The Blue Bistro

3

See and Be Scene

Andrew Amman-Keller

Journalist

P.O. Box 383

Providence, RI 05271

P.O. Box 3777

Nantucket, MA 02584

Cell: 917-555-5172

aakack@metronet.net

When Caren emerged from her bedroom the next morning, her hair was down. It was a good look for her, Adrienne thought. She looked softer, sexier, more approachable, which was handy since Adrienne wanted to approach her, first thing, on the subject of Fiona. Caren was wearing a white T-shirt that had the words LE TOINY stitched in red on the left breast. The T-shirt was just long enough to cover Caren’s ass in what looked to be thong underwear. She bee-lined for her espresso machine.

“You want?” she asked Adrienne.

“No, thanks. I have tea.” Ginger-lemon herbal tea that Adrienne drank for a hangover, which she was nursing right now. There had been six glasses of champagne before the night was over because after the last guests left (as it happened, the author’s table) Duncan poured a drink for everyone on the staff and he had poured two glasses for Adrienne in the interest of finishing off the bottle of Laurent-Perrier. So that was a whole bottle over the course of one evening, probably four glasses too many. Adrienne had taken three Advil and chugged a glass of ice water when she got home, but she still felt dull and flannel-mouthed this morning. It was such a gorgeous day-so sunny and crystalline-that Adrienne had entertained thoughts of going for a jog. But her legs ached too much. She was excited to have the whole day to herself-well, until five o’clock-and she wished she could just shrug off the pain and enjoy it.

So the tea. And three more Advil. She wanted to go to the beach again, with sunscreen. She wanted to buy a pair of quiet shoes and send the first installment of payback to her father. But mostly she wanted to figure out what was going on at that restaurant. The place had mystique that seemed to come from a flurry of secrets, some of them just below the surface and some of them deeper-seated. And Adrienne had her own secret, which now that she wasn’t working, she had the luxury of thinking about: Thatcher had kissed her.

Last night after service, Duncan poured every member of the staff a drink except for Thatcher and Fiona. They were back in the kitchen counting money and eating dinner. Eating dinner at one o’clock in the morning! This information was served up by Bruno. Fiona and Thatcher ate in the small office that had a back door that opened to the beach. Adrienne had had enough to drink to accept this tidbit from Bruno then ask for more. “So what’s the deal with those two, anyway? Are they an item?” And Bruno, who was drinking a vodka martini, laughed so shrilly that there was no room for speculation: The man was gay. When Adrienne asked why he was laughing, Bruno only laughed harder. He was turning heads; Duncan popped him in the eye with a lime wedge. Adrienne judged that the moment had come to either leave or make an ass of herself. She called a cab from the podium and waited for the cab outside, hoping Bruno didn’t share the nature of their conversation with anyone.

The espresso machine geared up; it was as loud as an airplane ready for takeoff. Adrienne tried to select the least intrusive and obvious words to broach the subject of Fiona. When the espresso was done, Caren poured herself a tiny cup, threw it back like a dose of cough medicine, and poured herself another. Adrienne shuddered. At least she hadn’t vomited; those crackers at the bar had saved her life.

“So what did you think of last night?” Adrienne asked.

Caren shrugged. “What did you think?”

“It was fun,” Adrienne said. In retrospect, the night seemed like a manic blur, as if she had been backstage at a rock concert, blinded by the lights, deafened by the music-and yes, pursued by journalists. “My feet hurt. It was a lot of standing up. My shoes were all wrong.”

Caren tossed back the second espresso. “Well, yeah.”

“I’m going to buy some new shoes today.”

“Go to David Chase,” Caren said. “Main Street.”

“Okay.”

Caren smiled in a knowing way. “Did you make money last night?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“Me, too. As a rule, though, never tell how much you bring in. Everyone is so damn greedy. And something else you might not know is that if you have someone helping you out in the kitchen, you should slide him money every once in a while.”

“Like Mario?” Adrienne said.

“Mario?” Caren said. A mischievous smile spread across her face. “Mario might help you out, but it’s nothing you should pay him for. Did he come on to you already?”

“No,” Adrienne said. Why had she said Mario? She hadn’t meant Mario, she’d meant Paco, the chip kid.

“Don’t be surprised if he does,” Caren said. “He’s a ladies’ man. As charming as they come and a great dancer, but truh-bull. Anyway, I was talking about one of the guys on the line. Hector, Louis, Henry…”

“Paco?”

“Exactly,” Caren said. “Some time this weekend, give Paco fifty bucks. He’ll be on your team for the rest of the summer. I always tip out the guys in the kitchen and they time my food perfectly. They slide me snacks. And Fiona likes it. She thinks the money we make on the floor is a cardinal sin.”

Fiona’s name was as bright as an open door. All Adrienne had to do was step through.

“I wanted to ask you about Fiona,” Adrienne said.

Caren turned away. She opened a cabinet and brought down another espresso cup, which she filled. Adrienne was confused, and worried that the espresso was meant for her. Then she became even more confused because she heard the toilet flush in the hall bathroom. Was there someone else in the house? A few seconds later, a half-naked man sauntered into their kitchen. Adrienne tried to keep her composure. Never mind that her vague but very important overture was floating away like a released balloon. Never mind that because the shirtless man in their kitchen was Duncan. He was wearing his khaki pants from the night before. Adrienne could see one inch of the top of his boxers-they were white with black martini glasses. His brown hair was mussed and Adrienne was temporarily mesmerized by his bare torso. His beautiful chest and arms, a black cord choker around his neck with a silver key on it. He must have noticed her staring because the first thing he did was hold the key out to show it to her. “This opens my ski locker at the Aspen Club Lodge,” he said. “Where did you work?”

Adrienne was reminded of her ex-boyfriend Michael Sullivan. Sully was a golfer and he loved golf lingo. In this instance, he would have suggested Adrienne play through.

“The Little Nell.”

“And your friend? She worked there, too?”

“Kyra. Yep.”

“You got a pass with the job?”

“Of course.”

“How many days did you ski?”

“I didn’t keep track.”

Duncan nodded thoughtfully, and Adrienne could tell he was swallowing the urge to brag about how many days he’d skied. Men were like that-Doug, for example, had marked the days on his calendar when he got six runs in. Duncan accepted the espresso from Caren. He threw it back and Caren poured him another.

