The Blue Bistro

6

The Wine Key

How did men do it?

It was ten minutes to six on Thursday night, 101 covers on the book, and Thatcher actually had the gall to knock on the door of the ladies’ room where Adrienne was brushing her teeth and deciding whether or not to quit.

“Come on out,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

Adrienne shut off the water, tapped her toothbrush angrily against the side of the sink, and flung open the door.

“You have some nerve,” she said.

He held up a wine key. “I’m going to show you how to use this. Now. We’ve waited too long.”

How did he manage to look better than ever on the one night (possibly of many) Adrienne had arrived at work prepared to hate him? It looked like he had gotten some sun-his face had that healthy golden glow. Did you go to the beach? Adrienne wanted to ask. But no, she wouldn’t. Just as she wouldn’t ask him, How was your dinner? (though she had practiced the exact tone of sarcasm and contempt).

How did he have the presence of mind to stand before her holding up the wine key as innocuously as a door-to-door salesman? Did he not remember pressing his body up against hers the night before? Did he not remember how tenderly he kissed her eyelids closed? How did men find the nerve the next day to act as though nothing had ever happened? (And it wasn’t just Thatcher, Adrienne conceded. She’d seen it time and time again.)

Over Thatcher’s shoulder, Adrienne saw Joe and Spill-man lighting candles. Rex began to play “Old Cape Cod.” Adrienne rolled her eyes. She would be a brick wall.

“Fine, the wine key,” she said. She followed Thatcher into the wine cave. He closed the door behind them and Adrienne thought, Okay, here it comes. The wine key was a ruse. He was going to apologize.

Thatcher removed a bottle of red from the rack. Bin forty-one: Cain Cuvée-they sold it by the glass as well as from the list.

“First,” he said, “you have to cut the lead.”

She stared at him, trying to make her eyes as hard as the point of an awl.

“Some restaurants have a special tool for this,” Thatcher said. “Not us. We use the very inexpensive, very user-friendly Screwpull. Wait until you see how easy this is.” He used the sharp end of the key to cut the lead, which was the metal wrapper over the cork. He pulled it off. Then he set the plastic arms of the Screwpull over the cork, inserted the key, and turned the knob at the top. Turned and turned-and like magic, the cork appeared. “A third grader could do it,” he said. He set the bottle aside and pulled out their most popular bottle of white-Menetou-Salon, from an area of France near Sancerre. Adrienne had heard Thatcher give the spiel on this wine before-the vintner was also the mayor of the town.

“You try,” he said, handing her the bottle and the key.

She cut the lead, peeled it away (a little less seamlessly than Thatch, but she got it), set the Screwpull in place, and turned. Out came the cork. Piece of cake.

“Fine,” she said.

“The waiters open their own wine,” Thatcher said. “I open for VIPs, and I open when the waitstaff is slammed. Step in when you feel you’re needed.”

“Fine, fine.” She dug her heel into the floor in a way that she hoped conveyed her impatience. She was wearing yet another pair of new shoes-buff-colored Jimmy Choo sling backs-that she’d bought that afternoon in an attempt to make herself feel better.

“And there’s one more thing,” Thatcher said.

Something in his voice made her look at him and their eyes locked. I am a brick wall, she thought. I am a swan carved from ice.

“What’s that?” she said.

He held her gaze for whole seconds of precious time. Outside the door, Adrienne could hear Spillman’s voice: “Has anyone seen the boss man?” Thatcher didn’t move. He just held Adrienne captive with his eyes and when Adrienne thought it was inevitable-they were going to kiss-he snapped out of his daze.

“Champagne,” he said. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. He unfolded a towel from the Sankaty Head Golf Club. “Up front, you’ll use a side towel, or even a dinner napkin,” he said. He removed the foil from the cork, wrangled off the cage, and showed Adrienne the bottle with the naked cork. “You could push at the bottom of the cork until it shoots out, but champagne corks are unpredictable. You could take out someone’s eye. Best-case scenario, the cork gets lost in the sand and one of our guests with an environmental conscience writes a letter to the Inquirer and Mirror about how we here at the Blue Bistro are littering Nantucket’s pristine beaches. So.” He covered the cork with the golf towel and twisted. “Twist while pulling up.” The cork came free with a muted pop. Thatcher whipped off the towel. The lip of the bottle showed a wisp of smoky carbon dioxide; he tossed the cork in the trash. “Take this out to Duncan and have him pour you a glass,” he said. “It’s time to get to work.”

So that was it. They were together in the wine cave with the door closed for six whole minutes and all she’d gotten was a deep stare and a lesson on one of the world’s easiest tasks. Adrienne saw her options: quit or work as though nothing had happened. Life wasn’t made any easier by the fact that everyone on the staff knew she and Thatcher had been out together-and likewise, everyone knew that Thatcher returned to the restaurant to eat with Fiona. Caren had said it best that morning while she and Duncan (reunited) drank espresso and Adrienne drank ginger lemon tea because, to add insult to injury, Adrienne had a killer hangover, the worst of the summer so far. Caren had said, “How was your date? It couldn’t have been too wonderful.”

And Adrienne said, “There is something very fucked up going on between Thatcher and Fiona.”

Caren and Duncan had stared at her blankly but when they thought she wasn’t looking, they exchanged an alarmed glance. Adrienne caught it and said, “And you two pissants know what’s going on and you won’t tell me.”

