it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But no.”

“Okay,” Mario said, holding out the omelets. “I’ll give these away to somebody else.”

Caren, Bruno, and Spillman sat at the bar, drinking, and eating omelets.

“Fiona was like my sister,” Caren said. “I didn’t always like her, but I always loved her.”

“She knew we loved her,” Bruno said.

Spillman set his beer down on top of his check. “I don’t even want this money,” he said.

“You could give it to charity,” Duncan said.

“Red would kill me,” Spillman said.

Caren glanced at Adrienne then reached out for her hand. “Are you all done?”

“Yeah.”

“So have a drink. Champagne?”

“I can’t,” Adrienne said. “I don’t care if I ever drink champagne again.”

“How about something else?” Caren asked. “Martini?”

“No,” Adrienne said.

“You look awful. Sit down. How about a Coke?” Duncan pulled out a glass and hit the gun. He slid the Coke across the bar.

“I don’t feel like it,” Adrienne said. “I’m tired.”

“You can sleep for the rest of the week,” Caren said. “This is going to be the last time to sit with all of us.”

Joe came out of the kitchen. He put his arm around Adrienne and kissed her temple.

“Thatcher married her,” Adrienne said. She gazed at the surprised faces of Spillman and Bruno, the downcast eyes of Duncan and Caren who had probably suspected as much all along. Joe tightened his grip on Adrienne’s shoulder.

“It was the right thing to do,” Adrienne said. This was the only way she could bear to think of it: as a generous gesture on Thatcher’s part. A good deed. But she knew it was just as likely that Fiona did it as a favor to Thatcher, that he’d begged her. He loved Fiona more than any woman in the world. Not romantically, maybe, but he loved her just the same. “I don’t feel much like hanging out.”

“No,” Caren whispered.

“I’m going home to get some sleep,” Adrienne said.

Caren passed her the keys to the Jetta. “Take my car,” she said.

“And take this,” Duncan said. He held aloft the brass hand bell that he used each night to announce last call.

“No, I can’t,” Adrienne said.

“Take it,” Duncan said. “You earned it.”

“You earned it,” Bruno said.

“You earned it,” Joe said.

“Take the bell, Adrienne,” Spillman said.

She took the bell. It was heavier than she expected. Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t bring herself to look at anyone, or worse yet, utter words of good-bye, so instead she rang the bell and listened to its deep metallic thrum. The Bistro was quiet then except for the distant sound of the ocean, and the resonant note of the bell.

Adrienne rang the bell again, then again, as she walked out of the restaurant. Its tone was pure and holy, a benediction.

The New York Times, Sunday, August 28, 2005

CHEF DIES AT 35; LANDMARK RESTAURANT CLOSES

by Drew Amman-Keller

Nantucket, Mass.

Fiona Kemp, 35, chef/owner of the popular beachfront restaurant the Blue Bistro, died at Massachusetts General Hospital early yesterday morning from complications arising from cystic fibrosis. Ms. Kemp was frequently portrayed in the food press as quiet and reclusive. She did not give interviews, she did not allow her photo to be taken, and she rarely set foot in the dining room of her own restaurant. Still, she was widely acknowledged to be a talent without peer in New England kitchens. Her focus on simple, fresh, “fun” foods (such as sandwiches, fondue, and whimsically named entrées like “lamb lollipops”) earned her top accolades from the critics and loyal devotion from the restaurant’s customers.

In a conversation via cell phone from Logan Airport, Ms. Kemp’s partner, Thatcher Smith, denied that Ms. Kemp kept a low profile intentionally to conceal her illness. “Fiona’s illness was genetic,” Smith said. “She battled symptoms since she was a child. But the illness never took center stage-her career did. Fiona stayed in the kitchen because she didn’t want to draw attention away from her food.” Mr. Smith did acknowledge that their plans to close the restaurant at the end of the month were, in part, due to Ms. Kemp’s health. She was on the list for a lung transplant. “We decided in the spring that this would be our last year. Fiona needed a rest. So, quite frankly, do I.” Mr. Smith declined to talk about his plans for the future. “Right now I want to mourn Fiona-an excellent chef, a beautiful person, my best friend.”

The Blue Bistro closed its doors yesterday, nearly a week earlier than planned. News of Ms. Kemp’s death broke yesterday afternoon in a press release sent to the AP, and since then, according to Mario Subiaco, pastry chef, the restaurant has been deluged with phone calls and over a hundred bouquets of flowers have been left outside the now-locked front entrance.

“She had a lot of fans,” Mr. Subiaco said. “She will be missed, most keenly by those of us who worked alongside of her.”

Inquirer and Mirror, Week of August 26, 2005

PROPERTY TRANSFERS

Fiona C. Kemp and Thatcher E. Smith to the Sebastian Robert Elpern Nominee Trust: 27 North Beach Extension, $8,500,000.

South Bend Tribune, Monday, August 29, 2005

OBITUARIES

Fiona Clarice Kemp of Nantucket, Massachusetts, and formerly of South Bend, died on Sunday at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. She was 35.

Ms. Kemp was born at St. Joseph’s Hospital in South Bend to Clarice Mayor Kemp and Dr. Hobson Kemp, a professor of engineering at the University of Notre Dame. She graduated from John Adams High school in 1987 and attended the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York. In 1991, she moved to Nantucket, where she worked for two years as a line cook at the Wauwinet Inn before opening her own restaurant, the Blue Bistro, in 1993.

Ms. Kemp collected many accolades as a chef. Her cuisine was featured in such publications as Bon Appétit, Travel & Leisure, and the Chicago Tribune. She was named one of America’s Hottest Chefs 1998 by Food & Wine magazine.

She is survived by her parents and her husband, Thatcher Smith.

A private memorial service will be held at Sacred Heart Chapel, the University of Notre Dame. Memorial contributions may be made in Fiona’s name to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, 6931 Arlington Road, Bethesda, Maryland 20814.