“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 O2 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.
9
Phosphorescence
The Inquirer and Mirror, Week of July 15, 2005
“HERE AND THERE” column
There have been several reports of phosphorescence in the water at beaches along the north shore this week. Phosphorescence is caused by a type of algae called dinoflagellates, which are capable of bioluminescence when the water they reside in is disturbed.
Sports Illustrated cover story:
“THE HEROES OF AMERICA’S HEARTLAND:
CAN THE WHITE SOX WIN THE PENNANT?”
TO: Ade12177@hotmail.com