Caren had nodded very slowly. “They’re friends,” she said.

And Duncan said, “I have to go. I’m sailing with Holt Millman at ten.”

Adrienne tried to lose herself in the service. One hundred and one covers on the books, but first thing there was a walk-in party of four, dressed in workout clothes. They informed Adrienne that they had arrived on their bikes after a long ride to Sconset, and they wanted to know if they could eat dinner and get back into town before dark.

“Sure,” Adrienne said. Table three was empty; it was a less desirable table, saved on slower nights for walk-ins. She sat the party, gave them the exact time of sunset along with their menus, and told them she’d have the kitchen on top of their order. The head biker palmed her fifty bucks.

“Thanks,” he said. “We’re really hungry.”

Joe took the table; he was psyched. “Good work,” he said. “How was your date last night?”

“What date?” she said.

She was a swan carved from ice.

First seating breezed by. She delivered three orders of chips and dip, and she opened four bottles of wine. She completely ignored Thatcher and, at a couple of points, she was so busy, she forgot him.

In between seatings, Thatcher called her over to the podium. “Can I brief you?”

While he talked, Adrienne stared at the ceiling.

Table eleven was a four-top under the awning, a good table: a local lawyer and her husband and their friends visiting from Anchorage, Alaska. The lawyer was not Thatcher’s lawyer but she was a prominent Nantucket citizen-on the board of Hospice and the Boys & Girls Club-and a regular guest. VIP. Adrienne had delivered their chips and dip and opened their wine, the fantastic Leeuwin chardonnay from Western Australia. Now they were eating their entrées and Adrienne saw the lawyer glancing around the dining room in distress. Adrienne hurried over.

“What can I help you with?” she asked.

The lawyer beckoned Adrienne closer. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “But my friend swears her swordfish is overcooked.”

“Overcooked?” Adrienne said.

“And I’ll tell you what, it must be true because people from Alaska never complain.”

Adrienne moved around the table to the Alaska woman and eyed the swordfish. It was black and shriveled; it looked like one of the pork chops that Doug used to murder in his cast-iron skillet before he doused it with ketchup.

“I’m sorry,” the Alaska woman squeaked.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Adrienne said. “Let me bring you another piece. Believe me when I say this almost never happens.”

She carried the swordfish to the kitchen, poking it once with her finger. It was completely dry; it had the texture of plaster. Adrienne was thrilled. Two weeks earlier a complaint about the doughnuts had nearly made her weep, but today a complaint about the food was a gift from God. She couldn’t wait to confront Fiona with this hideous swordfish.

Adrienne slammed into the kitchen and dropped the plate on the pass with a clatter. No one was expediting.

“Where’s Fiona?” she said.

“She’s in the office lying down,” Hector said.

Adrienne deflated. Her rage was overcooked, shriveled, dry, and yet she couldn’t get rid of it.

“Well, where’s Antonio, then?” she asked.

“It’s his night off,” Hector said. “Which reminds me, how was your date?”

“Fuck you,” Adrienne said.

This set the platoon of Subiacos laughing. Adrienne picked the swordfish up off the plate and flung it at Hector, who was, conveniently, working grill. It hit him in the shoulder, smudging his white jacket.

“You killed the swordfish for eleven,” she said. “The guest complained-in fact, she was practically in tears because it tasted so bad. Fire another one.”

“Boo-hoo,” Hector said, laying a swordfish steak across the grill.

Adrienne marched back out to table eleven. “Sorry about the swordfish,” she said. “We’re going to comp your bill this evening and I hope you’ll forgive us.”

The lawyer touched Adrienne’s wrist. “You don’t have to comp the meal,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Adrienne said. “Yes, I do.”

A few moments later, table six, a deuce, guests from the Nantucket Beach Club, called Adrienne over. No lobster on the lobster club. What they showed her was a twenty-nine-dollar BLT.

“Please,” Adrienne said, picking up the plate. “Let me get you some lobster meat. And your dinner tonight is on the house.”

The third table she comped because the top of the butterscotch crème brûlée was scorched. The guest hadn’t even complained but Adrienne saw the desserts go out, and she saw the black spots. She had an infuriating vision of Mario back in his lair doing the bossa nova while he took a welding tool to the custard. The dessert was going to a table of six, which meant a tab of at least a thousand dollars. Adrienne bought their dinner. The revenge was so sweet it made her dizzy.

Later, Thatcher cornered her at the podium. It was eleven fifteen; she had a line of five people. The bar was packed but unusually quiet.

“You comped three meals,” he said. “One tab was twelve hundred dollars. Because that six-top was drinking a Chateau Margaux.”

Adrienne shrugged. “The food was bad tonight. Fiona wasn’t expediting. You should have seen the swordfish at eleven. It was a piece of drywall.”

“I understand the swordfish. And that was Leigh Stanford’s table and I would have comped it myself. But a piece of lobster missing? A bad crème brûlée?”

“The lobster missing was a table Mack sent us, and the brûlée looked like it had the bubonic plague. At the beginning of the season you told me that close to perfect wasn’t going to cut it.”

“I did. But to comp a twelve-hundred-dollar dinner?”

“During first seating, I took a walk-in four-top that one of your other managers probably would have turned away because they weren’t wearing Armani. They drank two bottles of Cristal and had a thousand-dollar tab themselves. Take the difference out of my salary.”

