The Blue Bistro

5

Night Off

Notre Dame magazine,

Volume LXVII,

September 2004

“GREEN AND GOLD GOES BLUE”

Thatcher Smith (B.A. 1991) believes there are two kinds of people in the world: those who eat to live and those who live to eat. Until he was twenty-two years old, Smith, owner of the Blue Bistro, a highly successful restaurant on Nantucket Island in Massachusetts, categorized himself as the former.

“I grew up in South Bend, a town that is virtually devoid of cuisine. My mother left the family when I was young and my father and brothers and I subsisted on shredded wheat, bologna sandwiches, and pizza. And Burger King, of course. But nothing you would ever call cuisine.”

So how did this native of South Bend, and Notre Dame graduate, end up in the restaurant business? He gives credit to the girl next door.

Fiona Kemp (daughter of Hobson Kemp, a professor of electrical engineering at Notre Dame since 1966) lived four houses down from Smith growing up.

“There’s a picture of Fiona and I on our first day of kindergarten,” Smith says. “I can’t remember not knowing her.”

Because of a childhood illness, Ms. Kemp could not participate in sports. So she turned her energies to an indoor activity: cooking.

“She was always making something. I remember when we were about twelve she made a chocolate swirl cheesecake sitting in a puddle of raspberry sauce. She invited some of the boys from the neighborhood over to eat it, but it was so elegant, none of us had the heart.”

After graduating from John Adams High School together in 1987, Smith and Kemp went their separate ways. Smith enrolled at Notre Dame, where he majored in economics. He planned to join his father and brothers at what he modestly calls “the family store”: Smith Carpets and Flooring, which has five outlets in South Bend and nearby Mishewaka. Meanwhile Kemp enrolled at the prestigious Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York. She wanted to fulfill her dream of becoming a chef.

Smith and Kemp reunited on Nantucket Island in October 1992.

“Fiona had been working on the island for two years at that point,” Smith says. “And she felt ready for her own place. She convinced me to visit, and once I saw the island, I decided to leave South Bend behind. I sold my interest in the business to my brothers and took the money and invested it in Fiona. I knew there was no way she would fail.”

Indeed, not. Smith and Kemp bought a run-down restaurant on the beach that had formerly served burgers and fried clams, and they transformed it into the Blue Bistro, with seating for over a hundred facing the Atlantic Ocean. The only seats harder to procure than the seats at the blue granite bar are the four tables out in the sand where the Bistro serves its now-famous version of seafood fondue. (Or, as the kitchen fondly refers to it, the all-you-can-eat fried shrimp special.) Many of Ms. Kemp’s offerings are twists on old classics, like the fondue. She serves impeccable steak frites, a lobster club sandwich, and a sushi plate, which features a two-inch-thick slab of locally caught bluefin tuna. Ms. Kemp relies on fresh local produce to keep her plates alive.

Ms. Kemp’s cooking has been celebrated in such places as Bon Appétit and the Chicago Tribune. She was named one of the country’s hottest chefs by Food & Wine in 1998. All this notoriety comes despite the fact that she is, in Thatcher Smith’s words, “a highly private person. Fiona doesn’t give interviews. She doesn’t allow herself to be photographed. She doesn’t believe in the new craze of ‘chef as celebrity.’ Fiona just wants to feed people. It has never been about the reviews or about the money, even. For Fiona, it’s all about love; it’s about giving back.”

For Thatcher Smith, running the Blue Bistro is a dream come true-a dream he wasn’t even aware he harbored. “I love every minute of my work,” he says. “The fast pace, the high energy, the personal interaction, the management challenges. And yes, I love the food. Once I tried a plate of Fiona’s steak frites, I learned the difference between tasting and eating. I knew I would never hit the drive-through at Burger King again. I became a person who lives to eat.”

TO: Ade12177@hotmail.com

FROM: DrDon@toothache.com

DATE: June 7, 2005, 7:33 P.M.

SUBJECT: possible dates

How about the last week in July? Love, love.

Adrienne was so nervous when she woke up on Wednesday morning that her ears were ringing. Where are we going? Where aren’t we going? The blue dress hung in the closet on a padded hanger that Adrienne had borrowed from Caren without her permission. When Adrienne had gotten home the night before, she went online and looked up the article about Thatcher in Notre Dame magazine. Then she lay in bed for nearly an hour thinking about it. It gave her a better sense of Thatcher than the other articles. He came from a family of men who worked in carpet and flooring. His mother had left, maybe for that very reason: too many men, too much carpet. Adrienne wondered about Fiona’s “childhood illness,” just as she wondered about everything else regarding Fiona. She had liked the story about the cheesecake. She could imagine Thatcher and his grubby twelve-year-old friends staring at the marbled cheesecake sitting in a bright pink raspberry pond as though it were a work of modern art they were being asked to understand.

