Adrienne brandished the card. “It’s no good. I’ve run the card six times, three times manually, and I can’t get a bite. You’re going to have to tell them.”
“And jeopardize my tip? No way, sister. You tell them.”
Adrienne peered over Joe’s shoulder at the table. The lovely dark-haired wife was sitting sideways in her chair; she was all wrapped up in her pashmina like a present, her Louis Vuitton clutch purse in her lap. The husband had his pen poised. There would be no lengthy calculations with the tip, forty, fifty, a nice round number on the generous side, a dashed off signature, and these people were out the door.
“Okay, I’ll tell them,” she said.
Joe studied the card, “Tell them it’s expired,” he said. “This card expired in May. Today is the second of June. Didn’t Thatch tell you to check the expiration first thing?”
Of course he had. Adrienne hurried the card back over to the couple, explained the problem, and the man, with apologies, offered her an identical card with a different expiration, and Adrienne ran it without incident. Sixty seconds later the couple was breezing past her with a happy, rushed wave.
Thatcher in the meantime had asked Joe what the problem was-he had seen Joe and Adrienne conferring by the credit card machine as he chatted with one of the fondue tables out in the sand-and Joe had tattled.
Thatcher handed Adrienne another leather folder. “Run this. And always remember to check the expiration. I’m surprised you didn’t learn that on your five front desks.”
She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she would be satisfied if nobody showed up for first night of bar, if the place didn’t turn out to be as “wildly popular” as Thatcher and Duncan and Bon Appétit thought it was. Plus, she was tired again tonight. She’d had two glasses of champagne, two glasses of water, and a regular coffee loaded with cream and sugar. As the guests from second seating finished up and wandered toward the door, Adrienne stood at the podium and bid them good-bye, hoping nobody could tell that the podium was holding her up.
JZ rose from the bar-he had finished his meal with Mario’s ethereal candy plate-and Adrienne thought he, too, was leaving. But he walked wide of the podium like he was headed for the men’s room. Except he bypassed the men’s room and pushed open the door of the kitchen.
The kitchen. Adrienne stared at the swinging door with dread. What had Thatcher said? No guests allowed in the kitchen. Adrienne waited a second to see if JZ would come flying out on his butt. She stopped Caren.
“That guy who was sitting at the bar-did you see him?-he went into the kitchen. He just… I didn’t realize that’s where… is that okay?”
“Who, JZ?” Caren said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, you know who he is, right?”
“The delivery driver?” Adrienne said.
Caren laughed and pushed into the kitchen behind him.
And then, just when the restaurant was beginning to take on a sense of calm-Tyler, Roy, and Gage the only flurry of activity as they cleared tables and stripped them-the headlights started pulling into the parking lot. The first people to reach the door were four large college boys wearing oxford shirts over tie-dye and loafers from L.L. Bean. One of them had a black cord at the neck like Duncan’s only this cord had a purplish bead on it. From Connecticut, Adrienne thought. Listened to Phish.
“Bar open?” the one with the necklace asked, and Adrienne surveyed the bar. Its four bar stools were deserted and Duncan was checking over his bottles while Delilah worked around him, replacing glasses. Adrienne held up a finger. Boys like this-boys like the ones she used to date at the three colleges she attended (Perry Russell, junior year at Vanderbilt, from Connecticut, listened to Phish)-now made her feel old and prim. Like a librarian.
She went over to check with Duncan; Thatcher was MIA. “Is the bar open?”
This was possibly the dumbest question of all time-why would tonight be called first night of bar if the bar wasn’t open? But Duncan simply straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, punched a button on the CD player-R.E.M.’s “I Am Superman”-and said, “I’m as ready as I’ll never be.”
It was nearing eleven o’clock. The four boys shook hands with Duncan, claimed the bar stools with a whoop, and ordered Triple Eight and tonics. Adrienne returned to the podium. A couple on a date came in followed by a group of six women who called themselves the Winers, followed by two older men who informed Adrienne of her loveliness and told her they’d just finished an exquisite meal at Company of the Cauldron and wanted a nightcap. More women-a bachelorette party. The return of the local author and her entourage. By ten after eleven, Adrienne couldn’t even see Duncan through the throng of people. He’d turned up the stereo and the floorboards vibrated under Adrienne’s shoes. Headlights continued to pull into the parking lot.
Where, exactly, was Thatcher?
Caren and Spillman still had tables out in the sand finishing dessert, but the other waiters would be cashing out. Adrienne found Thatcher doling out tips from the cash box at a small deuce in the far corner of the restaurant.
“People keep pulling in,” Adrienne said. “Where’s the bouncer?”
“I was kidding about the bouncer,” Thatcher said. “Go back up front. When Duncan gives you the ‘cutthroat’ sign, start your line. And then it’s one for one. One person goes out, one person comes in.”
Adrienne rubbed her forehead-really, could the man irritate her more?-and headed back by the bar.
“Adrienne!”
It was Duncan, holding aloft a glass of Laurent-Perrier. Only two days earlier, good French champagne had been her favorite indulgence, but now it held all the appeal of a glass of hemlock. Still, the guests at the bar parted for her like she was someone important, thus she felt compelled to take the glass and shout, “Thank you!” over the strains of an old Yaz tune.
Duncan smiled and gave her the “cutthroat” sign.
She carried her champagne to the podium just as two women stepped through the door. They were wearing black dresses and high heels, one woman was blond, the other brunette. They looked to be in their forties. Divorced, Adrienne guessed. Out on the prowl.
“I’m sorry?” Adrienne said.
The brunette flicked her eyes at Adrienne but didn’t acknowledge her. The women kept walking.
“Excuse me!” Adrienne called. She put her glass down and took a few strides toward the women until she was able to reach out and touch the middle of the brunette’s bare back. That did it-the brunette spun around.
“What?”
How predictable was this? I was kidding about the bouncer. What Thatcher meant was, You, Adrienne, are the bouncer.
“The bar’s full,” Adrienne said. “You’ll have to wait by the door until someone leaves.”
The brunette might have been beautiful at one time but it looked like she’d gotten in a lot of afternoons at the beach over the years without sunscreen-that and something else. When her brow creased at Adrienne’s words, she looked like a witch. It was probably the face she used to scare her children.
“We’re friends of Cat,” she said.
Friends of Cat, the electrician. Cat, who was the most important VIP in the unlikely event of a blackout.
“Okay,” Adrienne said, but she didn’t smile because she wasn’t that much of a pushover.
A minute later, Caren appeared. “Duncan’s pissed.”
Adrienne blinked. Duncan had every right to be pissed-he’d given her the “cutthroat” sign and not thirty seconds later she let in more people-but Adrienne did not like being confronted by Caren in her new capacity as Duncan’s girlfriend.
“They said they were friends of Cat’s.”
“Everyone on the island is friends with Cat,” Caren said. “If that bar gets any heavier, it’s going to sink into the sand. But more importantly, if you let any more people in, you’re going to ruin it for the people who are already here.”