Thatcher sighed. “I’m not going to take it out of your salary,” he said. “All three tables left huge tips so the wait-staff loves you. And I know you did what you thought was right.” He nodded at the kitchen. “I’m going to eat.”

Adrienne didn’t answer. She was crushed. He didn’t even care enough to fight with her.

TO: DrDon@toothache.com

FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com

DATE: June 16, 2005 9:14 A.M.

SUBJECT: Surprise!

I sent you the last of the money I owe you-not bad for two weeks of work! And your “interest” should arrive at the office tomorrow morning. Bon appetit-and thanks for always being there for me. Love.

TO: kyracrenshaw@mindspring.com

FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com

DATE: June 16, 2005 9:37 A.M.

SUBJECT: First date of the summer

I can honestly say I would rather go out with drug abuser and felon Doug Riedel than ever go out with my boss again. Doug may have stuck my life savings up his nose and robbed my place of employment, but at least he didn’t leave me stranded for another woman!

Business Notes

The Inquirer and Mirror

Week of June 17, 2005

BLUE BISTRO UP FOR SALE

Harry Henderson of Henderson Realty, Inc. announced late last week that Blue Bistro owners Thatcher Smith and Fiona Kemp have put the popular waterfront restaurant on the market for $8.5 million. Mr. Smith was quoted as saying, “This is a classic case of quitting while we’re ahead.” Rumors have circulated that Smith and Kemp are looking for another property on the island, and that they have expressed interest in Sloop’s on Steamship Wharf, which they hope to turn into a chic café called Calamari. “While we feel that space is currently underutilized,” Smith says, “the rumors are absolutely untrue.” The only certain plans Smith and his partner Ms. Kemp have in the works, he says, is a trip to the Galápagos Islands in October.

Ms. Kemp could not be reached for comment.

For Father’s Day, Adrienne bought her father a gas grill from the Williams-Sonoma catalog and a box of Omaha steaks. It cost her over seven hundred dollars but money, now, was the least of her worries. The balance in her bank account was steadily growing and she had paid off her thirteen-hundred-dollar debt to her father. If for the money alone, she was going to keep her job.

A week had passed and Thatcher hadn’t said a word about their date. Of course, Adrienne hardly gave him a chance-she spoke to him in only the most perfunctory way, in only the most professional capacity, and he returned the favor. With each passing day the evening of their date faded into yesterday’s news. Adrienne tried to regard it as a failed experiment. A fallen soufflé. She had broken Rule Three and she was paying the price. So now it was back to the straight and narrow. If she felt bruised-her heart, her ego-she was going to make sure that no one could tell.

She did a crisp, clean job on the floor. She handed out menus, delivered the chips and dip, ran food, opened wine, processed credit cards, and worked the door without compassion. Tyler Lefroy informed her that patrons of the bar called her the Blue Bitch. That made her smile for the first time since Dionis Beach.

What she needed, she told herself, was a life apart from the restaurant, and so she started jogging in the mornings. She ran to Surfside Beach, she ran to Cisco Beach, she ran along Miacomet Pond. She rode her bike to the rotary and ran along the Polpis Road. One day she ran to the restaurant-the Sid Wainer truck was in the parking lot and Adrienne saw Fiona and JZ sitting in the back of the truck talking, their legs dangling over the edge. She ran on Cliff Road past Tupancy Links and the water tower, out to Eel Point where the road turned to dirt.

Every way she went, Nantucket revealed its beauty. The rosa rugosa was blooming pink and white, the ponds were blue, the eelgrass razor sharp. The beaches were clean and still not crowded. The island had a lot more to offer, Adrienne told herself, than just Thatcher Smith.

One morning, Adrienne ran all the way out to Madaket Harbor, which was too far on a hot day. She bought a cold Evian at the Westender before she embarked on her limp home. She was on the bike path by Long Pond when a green Honda Pilot stopped; the tinted passenger window went down.

“Do you need a lift?” the driver asked.

It was a man, in his forties, with dark hair. The exact kind of person one imagined offering candy to an unsuspecting young girl.

“No, thanks,” Adrienne said, waving the empty water bottle. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“All set.”

“It’s awfully hot. I can drop you in town. It’ll take three minutes.”

Adrienne looked at her dusty shoes. The soles of her feet burned. The guy was right: It was hot. She was out of water and she had three, maybe four, miles to go. She noticed a child’s car seat in the back of the Pilot. So he probably wasn’t a serial killer, and he couldn’t exactly abduct her on Nantucket.

“Okay,” Adrienne said. “Thanks.” She climbed in. The air-conditioning was a blessing.

The man put up her window and hit the gas. “I’ll just drop you in town,” he said. “I’m headed in to pick up my mail.”

“Fine.”

He hummed along to a song on the radio. Adrienne sat up very straight to avoid sweating all over his car.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the man said.

Adrienne fumbled with her Walkman and it fell to the floor. She bent over to retrieve it, trying not to panic. She slid in a sideways look. He looked familiar, but she met so many people on a nightly basis that…

“Drew Amman-Keller,” he said.

Adrienne glanced up. Drew Amman-Keller? Adrienne studied his face. The lips she recognized, but the rest was different. Hadn’t he had a beard? And an awful pair of glasses?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You look different.”

