The Blue Bistro (31 page)

“Do I really have to clean that gross shit up?”

“Get a mop,” Adrienne said.

Adrienne wanted to call Thatcher back, but she couldn’t. Tables had to be turned; there were a hundred and twenty people sitting down at nine, and because of the Elpern spectacle, first seating was running behind. Adrienne monitored the
progress of dessert and coffee; her foot was actually tapping.
Turn ’em and burn ’em,
she thought. The busboys were humping. Then Caren had a credit card war. Adrienne had heard about these but never seen one. Two men at table eight (by chance, the very men Harry Henderson had stopped to greet) wanted the bill. They were
fighting
over it. Adrienne’s attention was called to the problem when she heard Caren’s voice, much louder than it should have been.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure we can work this out! I am happy to split the bill.”

The men were on their feet now, tugging at either end of the bill. Thankfully, this was one of the last tables in the dining room. Adrienne approached: The table was another Realtor and his wife and a local lawyer and her husband. The lawyer’s husband was the louder of the two men, though the Realtor was physically bigger.

“I thought we agreed . . .” the lawyer’s husband said.

“Please, I
insist,
” the Realtor growled.

Adrienne felt bad that she hadn’t at least asked Thatcher how Fiona was doing; it was a big mistake that needed to be rectified as soon as possible. With a lightning-quick movement, Adrienne snatched the bill from both men, then put her palm out.

“We don’t have
time
for this,” she said. Blue Bitch voice. “Cards.”

They handed over their cards and Adrienne spun on her heels. Caren followed her.

“Impressive,” Caren murmured.

Adrienne tried to call Thatcher back after everyone from second seating was settled, but just as she felt it was safe to pick up the phone, Hector appeared from the kitchen.

“The exhaust fan is out,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the kitchen is getting smoky.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said.

“We need it fixed,” Hector said.

“Fine.”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Adrienne said. She checked her watch. “It’s a quarter of ten.”

“Cat,” Hector said. “Call her on her cell phone.”

“I will not,” Adrienne said. “She’s probably
asleep.
”

“If you don’t call her, the fire alarms are going to go off and the fire department will show up.”

“Take the batteries out,” Adrienne said.

Hector readjusted his White Sox hat. “This is an industrial kitchen,” he said. “Do you really think our fire alarms run on a couple of double As? You have to call Cat.”

“You’re kidding me, right? This is a joke?” Adrienne was
certain
it was a joke. A prank to go with Lucy Elpern’s labor. A little laugh at her expense while the boss was away.

“I’m serious,” Hector said. “Look.” He pointed to the window of the kitchen door. Smoke.

“I can’t believe this,” Adrienne said.
The restaurant can run itself. Ha!
as Thatcher would say.
Ha ha ha!

She found Cat’s cell phone number on a list pasted to the front of the reservation book and Cat answered on the first ring. It sounded like she was in high spirits. Too high.

“Cat? It’s Adrienne calling from the Blue Bistro.”

“Hey, girlfriend!”

“Hi. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but we have an exhaust fan out.”

There was a long pause. Adrienne feared she had lost the connection, but then Cat spoke up. “I just needed to step outside,” she said. “I’m having dinner at the Chanticleer.”

Adrienne groaned. The Chanticleer was in Sconset, on the other side of the island. “So you can’t come fix it?”

“And leave behind the duck for two with pomme frites?” Cat said. “The bottle of 1972 Mouton Rothschild . . .”

“We could give you dinner here,” Adrienne said. “Hector said if it’s not fixed, the alarms will go.”

“Well,” said Cat. Another pause. “I’m with a party of ten and I know for a fact my husband can eat the duck for two by himself. I’ll sneak out now and come back. They’re so drunk, they might not even miss me.”

Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was filled with smoke such that Antonio could barely read the tickets. They had opened the back door of the office and the six narrow windows and they pulled the two oscillating fans out of the utility closet and Paco was yanked off his station—his new job was to stand in front of the smoke detector waving a large offset spatula. Adrienne returned to the front. She drank her third glass of champagne and contemplated another kamikaze shot. Every time one of the waitstaff emerged, he smelled like a barbecue.

“Whew! It’s getting bad back there,” Joe said. “Have you called Cat?”

“She’s on her way,” Adrienne said, praying that Cat didn’t get stopped on Milestone Road for drunk driving. Adrienne considered calling Thatcher and asking quickly about Fiona, but she wouldn’t be able to keep the panic out of her voice. As she finished her champagne, Cat walked in the door—black cocktail dress, Manolo Blahniks, tool belt.

“Praise Allah,” Adrienne said.

Cat stuck out her lower lip. “The 1972 Mouton Rothschild,” she said.

“We’ll make it up to you,” Adrienne said.

Cat disappeared into the kitchen and Adrienne called Thatcher.

“Hi,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” Adrienne said.

“Her O
₂
sats are back up for the time being,” Thatcher said. “The doctors are worried, though.”

“About what?”

“She’s becoming resistant to the antibiotics, and there’s a lot of other stuff going on that I don’t even pretend to understand. The doctor nixed the trip to the Galápagos, and Fiona was crushed. Can you make a note in the book for me to cancel with the travel agent? We’ll be home tomorrow night, Fiona will be back to work on Monday. Would you pass that on to Antonio?”

“Sure,” Adrienne said, scribbling a note about the travel
agent. No Galápagos, then. She thought she might feel relieved, but instead she just felt sad. “JZ was in this morning. He’s worried.”

“He should be here,” Thatcher said. “She’s been asking for him.” He sighed. “I got your messages. Sounds like everything is going well there.”

“Going well?” Adrienne said.

“Isn’t it?”