Adrienne heard the swish of Caren’s bare feet against the floorboards of the hall, then the espresso machine. She looked at her clock: It was nine. She had hoped to sleep in, but there was no chance-too much on her mind.

By the time Adrienne made it out to the kitchen, Caren was alone, sipping her short black, flipping through the pages of Cosmo.

“Where’s Duncan?” Adrienne asked.

“I have no idea.”

Adrienne eyed the glossy pages of the magazine. Caren was reading an article entitled: “Is Your Relationship on the Rocks? 10 Early Warning Signs.”

“Are you fighting?” Adrienne asked.

“I have no idea,” Caren said again.

“Oh,” Adrienne said.

“You’re off tonight?” Caren asked.

Adrienne poked her head into the fridge for some juice. “Yep.”

“You’re going out?”

Adrienne got a glass out of the cabinet, steeling herself. What was the first thing Caren had ever told her? I know the dirt on every person who eats at the Bistro and every person who works there.

“I am,” Adrienne said.

“With Thatch?”

“Yes,” Adrienne said. She let out a long exhale; it was a relief, having it spoken. “What do you think?”

“I’m psyched to work the front,” Caren said. “It’s such a breeze.”

Adrienne recognized that as some kind of slight, but she let it go. “What do you think about me and Thatch?”

“I think you should be careful.”

Adrienne poured her juice and sat down across the table from Caren. Caren was not exactly her friend, but Adrienne knew she wouldn’t lie.

“Why?” Adrienne said. “Has he been with a lot of women?”

“No,” Caren said. “He hasn’t gone on a date in the twelve years I’ve known him.” She slapped her magazine shut. “And that’s why you should be careful.”

Thatcher arrived at five to seven bearing a bouquet of red gerbera daisies. He looked like an old-fashioned suitor: He was dressed in a jacket and tie, holding out the flowers, and he had a very clean-shaven look about him. Haircut, she realized after studying him for a second. Adrienne was glad Caren was at work-she might have teased this version of Thatcher Smith. Earnest, fresh-faced, with flowers, on his first date in twelve years.

“Look at you,” Adrienne said. She carried the flowers into the kitchen, where she hunted for a vase. No vase. She filled one of the unused sunflower canisters with water.

Thatcher followed her in. “Look at you,” he said. “That dress. I can’t get over it.”

“Good,” Adrienne said, smiling. She grabbed a gray pashmina (borrowed from Caren, with her permission) and checked her silver-beaded cocktail purse (ditto): lipstick, dental floss, a wad of cash, just in case. “Let’s go.”

Thatcher took her to 21 Federal, in the heart of town. The building was one of the old whaling houses; inside, it had a lot of dark wood and antique mirrors. The woman working the front wore Janet Russo and had a professional manicure. She smiled when they came in and said in a flirty voice, “Thatcher Smith! The rumors are true!”

Thatcher put a finger to his lips, and the woman said, “You don’t want anyone to know you’re here? Would you like to sit in the back?”

“Even better,” Thatcher said, pointing at the ceiling.

The woman led them up the staircase. “Siberia, it is,” she said.

The upstairs of the restaurant was even more charming than downstairs, Adrienne thought. There was a darling little bar and a couple of deuces by the front windows that looked down onto Federal Street. Thatcher pulled out Adrienne’s chair then seated himself. The hostess whispered in Thatcher’s ear. He nodded. A second later, an elderly bartender appeared with their drinks: Veuve Clicquot for Adrienne and a club soda with lime for Thatcher.

“Our compliments, Mr. Smith,” said the bartender.

“Thank you, Frank.”

“The hostess forgot our menus,” Adrienne whispered.

“No, she didn’t,” Thatcher said. “I’ve ordered for us already.”

Adrienne tried to relax. She gazed out the window at the cobblestoned street below. “Okay,” she said. “You’re the boss.”

Thatcher lifted his glass to her. “Thank you for coming out with me tonight,” he said. “I don’t do this enough.”

Adrienne clinked his glass and sipped her champagne. “From what I hear, you don’t do it at all.”