The kitchen, like the rest of the rental cottage, was unremarkable. The appliances were all about fifteen years old and barely functional. There was a white Formica counter, three ceramic canisters decorated with sunflowers, two magnets hanging on the fridge from a liquor store on Main Street called Murray’s. Adrienne sat drinking her tea at a round wooden table that had been sawed in half so it would sit flush against the wall. And yet, in this humdrum room, a drama unfolded-well, maybe not a drama, but a situation that Adrienne never would have guessed on her own.

Duncan and Caren were sleeping together. Or had slept together last night.

The sight of Caren’s hair down and the knowledge of her thong underwear and the smooth, tan skin of Duncan’s chest and the flushing toilet-had he even closed the door?-only served to make Adrienne hot and uncomfortable. So, too, the way they stood at the counter with their tiny cups of poison like two strangers at a bar in Milan.

Adrienne moved to the microwave and heated her tea, which had grown cold. Thirty seconds-with her back to them, they felt free to touch. Adrienne heard the sucking noises of kisses. The microwave beeped and Adrienne took her tea, retreated down the hall.

“You don’t have to leave,” Caren said.

“Oh, I know,” Adrienne said quickly, though there was no way she was going to be part of their postcoital espresso ritual. “I have to send some e-mail.”

She would write to her father with the news of Holt Millman, the six hundred dollars in tips and a basic celebration that she had survived an entire night in the restaurant business. The e-mail to Kyra in Carmel would detail the first scoop of the summer-Adrienne working at the same restaurant as Duncan and Duncan sleeping with Adrienne’s roommate. But before Adrienne turned on her computer, she studied the business card from Drew Amman-Keller. Something was going on at the restaurant that he wanted to know about, and Adrienne intended to find out what it was. She would not stand by, blissfully unaware, while the person closest to her robbed her blind. Not this time.

Adrienne’s second night at the restaurant was called “first night of bar,” and the place had a different feel. The nervous anticipation of soft opening had vanished and in its place was “we mean business.” Everyone was paying tonight.

We mean business. When Adrienne arrived, Thatcher inspected her outfit: tonight, the sensational Chloe dress and a new pair of shoes.

“I know you suggested slippers,” Adrienne said. “But a dress needs heels.”

“It’s okay,” Thatcher said. “I like the shoes.”

“Do you?” Adrienne said. They were Dolce & Gabbana thong sandals with a modest heel, in pink leather with black whipstitching. The pink of the leather matched the trim of the Chloe dress as well as her pink pants, and the salesperson at David Chase assured her that a thong sandal would be more comfortable, not to mention quieter, than a slide. They had cost Adrienne more than half of her cash earnings of the night before, but as soon as she tried the shoes on, she’d been hooked. She never imagined owning such gorgeous shoes, especially since she was in such dire straits. However, she felt that after the rigors of her first night, she deserved a treat.

“I like the dress, too,” Thatcher said. “It suits you better than the pants did. But I don’t know-we have to work on defining a look for you.”

“I don’t want a look,” Adrienne said.

“You will when we find the right one.”

Thatcher was both charming and annoying her. Or annoying her because he was charming. She wanted to whipstitch his mouth shut. Thatcher had his own look: the Patek Philippe, the Gucci loafers, and tonight a gorgeous blue shirt with pink pinstripes and pants that were halfway between khaki and white. The navy blazer. He looked wonderful but that, too, irritated her. She liked him better as she had first seen him-in jeans and sneakers. The dress-up clothes and the watch made it seem like he was trying too hard. But she was being mean. He smiled at her in a warm, genuine way then offered his arm and escorted her to the twelve-top for menu meeting.

After menu meeting came a delicious family meal: fried chicken with honey pecan butter, mashed potatoes, coleslaw. As Adrienne slathered her fried chicken with butter she thought happily of all the money she would save on food this summer. She ate without looking left, right, or toward the water. She would not be cheated out of one bite of this meal! When all that remained on her plate were chicken bones and a film of gravy, she raised her eyes to the rest of the staff. Caren sat across from her with her hair back in its usual tight bun. Duncan ate at the other end of the table with his sister.

That morning, after Duncan had driven off in his black Jeep Wrangler, Caren tapped on Adrienne’s door. Adrienne was standing in front of her mirror diligently applying sunscreen to her face and chest. Caren was still in just the T-shirt, but now that Duncan had left, her face had changed; instead of glowing, she looked tired, artificially revved up on jet fuel.

“I’m sorry if Duncan freaked you out,” Caren said.

“He didn’t freak me out.”

“I wasn’t planning on bringing him back here. It just sort of happened.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Adrienne said.

“I’ve known him a long time,” Caren said. “I guess with this being the last year and all, we both felt a little funny. Like it’s now or never.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Adrienne said. “I don’t care who sleeps over.”

“Nobody else knows about this,” Caren said.

“I’m not going to tell,” Adrienne said. “I don’t even know anyone’s name.”

Adrienne cleared her plate and silverware into the bins and collected her yellow pad from the podium. Thatcher gnawed on a pencil as he went over the reservations.

“Are you ready for a briefing?” he asked.

She held up her pad. “I’m supposed to be managing these people,” she said. “And I don’t even know who they are.” She headed back to the table.

Adrienne assured each member of the staff that this reconnaissance mission was for names only-she wasn’t a cub reporter for the tabloids and she didn’t work for the IRS. Still, she found that no one was content to state only his name, and so she learned other things as well. The new waiter with the bushy hair and weak chin was named Elliott Gray. He was getting his doctorate in Eastern religions at Tufts. The good-looking waiter with the gold earrings was Christo. He had been a waiter at the Club Car for seven years, the whole time waiting for a job to open up at the Bistro. The blond ponytail was Spillman-this was actually his last name, his first name was John. Spillman, along with Caren and Bruno, had worked at the Bistro since the beginning. Spillman was married to a woman named Red Mare who was part Native American; she worked as a hostess at the Pearl. Then there was Joe, the black waiter, who in addition to being a waiter, worked in the kitchen. He wanted to be a chef, but he earned too much money waiting tables to make the switch. Fiona paid him to do prep work in the morning. That morning, he told Adrienne, he had been in charge of making the “pearls” of zucchini and summer squash that accompanied the duck. He made the pearls with a parisienne scoop, something the French invented to make lives like his miserable. “Now that,” Joe said, “was hard work.”

