The Blue Bistro (44 page)

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

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

She pictured him licking his womanish lips.

“I called to talk to you about Fiona.”

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

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

“No,” she said.

“Okay, then, the phone.”

“The phone.”

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

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

Adrienne hung up.

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

“Ha! When am I supposed to use this?”

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

“Ha!”

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

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

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

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

“You don’t say you love me anymore.”

“I love you.”

“That wasn’t very convincing.”

“Why do I have to convince you?”

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

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

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

“So I can focus on our sex life?”

“No,” Adrienne said.

“No, my ass. That’s what you want.”

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

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

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

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

“You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?”

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

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

“Harry Henderson calling for Thatcher, please.”

Thatcher disappeared into the kitchen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard you. Did you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go home? But what about . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

“I already called him.”

“Is he coming?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

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

“She’s lying.”

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

“Okay,” Adrienne said. “Sorry.”

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

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

“How is that the same thing?”

“Because . . .”

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

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

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

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

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