“You’ve been talking to Caren?”

“Of course.”

“She thinks she knows everything about me,” Thatcher said. “But she doesn’t.”

The hostess approached the table again and whispered something else in Thatcher’s ear. The whispering was in very bad taste; Adrienne would never do it.

Thatcher said, “Not tonight. Sorry. You’ll tell them I’m sorry? But not tonight.”

The hostess disappeared. Thatcher turned to Adrienne. “The chef wants to prepare us a tasting menu.”

“That’s nice,” Adrienne said.

“It’s a commitment,” Thatcher said. “And I have other plans for us.”

“Do you now?” Adrienne said.

“Yes, I do.”

A few minutes later the bartender, who was keeping a shadowy profile behind the bar, presented two plates. “The portobello mushroom with Parmesan pudding,” he announced.

Thatcher lit up. He spun the plates. “This is the best first course on the island,” he said.

“If you’re not eating at work,” Adrienne said.

“Right,” Thatcher said.

Adrienne brandished her knife and fork. She was used to eating family meal at five thirty and now, nearly two hours later, she was starving. She tasted a bite of the mushroom, then a little of the creamy, cheesy pudding. The dish was perfect. Thatcher stared at his plate, smiling at the mushroom as though he expected it to smile back. Was he nervous?

“I read an article about you this morning,” Adrienne said.

“Which one?”

“Notre Dame magazine.”

He raised his pale eyebrows. “You must have been doing research,” he said. “I gather you’re not a subscriber.”

“No,” she said. “I went to three colleges, but I wouldn’t call any of them my alma mater.”

“Where is your degree from?”

“Florida State,” she said. “Psychology. I did my first two years in Bloomington, then a year at Vanderbilt, and I ended up at Florida State-and that’s where I got into hotels. My adviser at FSU got me a job on the front desk at the Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach.”

“Starting your enviable life of resort-hopping.”

“Exactly.” Adrienne took another bite of her mushroom. “In that article, it said Fiona had a childhood illness.”

“Now you know why I don’t like journalists,” he said. He twirled his glass then looked around the dining room-they were the only people eating upstairs. He hunched his shoulders and said, “Can we not talk about the article?”

Adrienne didn’t care for his tone of voice; it was the same tone he used at work when he was telling her what to do. She was about to say something tart when the bartender appeared with a second glass of champagne. Adrienne drank half of it down, questioning her decision to come on this date. This was what had happened in her relationship with Kip Turnbull in Thailand; right before they broke up he was micromanaging her personal life, telling her how to defog her snorkel, insisting she condition her hair with coconut milk, feeding her psychedelic mushrooms without her knowledge. That was the problem with dating the boss; they couldn’t get over themselves. Adrienne concentrated on her appetizer. It was pretty damn good, though she now resented the fact that Thatcher had ordered it for her, as though she weren’t educated enough to select something on her own. She noticed Thatcher still wasn’t eating. He was looking at her with a worried expression.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If you want to know something about me, you can just ask. You don’t have to read about me in my alumni magazine. Most of what I tell reporters is baloney anyway.”

Adrienne nodded once, but only to let him know she’d heard him. She finished her mushroom and her champagne in silence, and feigned interest in the photographs of sailboats on the walls. Then, when she could avoid conversation no longer, she reached for Caren’s purse. “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said. “Where is it?”

“Down the hall,” he said. He stood up when she left, just like Adrienne’s father used to do for Rosalie. Adrienne gave him points for that.

The hall leading to the bathroom was adjacent to a back corridor that was used as a waiters’ station. Adrienne noticed the folded food stands, the stacks of china and linen, the racks for the silver, the bud vases, and a plastic pitcher of white freesia stems. She eyed the computer where the waiters placed orders. Just as she was about to step into the ladies’ room to check her teeth, she heard two female waiters talking as they trudged up the back stairs.

“He hasn’t been here in, like, five years,” one said. “And Fiona, you know, never eats anywhere.”

“That’s not Fiona he’s with tonight?”

“No, it’s some other chick. He’s not married to Fiona or anything.”

“Oh, I know.”

Adrienne made sure the waiters got a good look at her before she entered the ladies’ room. Some other chick!

When she returned to the table, Thatcher stood up again and remained standing. Their plates had been cleared.

“The female waiters were talking about you,” Adrienne said.

“I’m not surprised,” Thatcher said. “Whenever I leave the Bistro at night, it’s news. Are you ready?”