The busboys were Tyler, son of the health inspector, whom Adrienne had already met, and Roy and Gage. Roy had just finished his junior year at Notre Dame. He called Thatcher for a job after reading about the restaurant in Notre Dame magazine, an article Adrienne had missed at the public library. She made a mental note to go back and read it. Gage was older, with long hair in a ponytail and a face that looked like it had been stamped by too much loud music, too many cigarettes, and too little sleep. He said he’d met Thatcher at an AA meeting.

It was a lot of names but Adrienne was good with names. And although she was mostly worried about the front of the house, she decided to ask Joe about the kitchen staff.

“Eight guys work back there,” he said. “They’re all cousins. Last name Subiaco, they’re from Chicago, they’re Cuban-Italian and proud of it. Most importantly, they’re White Sox fans. Mario brought the whole gang here in ’ninety-three when the place opened. He knew Fee from culinary school.”

“Mario, the pastry chef?”

“He’s a lady slayer,” Joe said. “He calls himself King of the Sweet Ending and he doesn’t mean desserts.”

Adrienne blushed. “Well, I’m not writing that down.”

“You asked,” Joe said.

It was ten minutes before service, and Adrienne returned to the podium. Her notebook had some actual information in it now.

“Champagne,” Thatcher said.

Adrienne sighed. Duncan was wiping down the bar. She felt strange knowing that under his seersucker shirt and Liberty of London tie was the black cord and the key. She walked over. He saw her, and with a quick flourish of his wrist, Adrienne heard the new sound of we mean business: a cork popping.

We mean business. The tablecloths were white and crisp, the irises fresh, the glasses polished, the candles lit. The waiters lined up for inspection, a band of angels. Rex played “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Cars pulled into the parking lot. The well-dressed, sweet-smelling guests cooed at Thatcher and some of them at Adrienne. She received four compliments on her shoes. Cocktails were ordered and two glasses of Laurent-Perrier and then a bottle. The pretzel bread went out. The doughnuts. The sun began its descent toward the water, and the guests watched it with the anticipation of the ball dropping in Times Square. It was New Year’s Eve here every night.

A man at table twelve beckoned Adrienne over with an impatient finger wagging in the air, and immediately the spell was broken. Didn’t he notice her dress, her shoes, her champagne? She was the hostess here, not his bitch.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?”

He held up the basket of doughnuts. “What are these? If I’d wanted to eat at Krispy Kreme, I would have stayed in New York.”

Adrienne stepped back. The man had very close cut ginger-colored hair and so many freckles that they gave him patches of disconcertingly brown skin. He wore strange yellow-lensed glasses.

Adrienne glanced at the basket but did not take it from the man. Table twelve: she tried to remember if he was a VIP.

“Have you tasted the doughnuts?” she asked. “They’re not sweet-they’re onion and herb doughnuts. If I do say so, they’re delicious.”

The woman to the man’s left had very short black hair and the same funny glasses with lavender lenses. “I’ll try one, Dana.”

The man named Dana thrust the basket at Adrienne’s nose. “We don’t want doughnuts.”

“But you haven’t tried them. I assure you, if…”

“We don’t want doughnuts.”

Adrienne took the basket, but the man, Dana, was holding on tighter than she expected so the exchange took on the appearance of a struggle. The basket zinged into Adrienne’s chest. There was a smattering of applause and both Adrienne and the man named Dana pivoted to face the rest of the room. The applause was for the sun, which had just set.

“Would you like bread and butter, sir?” Adrienne asked. “Or we have pretzel bread. That’s served with the chef’s homemade mustard.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I’ll get you bread and butter, then.”

“Yes,” Dana said. “Do that.”

Adrienne walked away thinking Asshole, asshole, asshole! What could she do to get back at him? Order the chips and dip for all the tables surrounding his? Run her tongue across the top of his perfect cake of sweet butter?

She searched for a busboy, but they were all humping-pouring water, delivering doughnuts-so that now the worst thing about the ugly freckled man who looked at the world through urine-colored glasses was that he was forcing Adrienne into the kitchen.

She pushed through the door. Hot, bright, quiet. Eddie wolf-whistled and Adrienne felt all eyes on her. Including Fiona’s.

“Did you get those avocados?” Fiona asked.

Adrienne had spent a good part of her day at the beach wondering how to get Fiona to like her. But now, thanks to a man named Dana, she was in no mood to be joked to or about. “No, chef.”

“What are you doing in here, then? It will be at least another six minutes for the chips. Right, Paco?”

Pfft, pfft, pfft. “Right, chef.”

Adrienne put the doughnuts on the counter in a way that indicated slamming without actually slamming.

“If table twelve wanted to eat at Krispy Kreme, he would have stayed in New York.”

“The salient phrase there is ‘stayed in New York,’ ” Fiona said. “And people wonder why I don’t come out of the kitchen.”

“Is there bread, chef?”

“Of course.”

“Where?”

“We went over this last night, did we not? The bread is where the bread is kept.”

“I don’t know where that is,” Adrienne said. “You never told me. So, please. Chef.”

Fiona eyeballed her for a long time, long enough to indicate a showdown. Fire me, Adrienne thought. Fire me for asking for bread for a man who looks like one of the villains in a Batman comic. But instead of yelling, Fiona smiled and she became someone else completely. She went from being a little fucking Napoleon to a china doll. She reminded Adrienne of her favorite friend from Camp Hideaway, where she had been shipped the summer her mother was dying. In the second that Adrienne was thinking of this other girl-her name was Pammy Ipp; she was the only girl at camp that Adrienne had told the truth-Fiona left and reappeared with a basket of rolls and the butter. So Adrienne still had not learned where the bread was kept.

“I told him how good the doughnuts were,” Adrienne said.

Fiona rolled her blue eyes. “Get out of here,” she said.