At that moment, Adrienne heard a muted cheer from the kitchen and Cat stepped out, hoisting her tool belt in victory. Adrienne blew her a kiss as she ran out the door.

“Sure,” Adrienne said.

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow night. We’ll be on the four o’clock flight so I hope to make the menu meeting. How many covers are on the book?”

“Two thirty-five,” Adrienne said.

“Whoa,” Thatcher said. “It’s July. Hey, would you call Jack at the flower shop in the morning and have him deliver fresh hydrangeas on Monday? I want it to look nice when Fee comes back.”

“No problem,” Adrienne said.

“I miss you,” Thatcher said. “Do you miss me?”

“I do,” she said.

She hung up the phone. She felt better, like she was the one whose exhaust fan had been broken, and now she sucked in clean, fresh air. The phone rang again, private line. Adrienne had to do rounds through the dining room, but she picked up the phone in case it was Thatcher with one last thing.

It wasn’t Thatcher, but Adrienne was glad she took the call anyway. Harry Henderson informed her, in a voice both jubilant and humbled, of the birth of Sebastian Robert Elpern, nine pounds, twelve ounces, perfect in every way, and of an official offer on the Blue Bistro for eight and a half million dollars.

Sports Illustrated
cover story:
“
THE HEROES OF AMERICA’S HEARTLAND:
CAN THE WHITE SOX WIN THE PENNANT
?”

TO
: [email protected]

FROM
: [email protected]

DATE
: July 13, 2005, 9:02
A.M
.

SUBJECT
: Things I can’t believe

I can’t believe you’ve traded in the cushy life of the hotel front desk for the restaurant business. I can’t believe you’re dating your boss.
I can’t believe you’re living with my dreamboat Duncan. You should thank me for recommending Nantucket. You should remember me in your will.

TO
: [email protected]

FROM
: [email protected]

DATE
: July 13, 2005, 10:35
A.M
.

SUBJECT
: Thank you

Thank you for recommending Nantucket. I am in a much better place, following my new rules, feeling good about myself. I paid off both Mr. Visa and Ms. MasterCard and I have a positive bank balance. I am in a relationship with a real, live, grown-up man. I sing in the shower.

It is amazing, Kyra, the way that happiness changes a person.

TO
: [email protected]

FROM
: [email protected]

DATE
: July 14, 2005, 8:41
A.M
.

SUBJECT
: the way that happiness changes a person

Is happiness contagious? Can you send me some spores in the mail?

When Fiona returned from Boston, Adrienne studied her for signs of illness, but Fiona had never looked better. One very busy Thursday night, the kitchen was waist-deep in the weeds. The kitchen had so many tickets, there wasn’t enough room for them above the pass. The Subiacos were sweating and cursing and busting their humps to keep up. Fiona slid behind the line to plate soups, sauce pasta, and sauté foie gras while singing “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow.” Every time Adrienne peeked her head in, she found Fiona in soaring good spirits.

“One plate at a time,” Fiona called out. She even helped Jojo, the youngest Subiaco, load the dishwasher. She was a general in the foxhole with her men, but singing, gleeful. It was strange. Adrienne thought maybe the hospital had given Fiona a personality transplant.

It didn’t take Adrienne long to figure out that Fiona’s improvement
in attitude had nothing to do with the hospital or facing her own mortality. It had, very simply, to do with love. Right after first seating, JZ walked in. Shaughnessy was away at camp and he had rented a house on Liberty Street. Today was Day One of a week’s vacation.

Fiona and JZ were inseparable. By Day Three they had established a routine: They did yoga together on the beach in the mornings, and then JZ helped Fiona in the kitchen. One morning Adrienne found him pitting Bing cherries and joking with the Subiacos. (The Subiacos were in a collective good mood because the White Sox had won eleven straight and held first place by a game and a half.) Fiona and JZ escaped from the kitchen by noon with a picnic basket and off they would go in Fiona’s Range Rover to secret, out-of-the-way beaches where no one would ever find them. JZ ate dinner at the bar and spent the hour after second seating in the kitchen—and Adrienne knew that after eating with Thatch, Fiona drove her Range Rover to the house on Liberty Street and spent the night.

Was happiness contagious? By Day Four, it was safe to say that the food at the Bistro had never been better and Adrienne wasn’t sure how to explain that. How did the best get better? It just did. Every single guest raved about the food.
Perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked, the freshest, the creamiest, the most succulent. The best I’ve ever had.
Adrienne noticed it, too, at family meal: the Asian shrimp noodles, the Croque monsieurs, the steak sandwiches with creamy horseradish sauce and crispy Vidalia onion rings.
Are you kidding me?
Adrienne thought as she stuffed her face. She thought:
JZ, never leave.

On Day Five, Adrienne was working reservations when the private line rang. By this time, Adrienne realized the private line could be anybody: Thatcher (who was at an AA meeting), Cat, Dottie Shore, Harry Henderson, Ernie Otemeyer, Leon Cross, Father Ott.

“Good morning, Blue Bistro,” Adrienne said.

A woman’s voice said, “This is Jamie Zodl. I’m looking for my husband. Have you seen him?”

Adrienne found herself at a loss. “I’m sorry? Your husband?”

“Jasper Zodl. JZ. There’s no need to play games. I know you know who he is and I know he’s there. Or if he’s not there now, he’ll be there at some point and I want to speak to him.”

Adrienne wrote JZ’s name at the top of her reconfirmation sheet. She thought of Shaughnessy at summer camp and all the things that might have gone wrong: sunburn, mosquito bites, sprained ankle, homesickness. “He normally delivers here at ten,” Adrienne said. “But he’s on vacation this week.”