“I shaved,” he said. “My wife insists that I shave in the summer.”

“You’re married?” Adrienne asked.

“Three kids,” he said.

Adrienne stared out the window. They were passing the landfill. She prayed to see another car, but they seemed to be the only one on the road. She tried to parse her fear. The guy was a freelance journalist, not a criminal. And it wasn’t as though he was stalking her; he was on his way to the post office.

“You can just drop me off here, if you want,” Adrienne said.

“At the dump?”

“I can walk home. It’s not far.”

“Did Thatcher tell you not to talk to me?”

A car approached, a red Jeep Wrangler with the top down-two very tan college boys with a couple of surf-boards strapped to the roll bars. They were gone before Adrienne could think of how to signal for help. What, she wondered, would Thatcher do if he learned she’d accepted a ride from Drew Amman-Keller? And why did she care what Thatcher thought?

“I know what’s going on with Fiona,” he said. “I’ve known for years. What she and Thatcher don’t understand is that I want to help. I have an offer on the table from the Atlantic Monthly if Fiona ever agrees to talk to me. Sometimes by writing a feature in a big magazine, you can create positive change.”

Adrienne squeezed her water bottle in the middle, making a plastic crunch. This was the guy who had sent her to the Bistro in the first place. He’d set her up, maybe, hoping she’d spy on Fiona and report details back to him. But what kind of details was he after, exactly? “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

Drew Amman-Keller took his eyes off the road for a split second to look at Adrienne. She noticed something funny about the bottom half of his face. It was pink and raw-looking where he’d shaved, as though he’d stripped off a mask.

He downshifted and signaled to the left. “Here’s Cliff Road,” he said. “Is it okay if I drop you here?”

“I thought you were going to take me into town,” Adrienne said. “Are you trying to get rid of me now?”

He laughed. “I’m happy to take you to town,” he said. He pulled back onto the road and turned up the radio.

Adrienne collapsed back in the seat. “You’re happy to take me to town, but you won’t tell me what’s going on in the restaurant where I’m the assistant manager. You must think I’m pretty naïve.”

“I think no such thing.”

Despite the air-conditioning, Adrienne was hot. And thirsty. And angry.

“I went on a date with Thatcher last week,” she said. “But Fiona called at midnight and told Thatcher his dinner was ready and he left me at my front door.” Adrienne watched Drew Amman-Keller for a reaction, but he had none. She kicked his glove compartment and left a mark with her filthy shoe. The restaurant was turning her into a lunatic, the kind of person who confided in strangers and disrespected their brand-new cars. “You told me if I ever wanted to talk, I should call you. You gave me your card. I still have it at home.”

“Good,” he said. “Hold on to it.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll write an article about my date with Thatcher?”

“No,” he said.

“No,” Adrienne echoed. Girl likes boy, boy likes different girl. He’d heard it a thousand times before. Everyone had.

There were only two people in the restaurant whom Adrienne trusted, and one of those people was Mario. This might have seemed counterintuitive, as Mario’s reputation among the staff was for being exactly the opposite-untrustworthy, fickle, a scoundrel. He had dumped Delilah by kissing another woman on the dance floor of the Chicken Box while he was there on a date with Delilah. Delilah had cried for three days, and she begged Duncan to defend her honor. Duncan said, “I told you not to go near the guy in the first place.”

Mario was deadly as a lover, but as a friend he had a curiously golden touch. The afternoon of her ride with Drew Amman-Keller, Adrienne marched back into pastry.

“It looks like someone could use a Popsicle,” Mario said. He pulled a tray out of the freezer and handed Adrienne a creamy raspberry-banana Popsicle then took one for himself. They licked the Popsicles leaning side by side against the marble counter.

“They’re good, yeah?” Mario said.

“Yeah,” she said. She bit off a big piece and it gave her an ice-cream headache. She moaned. Mario rubbed the inside of her wrist.

“This is supposed to help,” he said.

“You just want to touch me,” she said.

“You got that right.”

She said, “Do you know what’s going on between Fiona and Thatcher?”

He dropped her arm. “There’s nothing going on.”

Adrienne threw her Popsicle stick into the trash. “You’re lying to me.”

“No,” Mario said. He moved down the counter to where the dough for the Portuguese rolls was proofing. He worked the dough with his hands. “I would not lie to you. There’s nothing going on the way you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I always know what the ladies are thinking.”

“So if it’s not what I’m thinking, then what is it?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Mario said.

The other person Adrienne trusted was Caren, but only during certain times of the day: mornings after Duncan left, in the Jetta on the way to work, as they listened to Moby.

“I am not a jealous person,” Caren said, one morning after four espressos, which was enough to make even her tremble. “You haven’t known me very long, so you’ll have to take my word for it. Usually, I eat men for breakfast.”

“I can tell,” Adrienne said.

“I’m a biting bitch.”

“You’re strong.”

“Right. Except not with Duncan. I’ve known him twelve years and I’ve seen him do all kinds of outrageous things with women at the bar, and before it was always funny. But now it’s awful. They all want to sleep with him, even the married ones. He says he’s in it for the money, but I don’t know, it’s got to be an ego rush for him, right? This is driving me fucking nuts. But don’t tell anyone, okay? Promise you won’t tell.”