Table twelve was turning out to be a real problem. Adrienne delivered the bread and butter with a smile, but a few minutes later she saw Spillman engaged in a heated conversation with the man named Dana over what appeared to be his bottle of wine. Spillman tasted the wine himself then carried the bottle, gingerly, like it was an infant, over to Thatcher at the podium. Adrienne was chatting with an older couple at table five-neighbors of the Parrishes as it turned out-but when she saw this happening, she excused herself. She wanted to know what was going on.

“What’s going on?” she asked Spillman.

“The guy’s a menace,” Spillman whispered. “He ordered a 1983 Chevalier-Montrachet at four hundred dollars a bottle and he claims it’s bad. I tasted it and it tastes like fucking heaven in a glass. But Menace says he has a cellar full of this wine at home and he knows how it’s supposed to taste, which is not like this. I asked him if he wanted me to decant it because the wine’s been in that bottle for over twenty years, it could probably do with a little elbow room, and he just said, ‘Take it away.’ He said they’re going to stick with cocktails. He orders the most expensive bottle on the list and now suddenly he wants vodka. Plus, he harassed me about the apps. He insisted he wanted the foie gras cooked through. Fiona said it would taste like a rubber tire. I hope it does.”

Adrienne looked at Thatcher. He seemed on the verge of a smile.

“It’s not funny,” she said. “The guy gave me a hard time about the doughnuts. He said if he wanted to eat at Krispy Kreme he would have stayed in New York.”

“That’s an old one,” Spillman said. “I hear that one every year.”

Thatcher checked the reservation book. “The reservation was made four weeks ago by his secretary.” He scribbled a note in the book then pointed the eraser end of his pencil at Adrienne. “Okay, that’s the last time we take a reservation from a secretary. Except for Holt Millman. His secretary is a great lady named Dottie Shore. Not only did I give her the private number, I gave her my home number. But nobody else makes a reservation through a secretary. If they want to eat here, they have to call us themselves. It’s a little late in the game to be making up new rules. However”-Thatcher turned to Spillman-“we’ll offer the wine by the glass as a special. Twenty dollars a glass, only six glasses available and that’s a bargain. We’ll take a hit on the bottle. Adrienne, I want you to offer table twelve a round of cocktails on the house.”

Adrienne gasped. “Why?”

“The guy obviously had an unhappy childhood. He’s angry for whatever reason, he wants something from us. We could send him out the caviar, but we don’t like him. So we’ll give him drinks. And I’m going to let you be the hero.”

“I’d rather not go over there again,” Adrienne said. “Spillman can do it.”

Spillman had already walked away; Adrienne watched him present the bottle to Duncan at the bar.

Thatcher took Adrienne’s shoulder and wheeled her toward the dining room. “I’m going to let you be the hero,” he said. “Old-fashioned service. You said you knew all about it.”

Adrienne straightened the seams of her dress and tried to straighten out her frame of mind as she headed to table twelve. She put her hand on the back of Dana’s wicker chair; she couldn’t bring herself to touch him and she wasn’t sure she was supposed to. “We’re sorry about the bottle of wine,” she said. “We’d like to buy you a round of drinks on the house.”

“Lovely,” the woman in lavender glasses murmured. For the first time, Adrienne noticed the other couple at the table. They were in their fifties, distinguished-looking, Asian.

“Thank you,” the Asian man said, dipping his head at Adrienne.

But Adrienne was waiting to hear from the man named Dana. She was the hero and she wanted him to acknowledge as much. He said nothing, and after a second Adrienne realized that he was one of those people who didn’t have anything to offer unless he was angry or upset. He deserved an old-fashioned kick in the balls.

In two seatings, only one person ate at the bar-a man in his midthirties who wore a red sailcloth shirt over a white T-shirt. He smiled at Adrienne every time she passed by. Red Shirt chatted with Duncan and drank a glass of Whale’s Tale Pale Ale. Then a huge portion of chips and dip came out. So the guy was a VIP. He was wearing jeans and driving moccasins. He had brown hair receding a very little bit and nice brown eyes. He looked kind and responsible, no flashy good looks, no whiff of creepy lying bastard. Rule Three: Exercise good judgment about men!

Red Shirt’s appetizer was the beet salad. Adrienne liked men who weren’t afraid to order a salad. When she wandered up to the bar to have her champagne glass refilled she actually bent her leg at the knee to show off her new shoes. Rex played “Waltzing Matilda,” and Adrienne said, to no one in particular, “Oh, I love this song.” Duncan introduced Red Shirt to Delilah, but Adrienne didn’t catch his name. Introduce me! she thought.

Adrienne ran appetizers for Joe, she retrieved three bottles of wine from the wine cave, she replaced the toilet paper in the ladies’ room, she delivered two checks and got a lesson on the credit card machine from Thatcher. When she found a second to float by the bar again, Red Shirt was eating the lobster club, the entrée Adrienne herself most wanted to try. She approached Thatcher at the podium.

“Nine bottles of Laurent-Perrier tonight,” he said. “Our experiment is really working. I still have to teach you how to use the wine key. When you can open wine, that will free me up. And champagne. There’s a nice quiet way to open champagne. I’ll show you.”

“Who’s that sitting at the bar?” she asked.

Thatcher didn’t even look up. “Jasper Zodl.”

“Jasper Zodl?”

“JZ. He drives the delivery truck. He comes every morning at ten.”

“Will you introduce me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Conveniently, the phone rang.

The phone had been ringing all night. Half were reservation calls, half were inquiries about the bar. Was tonight, as rumor had it, first night of bar? This call was about the bar.

“The bar is open tonight until one,” Thatcher said.

When he hung up, Adrienne said, “I heard about this huge bar scene, I heard about you hiring a bouncer and a line out into the parking lot, and yet, the only person at the bar is the delivery driver who is so undesirable you won’t even introduce me.”

“He’s not undesirable,” Thatcher said. “He’s a very nice guy. As for the bar, you just wait. Wait and see.”

Adrienne would have been just as happy if nobody had shown up. At the end of second seating, there was a problem with one of the guests’ credit cards. She ran it and ran it, and each time the machine informed her that the card was unacceptable-but Adrienne wasn’t about to tell the guest this when she had only learned the credit card machine that night, and it could just as easily have been she who was unacceptable. So she kept Joe waiting, as well as the guests, who had told Adrienne that they wanted to get home and pay the babysitter. She didn’t take the problem to Thatcher primarily because she thought it was time she worked through a crisis by herself, but also because he had refused to introduce her to JZ.

