“Wait outside,” Fiona said. “In the parking lot.”
Lyle Hardaway disappeared through the door.
Fiona slammed her hand on the pass. “And now there will be a line in Vanity Fair or one of the other magazines they’re sleeping with-you can bet on it-about what a bitch I am.” She glared at Mario. “What were you thinking? You invited him into our kitchen?”
“He wants to write an article about me,” Mario said.
“No,” Fiona said.
“You can’t tell me no,” Mario said. “The article is about me. It’s not about you, it’s not about the Bistro.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Fiona said. “He told you the article is about you. But that was just so he could get through the door. Did you hear him a second ago? ‘You’re Fiona Kemp? It’s an honor to meet you’? He’s using you to get to me.”
Mario laughed and looked around the kitchen at his cousins, and his brother Louis, who was filling ravioli and pretending not to listen. Only Adrienne was captive, rooted in the kitchen, afraid to leave lest she attract attention to herself, or worse, miss something.
“I cannot believe how self-centered you are,” Mario said. “You think the world revolves around your tiny ass? It does not. You think people care so much about you? They do not. That man came here to interview me. And I’m going to let him. Because my career isn’t over in September, Fee. I have to move on, I have to build my prospects, increase the value of my stock. So maybe I get investors and open my own place. Maybe my cousin Henry gets investors for his root beer. We have to move on, Fee. Move forward. We aren’t quitting at the end of the summer.”
“I’m not quitting, either,” Fiona whispered.
“The Bistro is closing,” Mario said. “That’s a fact. The building is sold, it’s torn down, it’s rebuilt as somebody’s fat mansion. There is no more Bistro. So what do you expect us to do, lie down and die with you?”
“Mario!” Antonio said.
“Get out!” Fiona shouted. She whipped around and caught Adrienne standing there, but she didn’t seem to care. Her eyes were ready to spill over with tears. Was Adrienne going to see Fiona cry? “Get out! Get out of my kitchen!”
Mario ripped off his chef’s jacket and threw it to the floor. “Fine,” he said. “I’m finished with you.”
He stormed out the door, leaving the kitchen in a stunned silence. Adrienne felt a strong desire to run after him. She liked Mario and she saw his point-once the Bistro closed, everyone had to fend for himself. Fiona would be four million dollars richer, but where would the rest of them be?
Fiona retreated to the office and slammed the door.
Adrienne heard the faint ringing of the phone. She went out front to answer it. That was her job.
That night, there were 244 covers on the book. Family meal was pulled pork, corn muffins, grilled zucchini, and summer squash. At the menu meeting, Thatcher announced that there would be no desserts. All Antonio had been able to find back in pastry were a few gallons of peanut butter ice cream, a tray of Popsicles, and the unfinished pretzels.
“I’ll say one thing for my cousin,” Antonio said. “He works fresh.”
No one knew where Mario was; at last report, he hadn’t checked in at the Subiaco compound. Adrienne wondered if he had flown off-island in search of another job. She wondered if she would ever see him again.
“What do you think?” Adrienne asked Thatcher at the podium as they awaited first seating.
“I stay out of the kitchen’s business.”
“Yeah, but what do you think?”
“Fee’s afraid,” he said quietly. “And fear does strange things to people.”
“It’s too bad,” Adrienne said. “They’ve been friends a long time.”
“They’re still friends,” Thatcher said. “This is just a fight.”
“So you think he’ll come back?”
“Where’s he going to go?” Thatcher said.
“I don’t know. Chicago?”
“Ha!” Thatcher gave her the laugh, and Adrienne felt better. She was smiling when the Parrishes walked in.
“Halloo,” Darla called out. She was holding a young man by the hand, pulling him along like he was Wolfie’s age. “Adrienne, this is my son, Luke Parrish. Thatcher, you remember Luke.”
Thatcher shook hands with Luke and patted him on the back. Luke smiled shyly at the floor. He was the exact opposite of what Adrienne expected a Parrish son to look like: He wore tiny frameless glasses and had long brown hair that spilled over his shoulders and down his back. He wore a blue blazer over a white T-shirt, jeans, and sandals. Between the lapels of his jacket, Adrienne could only read a single word printed on the front of his shirt: CASTRO.
“It’s nice to meet you, Luke,” Adrienne said. “Let me show you to your table.”
As she walked the Parrishes out to the awning, Rex launched into “Hello, Dolly!” Adrienne heard Darla behind her. “Isn’t she just lovely? Isn’t she exquisite? She used to live in Aspen. And Hawaii. Adrienne’s a real adventure girl, aren’t you, Adrienne?”
Adrienne pulled out a chair for Darla. She handed Luke and Grayson their menus. “Just to let you know, there aren’t any desserts tonight. Our pastry chef is on vacation.”
“On vacation in the middle of July?” Grayson said. He leaned closer to Luke. “That must mean they fired him.”
“So I’ll get your drinks, then,” Adrienne said. “Stoli tonic and Southern Comfort old-fashioned. Luke, what can I bring you?”
“A beer, please,” he said.
“We have Cisco Summer Brew on tap. Is that okay?”
“Perfect,” he said. “And a shot of tequila, please.”
“A beer and a shot of tequila,” Adrienne said. “I’ll be right back.”
She put in the drink order with Duncan and went back to the kitchen to give Paco the VIP order. Antonio was expediting.
“Where’s Fiona?” Adrienne asked Paco.
“Lying down,” he said. “She’s upset.”
“About Mario?”
“No,” Paco said. “Something about JZ. Eddie got the story.”
“Have you heard from Mario?” Adrienne asked.
Paco scoffed. “He’s out getting drunk somewhere. Getting drunk and looking for ladies.”
“You think?” Adrienne said. She seemed to be the only one who was worried about him. She couldn’t bear to peek around the corner and see the abandoned pastry station.
Back in the dining room, she sat tables: the local author was in; Mr. Kennedy; a real jackass named Doyle Chambers; and one of the local contractors with a party of twelve. Adrienne opened a bottle of champagne for Kennedy-his wife, Mitzi, was now a devotee of the Laurent-Perrier-and then she swung back into the kitchen to pick up the chips for Parrish and put in two more VIP orders. She headed for the Parrishes’ table. From behind, Luke looked like a girl in men’s clothing. But that wasn’t quite right; his hair wasn’t feminine so much as biblical. He looked like the original Luke, the one who wrote the Gospel. But this Luke had inherited the Parrish demeanor. Adrienne found the three of them sitting in silence, sipping their drinks. The shot of tequila had been drained and pushed to the edge of the table. Adrienne scooped it up as she set down the chips and dip.
“Another?” she asked Luke.
“Please,” he said.
This seemed to startle Darla from her reverie. “Oh, Adrienne, honey, won’t you please stay and chat with us for a second?”
“I’d love to.”
“I told Darla that arranged marriages have been out of fashion for over a hundred years,” Grayson said. “She refuses to believe me.”
Darla laughed and threw her hand in the air. “I just thought they might have something in common. Luke loves to travel. After Amherst, he spent a year in Egypt.”
“Egypt?” Adrienne said. “I’ve always wanted to see that part of the world. I had a boyfriend once who offered to take me to Morocco, and at times I regret not going.”