“I promise,” Adrienne said. She had sworn to herself that she wasn’t going to tell anyone about her ride with Drew Amman-Keller, not even Caren. But at that moment Caren seemed vulnerable-pale, sweating, shaking from her mainline of caffeine-so Adrienne said, “I know I’ve beaten this subject to death, but I really want to know what’s going on between Thatcher and Fiona.”

Caren gathered up her hair and tied it into a knot. It stayed perfect like that, without a single pin. Adrienne was both fascinated by her manipulations and driven batty by her silence. Caren was deciding how much, if anything, to divulge. “It’s a lot simpler than you think.”

“Simpler how?”

“They’re friends, like I said before. If you’re ever going to have a relationship with Thatcher Smith, you need to accept that.”

“I’m not going to have a relationship with Thatcher Smith,” Adrienne said. She needed to accept that.

On the Sunday before the official start of summer, Caren announced from her post in front of the espresso machine that she and Duncan were going sailing on Holt Millman’s yacht and that Adrienne was joining them.

“You’re not allowed to say no,” Caren said. “Holt is thrilled you’re coming. We’re leaving in thirty minutes and we’ll be back at four.”

Adrienne knew damn well that Holt Millman had no clue who she was but Caren seemed resolute and Duncan backed her up, saying, “Yep. Better get ready.”

It was something different, a welcome change from running by herself and going to the beach by herself. Once she was heading down the docks of Old North Wharf, Adrienne felt excited. It was another gorgeous day and she liked being among the boats-the sailboats, the power yachts-and the people loading up coolers of beer and bags of sandwiches, getting ready for a day on the water. She hoped Thatcher was cooped up inside, the phone stuck to his ear like a tumor.

Holt Millman’s yacht, Kelsey, was the biggest boat Adrienne had ever seen in person. It was, Duncan told her, 103 feet long with a ninety-foot main mast. It was modeled after the Shamrock, a 1930s era J-class racing yacht, but Holt’s boat was made out of Kevlar and honeycombed fiberglass. It had clean lines up top, Duncan said, but below deck it was a mansion-with china in cabinets, a Jacuzzi, a washer and dryer.

Duncan paused. “I’m going to guess that you’ve never seen anything like this.”

Adrienne had sailed on the Chesapeake when she was a child, she’d fished in blue water off the coast of Florida, hung on for dear life to a catamaran in Hawaii, and she island-hopped in an old junk during her year in Thailand. When she lived in Chatham, her boyfriend Sully had use of a seventeen-foot Boston Whaler and he’d even let her take the wheel. But none of that had prepared her for Kelsey.

They took their shoes off before they stepped onto the teak deck. Holt was standing in the cockpit talking to a man with broad shoulders who looked like the captain. Holt wore a green polo shirt with KELSEY on the pocket; he was drinking something pink and frosty in a Providence Puritans glass. (The Puritans, Duncan had informed Adrienne in the car, were an NHL expansion team that Holt had purchased the year before.) As soon as Holt saw Duncan and Caren, he raised his glass in greeting. Adrienne wished she knew something about hockey.

“Thanks for coming, thanks for coming,” Holt said. He pumped Duncan’s hand and kissed Caren on the cheek. “And you brought Adrienne. Good for you. This boat needs more pretty women.”

Adrienne smiled. “Thanks for inviting us,” she said, but Holt Millman didn’t hear. He was calling below deck for “Drinks, more drinks,” ushering Duncan forward, and introducing the rest of the guests with a sweep of his arm. There were five other people on the boat, some of whom Adrienne recognized. The woman who cut Thatcher’s hair sat on a cushioned bench in the cockpit talking to the hostess from 21 Federal. There were two older bond-trader type men who rose to greet Duncan and ask him about his handicap. And out on the bow of the boat was a stunning blond woman in a red bikini. She sat up and waved at Adrienne; it was Cat, the world’s most glamorous electrician.

“Cat is everywhere,” Adrienne murmured to Caren.

“She could be a model,” Caren said. “If she weren’t busy wiring Millman’s home theater.”

Caren joined Duncan’s conversation with the bond traders, leaving Adrienne to either sit alone or talk to the hostess and Thatcher’s hairdresser. While the first option was infinitely preferable, the hostess-who must have been the social director for her sorority in college-waved Adrienne over.

“Come sit with us!” she called. She moved her tiny butt a fraction of an inch to indicate that she was making room. Holt popped up the stairs with a tray of pink frosty drinks. He held the tray out to Adrienne.

“This is my own recipe,” he said. “It’s called a Kelsey. I keep trying to get Duncan to make them at the restaurant.”

Duncan lifted his head from his other conversation. “No blender drinks,” he said. “Sorry.”

Holt Millman laughed with his head thrown back, exposing his tan throat. Adrienne guessed he was nearing seventy, yet she sensed he went to great lengths and expense to keep himself looking younger. Spa treatments to erase the wrinkles from his face and neck and the like.

Adrienne accepted a drink and sat next to the hostess from 21. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Adrienne.”

The hostess clapped her hands. “We know who you are,” she said. “Because remember, I seated you? When you were on your date with Thatcher?”

The hairdresser piped in. “I just love Thatch,” she said. “That red-gold hair. I have clients who would sell their souls for hair that color.”

“Have you two been dating long?” the hostess asked.

“We’re not dating,” Adrienne said. “It was a business dinner.”