Joe, whom Adrienne had initially characterized as heavyset now just seemed big and soft and rather handsome-his skin a chocolaty brown, distinct from the deep-fried russet color of the Subiacos. But even Joe, so polite and gentlemanly, had his limits. He glared at her as she ran the card again, punching the numbers in one by one.

“What the fuck is taking so long?” he said.

Adrienne brandished the card. “It’s no good. I’ve run the card six times, three times manually, and I can’t get a bite. You’re going to have to tell them.”

“And jeopardize my tip? No way, sister. You tell them.”

Adrienne peered over Joe’s shoulder at the table. The lovely dark-haired wife was sitting sideways in her chair; she was all wrapped up in her pashmina like a present, her Louis Vuitton clutch purse in her lap. The husband had his pen poised. There would be no lengthy calculations with the tip, forty, fifty, a nice round number on the generous side, a dashed off signature, and these people were out the door.

“Okay, I’ll tell them,” she said.

Joe studied the card, “Tell them it’s expired,” he said. “This card expired in May. Today is the second of June. Didn’t Thatch tell you to check the expiration first thing?”

Of course he had. Adrienne hurried the card back over to the couple, explained the problem, and the man, with apologies, offered her an identical card with a different expiration, and Adrienne ran it without incident. Sixty seconds later the couple was breezing past her with a happy, rushed wave.

Thatcher in the meantime had asked Joe what the problem was-he had seen Joe and Adrienne conferring by the credit card machine as he chatted with one of the fondue tables out in the sand-and Joe had tattled.

Thatcher handed Adrienne another leather folder. “Run this. And always remember to check the expiration. I’m surprised you didn’t learn that on your five front desks.”

She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she would be satisfied if nobody showed up for first night of bar, if the place didn’t turn out to be as “wildly popular” as Thatcher and Duncan and Bon Appétit thought it was. Plus, she was tired again tonight. She’d had two glasses of champagne, two glasses of water, and a regular coffee loaded with cream and sugar. As the guests from second seating finished up and wandered toward the door, Adrienne stood at the podium and bid them good-bye, hoping nobody could tell that the podium was holding her up.

JZ rose from the bar-he had finished his meal with Mario’s ethereal candy plate-and Adrienne thought he, too, was leaving. But he walked wide of the podium like he was headed for the men’s room. Except he bypassed the men’s room and pushed open the door of the kitchen.

The kitchen. Adrienne stared at the swinging door with dread. What had Thatcher said? No guests allowed in the kitchen. Adrienne waited a second to see if JZ would come flying out on his butt. She stopped Caren.

“That guy who was sitting at the bar-did you see him?-he went into the kitchen. He just… I didn’t realize that’s where… is that okay?”

“Who, JZ?” Caren said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you know who he is, right?”

“The delivery driver?” Adrienne said.

Caren laughed and pushed into the kitchen behind him.

And then, just when the restaurant was beginning to take on a sense of calm-Tyler, Roy, and Gage the only flurry of activity as they cleared tables and stripped them-the headlights started pulling into the parking lot. The first people to reach the door were four large college boys wearing oxford shirts over tie-dye and loafers from L.L. Bean. One of them had a black cord at the neck like Duncan’s only this cord had a purplish bead on it. From Connecticut, Adrienne thought. Listened to Phish.

“Bar open?” the one with the necklace asked, and Adrienne surveyed the bar. Its four bar stools were deserted and Duncan was checking over his bottles while Delilah worked around him, replacing glasses. Adrienne held up a finger. Boys like this-boys like the ones she used to date at the three colleges she attended (Perry Russell, junior year at Vanderbilt, from Connecticut, listened to Phish)-now made her feel old and prim. Like a librarian.

She went over to check with Duncan; Thatcher was MIA. “Is the bar open?”

This was possibly the dumbest question of all time-why would tonight be called first night of bar if the bar wasn’t open? But Duncan simply straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, punched a button on the CD player-R.E.M.’s “I Am Superman”-and said, “I’m as ready as I’ll never be.”

It was nearing eleven o’clock. The four boys shook hands with Duncan, claimed the bar stools with a whoop, and ordered Triple Eight and tonics. Adrienne returned to the podium. A couple on a date came in followed by a group of six women who called themselves the Winers, followed by two older men who informed Adrienne of her loveliness and told her they’d just finished an exquisite meal at Company of the Cauldron and wanted a nightcap. More women-a bachelorette party. The return of the local author and her entourage. By ten after eleven, Adrienne couldn’t even see Duncan through the throng of people. He’d turned up the stereo and the floorboards vibrated under Adrienne’s shoes. Headlights continued to pull into the parking lot.

Where, exactly, was Thatcher?

Caren and Spillman still had tables out in the sand finishing dessert, but the other waiters would be cashing out. Adrienne found Thatcher doling out tips from the cash box at a small deuce in the far corner of the restaurant.

“People keep pulling in,” Adrienne said. “Where’s the bouncer?”

“I was kidding about the bouncer,” Thatcher said. “Go back up front. When Duncan gives you the ‘cutthroat’ sign, start your line. And then it’s one for one. One person goes out, one person comes in.”

Adrienne rubbed her forehead-really, could the man irritate her more?-and headed back by the bar.

“Adrienne!”

It was Duncan, holding aloft a glass of Laurent-Perrier. Only two days earlier, good French champagne had been her favorite indulgence, but now it held all the appeal of a glass of hemlock. Still, the guests at the bar parted for her like she was someone important, thus she felt compelled to take the glass and shout, “Thank you!” over the strains of an old Yaz tune.

Duncan smiled and gave her the “cutthroat” sign.

She carried her champagne to the podium just as two women stepped through the door. They were wearing black dresses and high heels, one woman was blond, the other brunette. They looked to be in their forties. Divorced, Adrienne guessed. Out on the prowl.

“I’m sorry?” Adrienne said.

The brunette flicked her eyes at Adrienne but didn’t acknowledge her. The women kept walking.