“For what?” Adrienne said. “Where are we going?”

“Across the street,” Thatcher said. “We’ve just begun.”

They crossed Federal Street to the Pearl, a restaurant that made Adrienne feel as though she were underwater. There was a waist-to-ceiling fish tank filled with tropical fish and the tables and chairs were very modern and sleek. The dining room had a blue glow that gave it a peaceful, floaty feeling despite the fact that it was packed with people. Young, hip, well-dressed. The people smelled like money.

“This is see and be seen in town,” Thatcher said. “Which isn’t what we’re after, but… I would have taken you downstairs to the Boarding House for pot stickers, except the Parrishes eat there every Wednesday and I couldn’t risk running into them.”

“No,” Adrienne said. She would have ended up babysitting Wolfie on her date.

“Danger,” Thatcher said. “Danger, danger.” He put his hand up to shield his face, as though the paparazzi were after him.

“Who is it? Not the Parrishes?”

“Cat is at the four-top by the window,” Thatcher said. “And Leon Cross is at a deuce in the corner with a woman who is not his wife. He asked me yesterday if I would hide them away and I said no. Why he would bring her here is beyond me.”

“Since you don’t want to be seen with me, I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m proud to be seen with you,” Thatcher said. “I just don’t want to work on my night off.”

“Should we leave?” Adrienne asked.

Before he could answer, a woman with straight black hair all the way down to her butt emerged from the crowd and pulled Thatcher and Adrienne forward as though she was granting them entrance to a hot club. “Follow me,” she said.

The woman was Red Mare, Spillman’s wife. She seated them at a table tucked back in the corner. Within minutes, Red Mare brought their drinks: a passion fruit cosmo for Adrienne and a club soda with lime for Thatcher.

“You’re Adrienne,” Red Mare said. “John really likes working with you. Much better than with Kevin. Didn’t you think Kevin had a pole up his ass, Thatch?”

Thatcher shrugged. “Sure.”

“I’m glad you finally got smart and put a woman up front. An attractive woman.” She touched Adrienne’s shoulder. “Great dress.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, Thatch, I know you called in your request, but the kitchen knows you’re here and chef wants to make you his six-course Asian seafood menu.”

“Tell chef thanks,” Thatcher said. “But we’ll stick with our original plan.”

Red Mare clapped her hands and held them together in front of her chest like a praying mantis. “You got it.”

After she disappeared back into the beautiful crowd, Adrienne said, “Everyone knows you.”

“I’ve been here a long time.”

“Twelve years isn’t that long.”

“It is when you’re young. Listen, twelve years ago you were still in high school. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“And it’s a small island. The restaurant community is tight. Over the course of the summer we’ll have all the chefs in on their night off. We take good care of them. They just want to do the same.”

Adrienne saw Red Mare peek at them from her position by the door, checking up on them like Adrienne herself did eighty-two times a night. Now that she worked in a restaurant, she noticed the things that other guests wouldn’t. For example, the number of glasses hanging from a rack over the bar was dwindling (a few seconds later, the bar back appeared with clean glasses) and a certain busser, in this case a tiny brunette, kept bumping into one of the male servers. (They were obviously having a fling.) Adrienne might have shared these insights with Thatcher but he, no doubt, had outgrown being amused by the behind-the-scenes of other restaurants.

“What do you do around here all winter?” she asked.

“Catch up on my sleep,” he said. “And Fiona and I take a trip back to South Bend at Christmas.”

Adrienne had worked the last six Christmases but just the thought brought the face of Doug Riedel to mind. Those damn shearling gloves! She drained her cosmo. At that instant, Red Mare appeared with a second cosmo and their food. “Two tuna martinis-this is seared tuna with wasabi crème fraîche.”

Adrienne tasted it as soon as it hit the table. “The best second course on the island,” she said.

“If you’re not eating at work,” Thatcher said. He sipped his club soda.

“I have a question,” Adrienne said, a challenge in her voice. Just breathing in the vapors from the second cosmo sent her good judgment through the roof.

“Shoot.”

She had many questions, all of them provocative: Why had he been to see the priest? Why was he closing the restaurant? Why no journalists in the kitchen? But the one she chose was: “How did you come to be an alcoholic?”

His laugh was so forceful it startled her. “Ha!” After two weeks, she still wasn’t used to that crazy laugh. “You’re trying to shock me with a direct hit,” he said. “And it’s working.”