“Oh, stop,” the hairdresser said. “I cut his hair that very afternoon and he told me he had a hot date. It didn’t sound like business to me.”

“Well, it was business,” Adrienne said. She sipped her drink. It was delicious-watermelon, strawberry, club soda, and what she thought must be vodka. It went straight to her head. She removed her T-shirt so that she was in her bikini top and shorts. The sun felt terrific. Hot date? She was relieved when the motor revved and the captain steered them out of the harbor.

One hour and three Kelsey drinks later, Adrienne was happier. Caren had rescued her and now Adrienne, Caren, and Cat were lying in their bikinis on the teak deck near the bow. Above their heads the sails rumbled, the ropes snapped, and a crew of young men in green shirts like Holt’s moved about-tightening, loosening, using jargon like “foredeck” and “power winches.” Nantucket was a blur of green and gray in the distance. A young woman with an English accent brought a basket of wraps and refills for their drinks. The sandwiches were beautiful pinwheels of color: avocado, tomato and bacon, goat cheese and roasted red pepper, roast beef, cucumber, and horseradish cream. Forget Fiona, Adrienne thought. She was never getting off this boat.

Four drinks, five drinks. Then somehow, Adrienne found herself sitting in the cockpit with the rest of the guests passing around a joint. Adrienne smoked rarely but she was so relaxed that she didn’t even blink. Everyone smoked except for Holt Millman, who just beamed as though nothing pleased him more than young people smoking marijuana on his boat. When Adrienne looked at him again, she thought maybe he was closer to sixty.

She went below deck for the first time a while later in search of the bathroom, and since she was the only one underneath (aside from whatever sandwich genius was working in the galley) she took a look around. There was a living room with an overstuffed sofa and chairs and a wall lined with books that were held in place by a brass rail. There was a formal dining room with a bouquet of Asiatic lilies and pink roses on the oval table, and eight Windsor chairs, and the promised china in cabinets. There were a couple of small sleeping quarters, the beds decked out in Frette linens. And then Adrienne peeked quickly-because she was pressing her luck snooping around like this-into the master suite. A queen-size bed with a green silk spread, photographs of Holt Millman with Bill Gates, Holt Millman with Bill Clinton, Holt Millman with Elton John, and a framed article from Time about Holt Millman and his myriad companies. The article had been written by Drew Amman-Keller.

“Adrienne.”

Adrienne gasped; she’d been caught. Holt Millman himself stood in the doorway. This was, no doubt, the kind of situation that Adrienne’s father composed in his mind, the kind that turned his hair silver: Adrienne, wearing only a bikini, standing in the bedroom of Holt Millman’s yacht.

The pot made her feel like laughing; she bit her lip. “Sorry,” she said. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

“Use mine,” he said. He opened a door that Adrienne had thought was a closet, but it was the master bath. Marble, of course, with the Jacuzzi.

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

She closed the door behind her and peed-she really had to go-looking at the stacks of fluffy green towels and at the glassed-in shower. She felt the boat listing from side to side. She washed her hands with one of the cakes of sailboat-shaped soap and checked her teeth, hoping and praying that by the time she opened the door, Holt Millman would be gone. But he was right there, sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to someone on his cell phone. When she emerged, he snapped the phone shut.

“I just made a dinner reservation for two, tonight, eight o’clock, at the Wauwinet,” he said. “I hope you’ll join me.”

Adrienne stared at him, unwillingly imagining a woman smoothing essence of sea cucumber on Holt Millman’s neck to keep it taut. She wanted to laugh. She bowed her head. This was the eleventh richest man in the United States, asking her on a date.

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to work.”

“Work?” he said, as though he’d never heard of the word. “Okay, then, what night are you free?”

The answer was Wednesday night, but Adrienne couldn’t bring herself to tell him. She wished like hell that she was up on deck lying safely between Caren and Cat, picking at the leftover wraps, maybe indulging in one more cocktail since her mouth was dry and ashy.

“I’m dating someone,” she said. And in her alcohol-saturated, drug-induced state, she thought, I’m dating Thatch.

Holt Millman didn’t get to be so successful by being a jerk or by preying on young women in bikinis whom he found nosing around his personal quarters. He was, at all times, a model of graciousness. “Whoever he is, he is one lucky man,” Holt said. He offered Adrienne his arm and escorted her up the stairs, back into the sun.

When Adrienne woke up from her nap, it was four o’clock, and the girl with the English accent was offering her a cold Coca-Cola, which Adrienne immediately recognized as the answer to her prayers. She had fallen asleep on her stomach and she could tell just from sitting up that her back was burned. She knocked back half the Coke and went in search of Caren and Duncan, whom she found standing at the stern on either side of the flapping Rhode Island flag. They were tan and laughing; they looked like models in a Tommy Hilfiger ad. Adrienne caught Caren’s eye and pointed to her running watch. It was five after four, they were zero feet above sea level, and Nantucket was still a smudge on the horizon. Caren shrugged. Nonchalance was her middle name. Adrienne, on the other hand, was a realist. If they headed back now they might be in the harbor in half an hour. Leaving twenty-five minutes to drop Duncan off, get home, change (there would be no time for a shower), and get to work. But who was she kidding? They were going to be late.

Adrienne tapped the captain on the shoulder. “I know I’m going to sound like a Providence Puritan,” she said, desperately hoping he got the joke, “but there are three of us on this boat who have to be at work at five.”