“Excuse me!” Adrienne called. She put her glass down and took a few strides toward the women until she was able to reach out and touch the middle of the brunette’s bare back. That did it-the brunette spun around.

“What?”

How predictable was this? I was kidding about the bouncer. What Thatcher meant was, You, Adrienne, are the bouncer.

“The bar’s full,” Adrienne said. “You’ll have to wait by the door until someone leaves.”

The brunette might have been beautiful at one time but it looked like she’d gotten in a lot of afternoons at the beach over the years without sunscreen-that and something else. When her brow creased at Adrienne’s words, she looked like a witch. It was probably the face she used to scare her children.

“We’re friends of Cat,” she said.

Friends of Cat, the electrician. Cat, who was the most important VIP in the unlikely event of a blackout.

“Okay,” Adrienne said, but she didn’t smile because she wasn’t that much of a pushover.

A minute later, Caren appeared. “Duncan’s pissed.”

Adrienne blinked. Duncan had every right to be pissed-he’d given her the “cutthroat” sign and not thirty seconds later she let in more people-but Adrienne did not like being confronted by Caren in her new capacity as Duncan’s girlfriend.

“They said they were friends of Cat’s.”

“Everyone on the island is friends with Cat,” Caren said. “If that bar gets any heavier, it’s going to sink into the sand. But more importantly, if you let any more people in, you’re going to ruin it for the people who are already here.”

“I understand that,” Adrienne said tersely. “Thatcher just left me here to bounce.”

Caren shrugged and reached for her hair. With the release of one pin, it all came tumbling down.

“Are you going home?” Adrienne asked.

“And miss first night of bar?” Caren said. “No way.”

“Do you want to help me keep the masses at bay?”

“No,” Caren said, “I’m going to change.”

As she left, more headlights materialized. Adrienne tightened the muscles in her face. Nobody else was getting past.

The next people to approach were another couple on a date. The girl wore a cute sequined dress that Adrienne had seen at Gypsy but couldn’t afford. “Sorry,” Adrienne told them, and she did, to her own ears, sound genuinely sorry. “You’ll have to wait.” Like magic, they obeyed, staying right in front of the podium. Turned out, the couple was used to standing in line here. And once this couple formed a willing start to the line, everyone who came after had no choice but to follow suit. In ten minutes, Adrienne had a line a dozen people long. She felt a brand-new emotion: the surge of pure power. She was the gatekeeper.

At one point, a man with wet-looking black hair and a chain with a gold marijuana leaf dangling from it swaggered toward her, nudging aside the couple on a date.

“I’m a friend of Duncan’s,” he said.

“Everyone’s a friend of Duncan’s,” she said, and she sent him to the end of the line.

Finally, Thatcher came sauntering up with the cash box under his arm and a wad of paper-clipped receipts.

“How’s everything going?” he asked.

“Fine,” Adrienne said.

“Is the line moving?”

“No.”

“No,” he said. “It never does.”

“So some people stay in this line until closing?”

“Oh, sure,” he said. He smiled at the adorable couple on their date and Adrienne could tell he recognized them but didn’t remember their names.

“Eat,” she said. She felt wonderful saying this. She knew better than to count on him!

It was midnight; only one hour left of this madness. As Thatcher walked into the kitchen, JZ emerged. They exchanged a few quiet words. Adrienne was so keenly interested in what they were saying that it took her a moment to notice the author and her entourage on their way out.

“We’re going to the Chicken Box,” the author said. “Want me to count off eight heads for you?”

“Please,” Adrienne said.

So her line was less by eight-Adrienne was happy to see the young couple make it in-but there were still a dozen people in her line and now the person at the front was the wet-haired “friend” of Duncan. He glared at Adrienne in such an overtly malicious way that she considered asking him why he was wearing a marijuana leaf around his neck. Did he want people to know he smoked pot? Did he think it would encourage interest from the right kind of women? Her thoughts were interrupted when JZ handed her a basket of crackers.

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

“I’m JZ,” he said.

Adrienne held out her hand. “Adrienne Dealey. The new assistant manager.”

“I know. Fiona told me.”

Adrienne tasted a cracker. They were a different kind tonight-cheddar with sesame seeds. Scrumptious. Wet Hair watched her eat the cracker with envy and Adrienne hoped he was hungry. She hoped that all he’d had for dinner were fries from Stubbys on the strip by Steamboat Wharf.

“What did Fiona say?” Adrienne asked JZ.

“That the gorgeous brunette by the front door was Adrienne Dealey, the new assistant manager.”

At this point, Wet Hair, who had been eavesdropping, felt entitled to join the conversation. “I had a feeling you were new,” he said. “Otherwise you would have let me in.”

Adrienne ignored him. “Did Fiona actually call me a gorgeous brunette?”

“No,” JZ said. “I did.” He pointed to the basket of crackers. “Please, help yourself. I have to make the rounds with these, then get out of here. I have a buddy at the airport waiting to fly me home.”

“Fly you home?”

“I live on the Cape. Normally I take the boat back and forth every day.”

“That’s quite a commute.”

“Lots of people do it,” he said. “I sleep on the boat. And it pays the bills. Listen, it was nice meeting you.”

Adrienne was so crestfallen he was leaving that even the pile of crackers didn’t cheer her. She stacked them on the podium like so many gold coins. She watched JZ pass the basket to Delilah, the busboys, and Joe, who was left with a single cracker. Then JZ said good-bye to a bunch of people at the bar and headed for the door.

He waved to Adrienne on his way out.

“Bye,” she said.

Wet Hair roused Adrienne from her reverie by tapping her arm. “He left, right? So I can go in?”

“No,” she said.

Somehow, she got drunk. To avoid further conversation with Wet Hair, Adrienne concentrated on her crackers and her crackers made her thirsty so she drank her champagne. Someone in the bachelorette party decided to buy every woman in the restaurant a shot called prairie fire, which was a lethal combination of tequila and Tabasco. This same woman convinced Duncan to play “It’s Raining Men” at top decibel and further convinced him to allow the bride-to-be to dance on the blue granite in her bare feet. Adrienne watched all this from the safety of the podium, thinking about how much more she would enjoy these shenanigans if she didn’t have Wet Hair breathing into the side of her face. Then Caren appeared, wearing a black halter top that showed off her perfectly flat, perfectly tanned stomach, and a pair of low-slung white jeans. She was dressed like a twenty-year-old but she looked better than any twenty-year-old could ever hope to. Adrienne suddenly felt dowdy; here she was in Chloe and Dolce & Gabbana in an attempt to get away from the kid stuff.