Adrienne speared a piece of tuna. Even the silverware here had a sleek design. “You don’t have to answer,” she said. “I’m at the mercy of alcohol now myself.”

“That was my goal,” Thatcher said. “Get you drunk so you forget I’m your boss.”

“Why do you want me to forget you’re my boss?”

“So you’ll like me.”

“I do like you.”

He stared at her a minute then reached for her hand. She looked at the side of his face, at the clean pink skin around his ear, newly exposed from the haircut. With his other hand, he loosened his tie and undid his top button. He had barely touched his food.

“You’re not eating,” she said.

“I’m pacing myself,” he said. “Remember, I know what’s to come.”

Adrienne reclaimed her hand to finish her tuna, and if Thatcher wasn’t going to eat, she would finish his.

“I became an alcoholic as a result of the business,” Thatcher said. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know that anything happened,” he said. “I was just drinking a lot every night. A couple of cocktails, a bottle of wine, a glass of port. And by the time the hand bell chimed, I was sloshed. I did stupid things. Forgave all the tabs at the bar. Doubled the tips for the waitstaff. This made me very popular, mind you, but it was bad for our bottom line. I started AA four years ago. Fiona insisted.”

“Did she?”

“My behavior was threatening the business. It had to stop.”

“Isn’t it hard, though, not drinking? Especially when you’re around alcohol all the time?”

“At first, I tried to cut back. Have one cocktail, one glass of wine. But I couldn’t do it. One cocktail wasn’t an option. Alcoholism is a disease and I have it. But it’s not so bad.” He held up his drink. “I really love club soda.”

Adrienne smiled and stared at Thatcher’s tuna, ruby red in the frosted martini glass. She could stay here all night. She wanted to enjoy being waited on for a change. But Thatcher seemed antsy. He checked his Patek Philippe. “Time’s up,” he said. “We’re going.”

At a restaurant called Oran Mor, Thatcher and Adrienne hid at a tiny table tucked behind the horseshoe-shaped bar. The table had a view of the harbor and the ferry-the same ferry that Adrienne had arrived on two weeks, and another lifetime, ago. A male waiter brought Adrienne a glass of red wine followed by an enormous porterhouse steak topped with Roquefort butter. Thatcher got a shallow dish of lobster risotto.

“I couldn’t decide between the two,” he said. “So we got both.” He watched Adrienne take a bite of steak. “Now taste your wine.”

Adrienne bristled once again at being told what to do, especially since she knew he’d be right. The steak and wine were made for each other.

“How’s the wine?” he asked.

“Incredible.”

He picked up her glass and inhaled. “Big,” he said. “Plummy. Just as they described it.”

Adrienne offered her steak to Thatcher but he shook his head. “Go on,” she said. “There can’t be more after this.” He relented, then hand-fed her a bite of his risotto, and all Adrienne could think was that it was a good thing no one could see them. Nothing brought more sarcasm from the waitstaff than a couple feeding each other.

Adrienne drank down her wine and another glass appeared. She was officially drunk; across the table, Thatcher was blurry. He was looking at her so intently that it took the place of conversation. He’s soaking me up, Adrienne thought. Whatever that meant. The more Adrienne drank, the more it seemed like Thatcher himself was drunk. When she finished eating, Thatcher took her hand again.

“Who are you, Adrienne Dealey?” he said. “Who are you?”

She didn’t have anything resembling a good answer. She couldn’t say “I’m a dentist and a father.” Or “I’m a restaurant owner.” Or “I’m a chef.” She couldn’t even say “I’m a childhood friend of Fiona’s. I’ve been a friend of hers since kindergarten.” She had no identity. She lived in a place for a while, working a desk, skiing bumps, visiting Buddhist temples, sitting on a sugar-sand beach, making poor decisions, fudging the details of her past-and six months or a year later she was somewhere else. Someone else. New friends, new boyfriend, new job, new location. The most important thing in her life had been the money for her Future, the money saved up for… what? Some bigger plan that she had yet to identify. Her father was right. One of these days she was going to have to pick a place and stay there.

“I’m a student of human nature,” Adrienne said. She was so drunk this didn’t even sound corny. “I’m trying to absorb it all before I settle down.”

“Do you think you’ll ever settle down?” Thatcher said. “Get married?”

