“I didn’t order DP and Fiona won’t make special dishes.” He checked the fax. “Medjool dates? Is she kidding? And as for the photographer-Do I really need to go on?”
“No.”
“She’ll be happier at the Summer House,” Thatcher said. “Sorry. Do you want to call her manager or do you want me to do it?”
“You do it,” Adrienne said. “I’m going home.”
On Tuesday, Tam Vinidin’s visit to Nantucket rated a front-page story in the Cape Cod Times and the Inquirer and Mirror, and there was a two-column article in USA Today written by Drew Amman-Keller describing the house she rented (on Squam Road), naming all the shops where she dropped bundles of cash (Dessert, Gypsy, Hepburn), and disclosing where she ate (the Nantucket Golf Club, 56 Union, the Summer House). Mr. Amman-Keller made a point of noting that Ms. Vinidin’s trip to the Blue Bistro had been cancelled because Chef Fiona Kemp “would not accommodate her strict adherence to Dr. Atkins’s diet.” One of the Subiacos had clipped Drew Amman-Keller’s article out of the paper and taped it to the wall next to the reach-in. Under the picture of Tam Vinidin (sitting on the bench outside Congdon & Coleman Insurance in cut-off jean shorts) someone had written: “Feed me fondue.”
Wednesday was Adrienne’s day off, and she forgot about Tam Vinidin. Wednesday night, Thatcher took Adrienne to Company of the Cauldron for dinner and he ate every bite. After dinner they went back to Thatcher’s house-a cottage behind one of the big houses in town. His cottage was only large enough to accommodate a bed and a dresser, and on top of the dresser, a TV for watching college football in the fall. There was a bathroom and a rudimentary kitchen. Not exactly impressive digs, but Adrienne was honored to be in his private space. She studied the pictures of his brothers, she flipped through his high school yearbook. In the back, on the “Best Friends” page, she found a picture of Thatcher, with a bad haircut and acne on his nose, and Fiona, who looked exactly the same as she did now, twenty years later.
Adrienne and Thatcher spent the entire next day together. They drove Thatcher’s pickup to Coatue, where they found a deserted cove and fell asleep in the sun. Thatcher skipped rocks and built Adrienne a sand castle. At four o’clock, he’d dropped her at home so she could shower and change. She caught a ride to work with Caren, who informed Adrienne that she and Duncan were back together, though Duncan was on probation.
“One more fuckup and it’s over,” Caren said.
Adrienne tried to listen seriously, but she couldn’t stop smiling. The sand castle Thatcher built had been as beautiful as a wedding cake.
There were 229 covers on the book. Family meal was grilled cheeseburgers and the first corn on the cob of the season. Thatcher was late, but all Adrienne could think of was how happy she was going to be when he came walking through the door.
The phone rang, the private line. It was Thatcher. “Is everyone there?” he said. Adrienne turned around to survey the dining room.
“Everyone except Elliott,” she said. “It’s his night off.”
“Okay,” he said. “Listen. I need you to listen. Are you listening?”
She heard the normal sounds of the restaurant-the swinging kitchen door, the chatter of the waitstaff, the first notes of the piano-but none of that could overtake the high-pitched ringing in her ears. She could tell he was about to say something awful.
“Yes,” she said.
“Fiona isn’t doing well. Her doctor wants her to go to Boston for at least three days. And I’m going with her.”
Adrienne stared at the kitchen door. She hadn’t realized Fiona wasn’t in.
“You’ll be in Boston for three days?” she said.
“At least three days,” Thatcher said. “Antonio knows, and he’s told the kitchen staff. They’re used to it, okay? For them, this is no big deal. And you’re going to cover for me.” He paused. “Adrienne?”
“What?”
“You do a terrific job. On the floor, on the phone. Everything. The waitstaff knows how to tip out, so all you have to do at the end of the night is add up the receipts and make a deposit of the cash in the morning. The restaurant can run itself.”
“What about reservations?”
“Just do the best you can.”
“Can I call you? You’re taking your cell?”
“Absolutely. I have a room at the Boston Harbor Hotel. You should call me there before you lock up at night. And I’ll need you in at ten to do reconfirmations and answer the phone.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“You don’t have to pay me,” Adrienne said. She felt like a tidal wave was crashing over the perfect sand castle of her life. Thatcher gone for three days. Fiona sick enough for a hospital. Adrienne left in charge of the restaurant in the height of the season. It was impossible, wasn’t it, what he was asking of her? As though he had told her she had to land an airplane or dock an ocean liner. “You can pay me, but I’m not worried about money. I’m worried about you. And Fiona. Is she going to be all right?”
“I’ll know more tomorrow,” Thatcher said. “She has a lot of anxiety. Father Ott is sitting with her right now.”
“Father Ott?”
“She’s afraid she’s going to hell,” Thatcher said. He cleared his throat. “Listen, I have to go. Call me before you close, okay?”
“Okay,” Adrienne said.
He hung up.
Some time would have been nice, a few minutes to collect herself, to wrap her mind around what this phone call meant. But it was six o’clock, the waitstaff wanted confirmation that they were perfect-they were-and Rex played the theme from Romeo and Juliet. The first table arrived: a male couple who was staying at the Point Breeze. Adrienne sat them at table one, handed them menus, and told them to enjoy their meals, but when she said this, it sounded like a question, and in fact, as she looked at their perplexed tan faces, she was thinking: Fiona is afraid she’s going to hell. Adrienne headed for the bar; she needed her drink.
“Where’s the boss man?” Duncan asked.
How much was she supposed to say? Thatcher hadn’t given her any guidelines. “He’s not coming in tonight.”
“Out last night and tonight?” Duncan said. “You need to take it easy on him.”
“Funny,” Adrienne said. “May I have my champagne, please?”
Duncan nodded at the door. “I’ll bring it over to you,” he said. “You have work.”
Two couples were standing by the podium. Adrienne hurried over. “Good evening,” she said. “Name?”
“You don’t remember us?” asked a man with red hair and a red goatee. “We were in two nights ago? You talked us into a bottle of that pink champagne? We’re from Florida?”
“Boca Raton,” one of the women said.
Adrienne stared at the foursome, utterly lost. She would have sworn she had never seen them before in her life.
“You told us you used to work at the Mar-a-Lago,” the red-haired man said.
“I did?” Adrienne said. She must have. Okay, she had to get a grip. Shake off this feeling of being stranded in the Sahara without any Evian. She scanned the book, looking for a familiar name. Cavendish? Xavier? She smiled. “Please forgive me. I can’t remember what name the reservation is under.”
“Levy,” the man said. “But our feelings are hurt.”
Adrienne sat them at table fifteen and made a mental note to send these people, whom she still did not remember, some chips and dip. She saw Leon Cross and his wife waiting by the podium. Leon’s wife was a TV producer, a hotshot who recently tried to talk Thatcher into a reality show set at the Bistro. Initially, Adrienne had thought the Bistro would make a great setting for a reality show, but if a camera had filmed the last fifteen minutes no audience would believe it. Anxiety, death, and hell among the hardest-to-get reservations in town? Then there was Leon Cross himself, who sometimes came to the restaurant with his wife when he sat at table twenty (Adrienne led them there now), but just as often came with his mistress (who was older than his wife and a nicer woman) when he sat at table nineteen in a dark corner under the awning.