Caren held out a shot glass, Adrienne’s prairie fire, because she did, after all, qualify as a woman in the restaurant.

“Come on,” Caren said. “Let’s do them together.”

Adrienne accepted the shot glass. Well, it was better than espresso.

They did the shots and Caren offered Adrienne a swig from her beer as a chaser. Adrienne’s throat burned, her eyes watered. The bride-to-be was doing the twist on the bar, every man in the place looking up her Lilly Pulitzer skirt.

Then Caren screamed, “Charlie!”

She hugged the man with the wet hair. He threw Adrienne a look of enormous satisfaction and contempt over Caren’s shoulder. Adrienne felt no remorse, only distaste that Caren should actually know this person.

“This is Charlie,” Caren explained. “A friend of Duncan’s. He doesn’t have to wait.”

Adrienne was just as happy to have Wet Hair leave her proximity. “Go,” she said. The tequila and Tabasco had warmed her mood. “Enjoy.”

The new head of the line was a kid who looked about twelve. He was short and had acne around his nose. Do I have to card? Adrienne wondered. She wasn’t going to card. Her job was pure mathematics-one out, one in. She heard a deep, metallic thrum; it sounded like a gong. Adrienne looked to the bar to see Duncan holding an enormous hand bell, the kind used in church choirs. “Last call!” he shouted. Last call, music to her ears. Paco wandered past the podium still in his chef’s whites, and Adrienne yelled out to him. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of her change purse, which was stashed inside the podium.

“You’ve been a big help,” she said. “Thank you.” She pressed the bill into Paco’s hand.

“Thank you!” Paco said. “You want me to get you a drink?”

“Yes,” Adrienne said, surveying the dancing, pulsing crowd. “Two.”

She should have gone home when the restaurant closed-it was very late-but Caren told her about a party at the Subiaco house in Surfside. Practically the whole staff was going and Caren felt that Adrienne should go, too.

“To prove you’re one of the gang,” she said.

Adrienne agreed to go with Caren and Duncan in Caren’s Jetta. She would stay for one drink then call a cab and be home in bed by three o’clock at the very latest. It wasn’t until Adrienne was already ensconced in the backseat of the car that she realized Wet Hair Charlie was coming with them. The opposite door opened and he climbed in. Adrienne’s enthusiasm flagged.

“I don’t know about this,” Adrienne said. “It’s getting late.”

“I figured you for a stick-in-the-mud,” Charlie said.

“Come on,” Caren said. “It’ll be fun.”

During the ride, Charlie pulled out a joint, lit up, and passed it around. Adrienne refused, then cracked her window. This was what she’d always thought the restaurant life would be like: two o’clock in the morning doing drugs on her way to a party where she would proceed to drink even more than she had drunk during her eight-hour shift. She laughed and then Charlie laughed, though he had no idea what was funny.

The Subiaco house was huge and funky. It had curved steps that led up to a grand front porch with a swing. The house had diamond-shaped windows, some panes of stained glass, and a turret. Inside, though, it was a bad marriage of down-at-the-heels beach cottage and urban bachelor pad. In the first living room Adrienne entered, the furniture was upholstered in faded, demure prints, there was a rocking chair and a few dinged tables. There was a second living room with a cracked leather sofa and a state-of-the-art entertainment system: flat-screen TV on the wall, surround sound, stereo thumping with ten-year-old rap. Adrienne couldn’t stand the noise. She headed out to the sun porch, where there was wicker furniture and an old piano. She took a seat on the piano bench. Caren appeared, bearing two bright red drinks, and she handed one to Adrienne.

“What’s this?” Adrienne asked.

“I don’t know,” Caren admitted.

Adrienne took a sip. It tasted like a mixture of Kool-Aid and lighter fluid. She put the drink down on the piano.

“Duncan didn’t make this?”

“No,” Caren said. “It was in a punch bowl on the kitchen table.”

“They’re trying to poison us so they can take our money,” Adrienne said. She had left her change purse, with three hundred dollars in it, in Caren’s car.

Duncan came onto the sun porch and he and Caren settled down on the wicker sofa. Then Charlie walked in and after looking around the room-no doubt hoping for better company-he plopped down on the piano bench next to Adrienne. That was all she needed.

“I’m getting out of here,” she said.

“Stay,” Caren said. “It’s fun.”

“Stick-in-the-mud,” Charlie said.

Adrienne peeked into the next room. Elliott, Christo, and a few of the unidentified Subiacos were smoking cigarettes watching Apocalypse Now to a soundtrack of Dr. Dre. Fun? In the kitchen, Tyler and Roy, the most definitely underage busboys, were doing shots of Jägermeister. Adrienne thought she might get sick just watching them.

“Phone?” she said.

They pointed down the hall. She located a wobbly pie crust table where the last rotary phone in America rested on a crocheted doily.

Adrienne called A-1 Taxi but was unable to give them her exact location. “Out by the airport?” she said. “Surfside? It’s a big house at the end of a dirt road? The Subiaco house?”

“Subiaco?” the cab driver said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said. She went outside to retrieve her change purse from Caren’s car and decided to wait for the cab on the bottom step of the porch. Then she heard someone whisper her name. She turned around. Mario was lying on the porch swing, drinking a beer. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came to the party,” she said, wondering if because she was a manager this would sound weird. She climbed the steps to the porch and leaned back against the railing, checking it first to make sure it wouldn’t give way, dumping her into the bushes. “But I have to go home. I’m tired.”

“You can sleep upstairs with me,” he said.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve been warned about you.”

“Oh, really?”

“The King of the Sweet Ending?”

Mario laughed. “Please,” he said. “Just call me King.” He drained his beer then sat up. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. There was something about him, Adrienne thought. He emanated heat. Smoldered, like all the other womanizers she had ever known.

“How’d you get that scar on your neck?” Adrienne asked.