Adrienne pushed her plate away; she was absolutely stuffed. She reached for her wine and held the glass with two hands. “I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of boyfriends. There was a guy on the Cape who asked me to marry him and I considered it for about a day and a half. Then I freaked out and flew to Hawaii. It was very immature behavior on my part.”

“My mother bailed on us when I was nine,” Thatcher said. “My three older brothers were sixteen, fourteen, and eleven at the time. There is no doubt in my mind that we drove her away; we would have driven Mother Teresa away. So I used to have an issue with women who run, but I got over it. I forgave my mother-that’s one thing AA really helps with, forgiveness. She lives in Toronto now, but I never see her.”

“Yeah,” Adrienne said. “My mother died when I was twelve.”

“I didn’t know your mother died,” Thatcher said. “Something you said earlier made me think…”

“I’m sorry about that,” Adrienne said. “I have a hard time talking about it and sometimes it’s just easier…”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Thatcher said.

“Maybe not to you,” Adrienne said. “But I’ve lied to a lot of people about it. I pretend my mother is still alive. I want her to be alive.”

“Of course.”

Adrienne placed a fingertip at the corner of her eye. “I probably don’t need any more wine.”

Thatcher looked around the restaurant. “I was going to take you to Languedoc for the Sweet Inspirations sundae.”

“It may interest you to know,” said Adrienne, “that the key to dessert is not sugar.” She bent her head close to the table and whispered, “It’s eggs.”

Thatcher groaned. “When a woman starts quoting Mario Subiaco, I know she’s had too much to drink. No sundae for you. Let’s go for a drive.”

“I have to use the ladies’ room,” Adrienne said.

She nearly tripped on the uneven floor on the way to the bathroom and when she got inside, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were bright pink. I am drunk, she thought. Schnockered. She splashed her face and pulled out her dental floss. Who are you, Adrienne Dealey? I am a person who cares about dental hygiene.

They climbed into Thatcher’s silver pickup. His truck was impeccably clean and smelled like peppermint. Adrienne fell back into the gray leather seat while Thatch fiddled with the CD player. He put on Simon and Garfunkel.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Old. Thirty-five.” He rummaged through the console and brought out a tire gauge. “I’m going to take you up the beach,” he said. “Do you have any objections to that?”

“None,” Adrienne said. The clock in the car said ten thirty. She couldn’t help thinking about the restaurant: Had Caren and Duncan made up? Would they be sneaking in gropes and shots of espresso, giddy with their freedom like kids whose parents were away for the weekend? Would they be playing techno on the stereo (which Thatch hated) and hogging all the crackers for themselves? “Do you miss work?” she asked. She noticed his cell phone sitting in the console next to the tire gauge, his ring of Bistro keys, and a tin of Altoids, but he hadn’t so much as checked his messages.

“No,” he said, starting the engine and pulling out of town. “Not at all.”

When Adrienne next opened her eyes, she was alone in the truck. It was dark, and looking out the window she saw nothing but more dark.

“Thatcher?” she said.

She heard a hissing noise outside her window. When she opened her door, she saw Thatcher kneeling by the front tire letting out air. From the dome light she could see sand dunes covered with eelgrass.

“This is the last one,” Thatcher said. He checked the tire with the gauge and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. He had removed his jacket and tie and his shirt was open another button at the neck.

“Where are we?”

“Dionis Beach,” he said. “Have you been here?”

Adrienne shook her head.

“Good,” he said. “Hang on.”

He drove the truck up over the dunes with abandon, bouncing Adrienne out of her seat. Thatcher whooped like a cowboy and Adrienne prayed she didn’t vomit. (She had a worrisome flashback from twenty years earlier: the Our Lady of the Assumption carnival, cotton candy, kettle corn, and the tilt-a-whirl. Her mother holding back her hair in a smelly Porta-John.) Then, thankfully, they were on the beach, and the water was before them, one stripe shining from the crescent moon. The beach was deserted. Thatcher parked the truck then opened Adrienne’s door for her. He spread a blanket on the sand.

“You came prepared,” she said.

“Lie down,” he said. “But keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, boss,” she said.

After getting gracefully to the ground in her dress, Adrienne looked at the stars. Thatcher lay on his side, staring at her. She closed her eyes. She could fall asleep right here. Happily, happily. Listening to the waves lap onto the beach. She heard Thatcher’s voice in her ear.

“I’m going to kiss you if that’s okay,” he said.

