At work, the phone rang off the hook. Now that summer was more than half over, she heard a new desperation in everyone’s voice. Or maybe everyone else was the same and it was Adrienne with the desperation.
Jennifer Devlin: I heard you’re closing. For good? How many nights can I get in this week? And what about next week? The week after that? Just book me for any night you have open between now and Labor Day. Party of four. No, six.
Mrs. Langley: Hello, honey. You don’t know me but I am a very good customer even though I haven’t managed to get in once all summer. I’d like a table for ten Saturday night at seven thirty. What do you mean you don’t seat at seven thirty? You always used to before. Well, at six I’m just starting to think about cocktails and by nine I’m half asleep. Can’t you make an exception just this once? We’ll pay double.
Harry Henderson: We need Fiona to come in and sign the purchase and sale agreement. She’s holding the whole deal up, and you know these new parent-types. They’re so sleep-deprived, they’re likely to back out without warning! I don’t suppose Fiona will come to the phone?
Darla Parrish: Sorry, honey, about the scene with Luke. He’s normally such a good boy. And sadly, we have to cancel our reservation for tonight. Grayson has business back in Short Hills. And just so you know, Grayson won’t be coming in on Friday, either. I’ll be in with my sister.
Mr. Mascaro: Five people at nine on Saturday night. Heard my secretary wasn’t allowed to make the reservation, which is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Do you people want to lose all your business?
Kevin Kahla: Hi, hi, hi! I used to be the manager there? Now I work at Craft in the city? I have two very good customers coming to Nantucket this week and I told them I’d get them a reservation for Saturday night, first seating. Last name Gibson. Can you put them at table twenty and VIP them? Thanks, you’re a superstar. Love to Thatch and Fiona, and please, please tell Caren there isn’t a woman in New York as bitchy as she is-and that’s a compliment. Ta!
Lana, personal assistant to Dustin Hoffman: Mr. Hoffman would like a table where he won’t be bothered. Is there a back entrance? And he’d like to chat with the chef after dinner. He’s been trying to do this for three years and since we hear you’re closing forever on Labor Day, it becomes imperative that we get it done this Saturday. Tell me I have your help on this.
Cat: My sister and her husband are coming in for their anniversary on Friday. Would you send them a bottle of Cristal from me? I’ll drop off some cash later. Thanks, girlfriend!
Mack: I need a party of two at six o’clock for Saturday. Name Chang. A party of six for nine on Saturday-name, O’Leary-and a party of two at six on Sunday. Name Walker. Do you want me to repeat that?
Mr. Kennedy: I have to have Saturday and I have to have table twenty. Party of four. Very big clients. Book us for six but we’ll probably be late because we’ll be playing at the golf club all afternoon.
Red Mare: You want to send your father and his fiancée a bottle of Cristal? I see them here-Dealey at six thirty. Consider it done. What’s your credit card number?
Mr. Lefroy: Please tell Thatcher I’ll be in for an official visit one morning next week. This is standard operating procedure-he doesn’t have to tell me it’s stupid. I already know that. In twelve years I’ve never cited him for an infraction and if I did, what would I do? Shut him down? Ha!
Mme. Colverre: I’m calling from Paris, France. Table for six for Saturday at six, s’il vous plait?
Leigh Stanford: Rumor on the cobblestones has it that Thatcher isn’t happy with his attorney on this real estate transaction. Would you, delicately, mention that I’d be happy to take it on in exchange for credit at the restaurant. Speaking of which, we have friends coming in from the Ozarks on Saturday. Can we do an early table of four?
Ms. Cantele: Do you have vegetarian dishes on your menu? What about vegan dishes? Can you just read me the whole menu? That’s right, the whole menu.
Mack: It’s me again. I have to change Simon O’Leary’s party from Saturday to Sunday the thirty-first.
“The thirty-first is Saturday,” Adrienne said. Her brain was a swarm of names, dates, and times, as pesky as gnats.
“No, the thirty-first is Sunday.”
“No,” Adrienne said, checking her reservation sheet. “The thirty-first is Saturday.”
“Reference your calendar,” Mack said. “I’ll wait.”
Adrienne flipped to the front of the book where the calendar was pasted inside the front cover. The hair on her arms stood up. She felt like she was the one on a boat, a boat precariously keeled to one side, threatening to dump her in with the sharks. Her book was all wrong. She had been booking reservations for Friday on Saturday’s page. She flipped to Saturday and was horrified to find it was full-and so all the people who had called that morning asking for Saturday had to be called back. There was no room! Adrienne scrambled with her eraser. This was awful. A hideous mess. How many reservations had she made today? How many really were for Sunday? This was her worst fuckup so far. This was worse than skipping a line on her SATs and not realizing it until the end of the section when she had one more answer than space. Now she had to call back nearly everyone she had spoken to in the past hour to tell them, Sorry, Saturday is booked.
Adrienne hung up with Mack and tried to channel her thoughts. Paris, France. Kevin in New York. Kennedy could eat on Saturday night but not at table twenty, unless Thatcher wanted to move him. Who else? Dustin Hoffman? Adrienne walked away from the podium. The phone rang but she didn’t answer. She went into the ladies’ room and, out of habit, checked her teeth.
The two of them were out on the water, talking about her.
When Adrienne next saw her father and Thatcher, they were walking down the dock like lovers. Adrienne was quaking. She had managed to staunch the bleeding of her massive trauma that morning, but it wasn’t pretty. In the end she gave the three tables she had left on Saturday night to Kennedy, Hoffman, and Leigh Stanford and she called everyone else back to renege with enormous apologies. Mrs. Langley screamed so loudly Adrienne had to set the receiver down. Kevin changed his party’s reservation to Sunday but at the end of their conversation he said, “This kind of thing never happened when I worked there.” Mascaro threatened to call the chamber of commerce.
“It was a mistake,” Adrienne said.
Just as she thought she might fill her pockets with tablecloth weights and walk out into the ocean, Henry Subiaco emerged from the kitchen with a mug of his homemade root beer.
“This is the best root beer I’ve ever tasted,” Adrienne said.
“Next year,” he said, “you work for me.”
Now Adrienne was confronted with her father’s hand on the back of Thatcher’s neck as they strolled toward her. Grinning, faces red from the sun. With his free hand, her father waved.
“Did you catch anything?” she asked.
“Thatch caught a thirty-nine-inch striper,” Dr. Don said. “It was a thing of beauty.”
“Family meal tonight,” Thatcher said.
“Where’s the fish?”
“First mate’s cleaning it for me. How was work?”
“I quit,” she said. “I’m going to work for Henry Subiaco.”
“That bad?”
“Worse than bad.” She looked at her father. “We’re taking you back to the hotel?”
“Can you join Mavis and I on the beach?” Dr. Don asked.
Adrienne checked her running watch. Twelve fifteen, one foot above sea level, and sinking by the minute. “I can. After I go over some work stuff with Thatcher. Say two o’clock?”