Even with both motors turned on full-throttle, they didn’t reach the mouth of the harbor until ten of five. By this time, the effects of the alcohol and the pot were gone and in their place was the special anxiety that hit when Adrienne knew she was going to be fatally late. Her brain ticked like a clock, she checked her jogging watch eighty-two times, and finally-because everyone on the boat could sense she was about to have a nervous breakdown-Holt Millman pulled out his cell phone and told Thatcher that he had taken three of the Bistro’s key employees hostage and that they would be to work by the stroke of six. Adrienne was dying to hear Thatcher’s response to this, but Holt snapped his cell phone shut, as if closing the book on the problem of the time, and said, “There. Do you feel better?”

“I don’t like to be late,” she said.

When they finally docked, Adrienne hugged the eleventh richest man in the country and thanked him for a wonderful day, then she hauled ass to the car with Duncan and Caren trailing reluctantly behind. The next hour was a blur of activity: drive, drop off Duncan, drive, wash face, brush teeth, change into the diaphanous blouse, which hid her sunburn, stuff half an untoasted bagel with light veggie cream cheese into her pie hole since they were going to miss family meal (Caren ate the other half and spent four minutes brewing an espresso-Adrienne drank one also in the interest of staying awake through service), brush teeth again, drive. They walked into the Bistro at five fifty-six, trying to look like it was just another lovely day at the regatta. Pshew!

Thatcher was at the podium, going over the book. He seemed unperturbed by their late arrival. “How was the sail?” he asked.

“Fabulous,” Adrienne said.

Why had they hurried? There were only sixty-two covers on the book and only twenty people for first seating, though Adrienne did have three parties walk in. Joe and Christo both had the night off, as did Rex, so instead of piano music the stereo played Vivaldi.

“It’s dead,” Adrienne complained.

“The calm before the storm,” Thatcher said. “This is a notoriously slow weekend because people have other things going on-weddings, graduations. But I had a hundred calls today about the Fourth. It’s going to be a circus.”

This was the longest conversation they’d had since their date. The sail had put Adrienne in a more generous frame of mind. She could talk to Thatcher as though he was just another person.

“What was family meal tonight?”

“Grilled pizzas,” Thatcher said. “Are you sorry you missed it?”

“I ate at home,” Adrienne said, thinking, Of course I’m sorry I missed it! “The boat was fun. Holt Millman asked me out to dinner.”

At first it appeared Thatcher hadn’t heard her-either that or he was letting it go, like he did the time Adrienne asked if Fiona was his wife. But then he tilted his head and peered at Adrienne out of the corner of his eye. “What did you tell him?” he asked.

There was no mistaking his tone of voice: He cared. He cared! Adrienne did her best to keep the trumpet of victory out of her response.

“I told him no.”

At seven o’clock, JZ came in with a little girl who had brown bobbed hair and a mouth full of chewing gum.

“Adrienne,” JZ said. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Shaughnessy. Shaughnessy, this is Adrienne Dealey.”

“Big dealey,” Shaughnessy said, then she giggled.

“You’ll excuse my daughter,” JZ said. “She’s suffering from a cute case of being eight. We’re going to sit at the bar.”

Adrienne held out a hand. “Be my guest,” she said.

But Shaughnessy remained at the podium, studying Adrienne. “We’re going to eat caviar,” she said. “And then I’m going into the kitchen to help Fiona make a pizza.”

“Is that so?” Adrienne said. “Do you like to cook?”

She shrugged. “Of course.”

JZ led Shaughnessy to the bar, where the two of them perched on stools. Since there was absolutely nothing else to do-Thatcher had left her to work the door in case of walk-ins while he romanced the floor-Adrienne watched them. Dad and daughter: The sight made Adrienne miss her own father who at that moment would be relaxing in a house Adrienne had never seen, hopefully enjoying a perfectly grilled Omaha steak and watching 60 Minutes.

Duncan poured JZ a beer and made Shaughnessy a Shirley Temple with three cherries. Shaughnessy removed the gum from her mouth and parked it on her cocktail napkin. Adrienne decided to check in the kitchen; if the chips and dip were ready, she could run them out.

When she walked through the kitchen door she nearly crashed into Fiona, who was on her tiptoes at the out door, trying to see through the window. Behind the pass, the Subiacos were engrossed in the baseball game on the radio; the White Sox were at Fenway tonight. Adrienne had hardly seen Fiona since her date with Thatcher; Fiona had been hiding out a lot in the office. Adrienne certainly hadn’t spoken to her. But she looked so funny trying to see out the window that Adrienne decided to excuse the fact that this was the woman who had sabotaged her date and caused her ten days of date-induced angst.

“You should go say hi,” Adrienne said. “There’s practically no one sitting down.”

Fiona spun on the heels of her kitchen clogs. “The last time I went out during service, Ruth Reichl was sitting at table one. The month following there was a tidbit in Gourmet about how Chef Fiona Kemp does occasionally peek out of her shell. So I’m not going out. What do you need?”

“I saw JZ. I thought there might be chips for him. His daughter said she was going to eat caviar and then come in here and help you make a pizza.”

Fiona’s face softened. “She wants to be a chef,” she said. “Isn’t that crazy?” And then she yelled out, “Spuds, Paco!”