“It won’t be our first kiss,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I let one slip at the restaurant. I thought about apologizing to you for that, but I didn’t feel sorry.” And with that, he kissed her. One very soft, very sweet kiss. The kiss was fleeting but it left a big ache for more in its wake. Adrienne gasped, taking in the cool sea air, and then Thatcher kissed her again. Even softer, even shorter. The third time, he stayed. They were kissing. His mouth opened and Adrienne tasted his tongue, sweet and tangy like the lime in his drink. She felt like she was going to burst apart into eighty-two pieces of desire. Like the best lovers, Thatcher moved slowly-for right now, on the blanket, it was only about the kissing. Not since high school had kissing been this intense. It went on and on. They stopped to look at each other. Adrienne ran her fingertips over his pale eyebrows, she cupped his neck inside the collar of his shirt. He touched her ears and kissed the corners of her eyes, and Adrienne thought about how she had come right out with the truth about her mother at dinner and how unusual that was. And just as she began to worry that there was something different this time, something better, of a finer quality than the other relationships she had found herself in, she and Thatcher started kissing again, and the starting again was even sweeter.

Yes, Adrienne thought. Something was different this time.

How much time passed? An hour? Two? Of lying on the blanket kissing Thatcher Smith, the man who had handed her a new life on this island. Adrienne felt herself drifting to sleep, she felt him kiss her eyelids closed-and then suddenly, like a splash of icy water, like a bolt of lightning hitting way too close, like the foul smell that wafted from the restaurant garbage, there came a noise. From the car. Thatcher’s cell phone.

He pulled away. Checked his twenty-thousand-dollar watch in the moonlight. And ran for the truck.

He took the call standing in the deep dark a few yards behind his truck. Which was smart, because if he’d been closer, Adrienne would have yelled at whomever was on the other end. How dare you spoil my night!

Thatcher snapped the phone closed as he walked back toward Adrienne who was now sitting up on the blanket, headache threatening.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said.

“That was Fee.”

“Fiona? What did she want?”

“It’s twelve thirty. My dinner is ready.”

“Your dinner is ready,” Adrienne repeated flatly. “Your dinner is ready?”

“We eat together every night,” he said.

“Yes, except tonight you’re on a date with me. Tonight you ate with me.” As soon as she said the words, she realized he hadn’t eaten-he had barely touched his food. Because he knew all along that he was going back to the Bistro. To eat with Fiona. “Take me home,” Adrienne said. “Take me home right now.”

“You’re tired anyway,” he said. “You were practically asleep.” He tried to reach for her but she climbed into the truck and made a point of slamming the door in his face. She fastened her seat belt and when Thatcher got in, she stared out the windshield at the black water of the sound.

“Don’t be mad,” he said.

“This is weird,” Adrienne said. “You going back to have dinner with her. It’s strange.”

“I realize it must seem that way.”

“She loves JZ,” Adrienne said.

“What do you know about it?” he asked.

“I saw them together yesterday,” Adrienne said. “She left with him. She loves him.”

“She does love him,” Thatcher said. “But what I asked was, what do you know about it?”

“Nothing,” Adrienne admitted. “She was coughing and he picked her up and held her.”

“Okay,” Thatcher said, as if he’d made some very important point. He started the truck and eased them out over the dunes, the truck rocking gently this time, as gently as a cradle.

He pulled into her driveway by quarter to one.

“Don’t bother getting out,” Adrienne said. “I can see myself in.”

“I’m walking you to the door,” Thatcher said. He returned to his persona of old-fashioned suitor and took her arm. She had forgotten to leave on any lights and so the cottage was pitch-black. As they stood at the doorway, Thatcher touched the strap of her blue dress. Adrienne knew she should thank him for the date; he’d gone to a lot of trouble. But she was angry, incredulous, defiant. His dinner was ready!

He leaned in to kiss her and she let him. She thought maybe she could keep him. Maybe his dinner would go cold and Fiona would have to throw it away. They kissed and kissed; Adrienne had never felt such urgency.

“Stay with me,” she said.

He pressed her against the door frame and for the first time she felt his body right up against hers and it was an even better feeling, if that were possible, than the kissing. She could feel herself winning, she could see the future: his shirt coming off, her blue dress dropping into a silk puddle on the floor, the two of them entwined in Adrienne’s bed. Caren’s shock the following morning at the espresso machine when Thatcher joined her for a short black. But then, just as Adrienne knew he would, he surfaced from the pull of her desire with a gulp of air like a man who had been drowning.

“Go,” Adrienne said.

And he went.