“Pulling a cookie sheet out of a high oven,” he said. “A million years ago, in culinary school.”

“You went to school with Fiona?”

“Met her in Skills One,” he said. “It was a very tough class. We bonded.” He laughed. “She’s a big hotshot now but when I first met her she couldn’t even carry a tray of veal bones, okay? We had to roast fifty pounds a day for stock and that’s more than half Fee’s body weight. Our instructor did a double-take when he saw her. He was like, ‘How did a fourth grader get into our classroom?’ ”

Adrienne turned around to search the darkness for the lights of her cab. It felt dangerous to be talking about Fiona like this, though of course Adrienne was enthralled. “Was cooking school tough?”

“A killer,” he said. He patted the spot next to him on the swing. “Sit here, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I’m fine,” Adrienne said.

“You got that right,” Mario said. “If you’re wondering how an inner city Cuban schlub like me got into the CIA, the answer is, I’m a minority.” He laughed again. “And a fucking genius, of course.”

Adrienne tried to smile but she was too tired. She checked behind her. Nothing.

“I’m only kid-ding,” Mario sang out. “My whole family works in kitchens. My old man and his three brothers worked the line at the Palmer House in Chicago, and all the brothers had sons. There are eleven of us altogether and we all work in kitchens. My brother Louis was a prep cook at Charlie Trotter, Hector worked at Mango, Eddie flipped eggs at the North Side. I worked at so many places I can’t even remember them all, but after high school I got tired of making five bucks an hour. I wanted to learn technique. So off I go to the best cooking school in the country and it kicked my ass. I nearly quit.”

“Really?”

“I hated the hot line. Hated it. Now Fiona, she loved the hot line. The hotter and the busier it was, the more she liked it. The other guys worshipped her. Tiny little thing like that couldn’t even get the veal bones from the oven to the counter and here she is doing eighty plates an hour, swearing like a sailor. She was the one who told me I belonged in pastry, but you know what I thought? Pastry is for chicks. So I got a big, brawny externship at the Pump Room back home and that made school look like Sesame Street. When I went back to the CIA and tried pastry, I realized there’s worse things in life than being in a room full of chicks.”

“I guess so.”

“You like dessert?”

“Of course I like dessert.”

“Everybody likes dessert,” Mario said. “And pastry is cool, okay? It’s quiet. It’s solitary. It’s a place where you have the time and space to lavish the ingredients with love. I’m all about the love.”

He made the word “love” sound like a big soft bed she could fall into. Adrienne gripped the railing. Rule Three! She took a big drink of night air. It was absurdly late. She checked the gravel driveway and the dirt road again. She couldn’t tell if the glow in the distance were headlights or lights from the airport.

“So you brought everybody here?” Adrienne said. “All your cousins.”

“Three stayed back home,” Mario said. “My brother Mikey is a lawyer. And Hector’s twin brothers, Phil and Petey, didn’t want to leave Chicago. They work together at the hottest sushi place in the city and have season tickets to the Bulls. So.”

“So,” Adrienne said. “What will you do next year, when the restaurant is closed?”

“Cry my eyes out,” Mario said. “But it’s far from over. We have a long summer ahead.”

“Yeah,” Adrienne said. It was going to be a very long summer if she didn’t get any sleep. Her head felt like it was filled with dried beans. But then she saw headlights, actual true headlights and even better, the bright top hat of a taxi. The cab stopped in front of the house and the door popped open.

“Hey, everybody!” a voice called out. It was Delilah. She was, inexplicably, wearing a belly dancer costume-a red satin bra and transparent harem pants. She ran up the steps, dinging finger cymbals. Adrienne hurried past her, before the cab drove off. As she pulled away, Adrienne gazed back at the house in time to see Mario, ever the gentleman, leading Delilah inside.

TO: DrDon@toothache.com

FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com

DATE: June 7, 2005, 8:37 A.M.

SUBJECT: See and be scene

At first I thought the Bistro was all about the food but after a week of work I can tell you, it’s all about the drinks. It’s a huge scene. Some nights it’s like a fraternity party and some nights it’s something else entirely (think of a dozen women in for a fiftieth birthday party belting out “New York, New York” while doing chorus line kicks). Last night, I let a man into the bar and he tipped me five hundred dollars. I told him I couldn’t possibly accept it and he said, ‘You want me to give it to the bartender instead?’ So I put it in an envelope and mailed it off to you this morning. Only five hundred to go!

I never considered myself a night owl but since I started work I haven’t gotten to bed before two. I sleep until at least eight then take a nap on the beach. I haven’t gone jogging even once! But I am brushing and flossing and doing my best to stay away from the candy plate. How are the smiles in Maryland? Love.

TO: Ade12177@hotmail.com

FROM: DrDon@toothache.com

DATE: June 7, 2005, 8:45 A.M.

SUBJECT: Nobody knows the troubles I’ve scene

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to handle being the father of the doyenne of Nantucket nightlife. Should I be worried or proud? Or both? Mavis says she wants to visit Nantucket-I know I always promise and never come, but this time I think we might. Can you research some B & Bs? And book us a night at your restaurant, of course. I’d love to see my little girl in action. Love, love.

TO: DrDon@toothache.com

FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com

DATE: June 7 2005, 8:52 A.M.

SUBJECT: Don’t book ’em yet, Don-o

Let me get my sea legs before you show up, okay? Promise me you won’t book anything without double-triple-checking with me first?

TO: Ade12177@hotmail.com

FROM: DrDon@toothache.com

DATE: June 7, 2005, 8:59 A.M.

SUBJECT: I promise

Love, love, love.

TO: kyracrenshaw@mindspring.com

FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com

DATE: June 7, 2005, 9:04 A.M.

SUBJECT: sex, drugs, and lobster roll

Duncan has spent every night here for the past nine nights. They always look so tuckered out in the morning-thank God the walls are thick! Caren thinks it’s this big secret, but one of the other waiters at work said he was pretty sure the only reason Duncan shacked up here was because he doesn’t want to sleep in the same apartment with his sister. I, of course, pretended like I didn’t know what he was talking about.

Aspen seems like a million years ago. I haven’t thought about Doug in weeks. I miss you, though. How’s Carmel? Seen Clint Eastwood?