And Paco said, “Yes, chef.”

Pfft, pfft, pfft, hiss.

“They’ll be ready in three minutes,” Fiona said. “Get back to your post.”

Adrienne ran the chips, opened two bottles of wine, changed the CD to Bobby Short at the Carlyle Hotel. She saw JZ and Shaughnessy slip into the kitchen. Suddenly, in that way he had, Thatcher materialized at her side.

“She’s a cute kid,” Adrienne said. “Seeing her with JZ reminds me of me and my dad.”

“Adrienne Dealey waxes sentimental,” Thatcher said.

“Where’s her mother? Is she alive?”

“I’m afraid so,” Thatcher said.

“So JZ’s divorced?”

“No.”

“He’s not divorced?”

“No. He’s married.”

“He’s married?”

“Yes.” Thatcher handed Adrienne a pile of menus to return to the podium, meaning: Get back to your post.

“But you said he was a nice guy.” Thinking: He brought his daughter to the restaurant to make pizza with his lover? Not nice.

“Oh, Adrienne,” Thatcher said. “Were the world so easy as you appear to believe it is.”

Three women who walked in at quarter to eight asked for rolls and butter, giving Adrienne an excuse to poke her head in the kitchen. She had finally learned where the rolls were kept-in a burlap sack hanging from one of the oven doors so the rolls would keep warm. Adrienne fixed a basket of rolls and arranged the cake of butter on a glass pedestal, all while watching Fiona and Shaughnessy make their pizza. The dough was rolled out and Shaughnessy painted it with sauce, then she gathered up two handfuls of pepperoni.

“I want to make a face,” she said.

“Not only a chef,” Fiona said, “but an artist.”

Shaughnessy laid out the pepperoni. Eyes, nose, mouth.

“Your face is frowning,” Fiona said.

“Because I feel sad,” Shaughnessy said.

Fiona had a handful of sliced fresh mozzarella poised over the pizza, but when Shaughnessy said this, she lowered her hand to the counter and glanced at JZ. JZ shrugged.

Fiona raised Shaughnessy’s chin with her finger. Adrienne’s attention was captivated by the look on Fiona’s face. She recognized that look.

“Why are you sad?” Fiona said.

“Because I want everything to be different,” Shaughnessy said. “I want you to be my mother.”

Thatcher let Adrienne go early and she was glad; it had been the world’s longest day. When she got home, she showered, then fell into bed in her towel with her hair wet. She thought she might have crazy dreams about Holt Millman or the girl with the English accent who worked on the boat or Shaughnessy and JZ and the absent wife/mother whom they both seemed so eager to replace. But Adrienne slept without dreaming at all. When she heard the knock at her door, that was the one thing she was certain of: She hadn’t been dreaming and she wasn’t dreaming now. There was someone knocking on her door.

She pulled her comforter up under her chin. Thinking, Caren. But maybe Duncan-and how weird would that be?

“Hello?” she said.

It was dark, but even so, she could tell that the person in the doorway was Thatch. A light from somewhere caught his hair and she knew the shape of him, his tread, his smell. Thatcher Smith was in her room. She checked her clock-one forty-eight-not so late, really. Not by restaurant standards. His presence was so bizarre that she didn’t even know where to begin her thinking. She waited for him to speak.

He eased himself down onto the side of her bed. “Hi,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Hi, me,” she said. She worried what she looked like; she wondered if he could see her.

There was a long pause and then he sighed. “I’m sorry, Adrienne.”

The words hung in the room in an odd way, as if they required more explanation, but they didn’t.

“I know,” she said.

“You may wonder why I’m telling you now, in the middle of the night.”

“The middle of the night part doesn’t bother me,” Adrienne said. “Nor the fact that you seem to have broken into my house. But you made me wait ten days.”

“There’s a lot going on,” Thatcher said. “Fiona’s sick.”

“I know,” Adrienne said.

“She’s very sick.”

“I know,” Adrienne said-because she did know, somehow. The coughing, the childhood illness Thatcher didn’t want to talk about, Fiona’s reclusiveness, her embrace with JZ, the last year of the restaurant, Drew Amman-Keller’s cryptic words, Thatcher’s slavish devotion-they had all added up in Adrienne’s mind to an instinct she hadn’t been able to acknowledge, even to herself. But then there was earlier that evening, the scene she witnessed; Shaughnessy in the kitchen with Fiona. There had been something in Fiona’s face, a longing Adrienne had seen before in her own mother’s face when Rosalie lay in the hospital bed, her pale head covered with a Phillies cap. So, yes, Adrienne knew: Fiona was sick.

“Do you want me to leave?” Thatcher said.

“No,” Adrienne said. “I want you to stay. Do you want to talk about Fiona?”

“Not tonight,” Thatcher said. “Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

Thatcher removed his blazer and laid it across Adrienne’s computer table. Then he shed his loafers and his watch and his belt and he climbed into bed. Adrienne was nude-her towel had long ago been mixed up with the covers-and when he realized this fact, he inhaled a sharp breath.

“Sorry,” she said. “I showered when I got home, and…”

He kissed her and Adrienne was filled with awe. How had she survived ten days without his mouth on hers, his tongue, his lips, his body pressed against her body? How had she survived? It felt as though she had gone ten days without food, without water. Because she was hungry for him. She was starved.