Doyle Chambers looked at the ground and said nothing. His face and neck were red, the part in his sandy blond hair was red. Adrienne thought he was collecting himself. She thought maybe he would apologize and maybe he would agree to sit at the bar. Duncan, who prided himself on being a man’s man, would buy him a round of drinks and put in a VIP order. But when Doyle Chambers raised his head, Adrienne could see nothing of the sort would happen. He lifted his hand and Adrienne thought he was going to strike her, but what he did was more devastating. He grabbed Adrienne’s reservation book and ripped out the page for that night, crumpling it in his fist. “No!” Adrienne cried. But before she or Joe or Duncan could comprehend the full meaning of his action, Doyle Chambers was out the door, pushing past a party of eight that was on their way in. Adrienne darted out from behind the podium and made it to the doorway in time to see Doyle and Gloria Chambers tear out of the parking lot in their convertible Jaguar.
“There goes my night,” Adrienne said. “Literally. There goes my night.” One of the men in the party of eight looked at her expectantly; she didn’t know who he was or where he belonged. Joe and Duncan stared at Adrienne with dumb, shell-shocked expressions. “What am I going to do?” Adrienne asked them. Joe retreated to the dining room to pass the bad news on to the other servers.
Duncan repaired to the bar. “Let me get your drink,” he said.
Adrienne returned to her post behind the podium. Her book was destroyed. In addition to Saturday, Doyle Chambers had ripped out half of Sunday. Adrienne tasted the grilled sausage she’d had for family meal in the back of her throat.
“I’m sorry?” said the man with the party of eight. “We have a reservation at six o’clock. The name is Banino. The Banino family from Oklahoma.”
A glass of Laurent-Perrier materialized at the podium and Adrienne felt Delilah give her arm a squeeze. She could do this. She remembered that there were three eight-tops first seating and Adrienne sat Mr. Banino at the best of the three, handed out menus, and said, “Someone will be your server tonight. Enjoy your meal.” On the way back to the podium she wondered if she could call the police and press charges against Doyle Chambers. Attempted assault with a pack of matches. First-degree rudeness.
Adrienne sat the restaurant as best she could on the fly. The local author and her entourage were one of the other parties of eight and the author told Adrienne, a bit impatiently, that Thatcher had promised her a table under the awning, the table that she had already given to the Oklahoma contingency. Adrienne was flummoxed; she nearly launched into the whole long story because an author would appreciate the drama. You couldn’t even put a character like Doyle Chambers into fiction. He was too awful; no one would believe him. But as Adrienne was short on time she offered to put the author out in the sand at two of the fondue tables pushed together. This solved the problem temporarily. Adrienne just waited for those tables to show up and complain about being stuck inside on such a lovely night. Call Doyle Chambers, she would say.
Thatcher didn’t show up until everyone from first was down. When Adrienne saw his truck pull in, she checked her watch: six forty-five. What a night to be late. She tried to summon words poisonous enough to describe what had happened. She had quelled some of her rage by writing across the top of Sunday’s ripped page: “Doyle Chambers never allowed back.” Never in the next twenty-one days. So there, Adrienne thought. Take that. She would throw the remainder of her fury against Thatcher the second he walked in. He should have a computer like every other restaurant! He should make a backup copy of the book! But most of all, he should have been here where he was needed and not at church.
When he stepped through the door, he looked somber, verging on mournful. Fiona and Father Ott trailed him in. Fiona gave Adrienne a weary glance then vanished into the kitchen with Father Ott in her wake. Adrienne dropped her load. There was no one like Thatcher and Fiona to make her feel like the restaurant business really was not all that important.
“How was mass?” she said.
“Good,” he said dully. “Everything okay here?”
“Sure,” Adrienne said. “Doyle Chambers absconded with tonight’s page from the reservation book, but I got everybody down. It’s not perfect, but…”
“Looks fine,” he said, scanning the dining room with disinterested eyes. “Father Ott is going to sit with Fiona in the back office for a while. Her O2 sats are low and she’s afraid she’s getting another infection. She’s lost seven pounds since we got back from Boston. The doctors want her in the hospital.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
He flashed Adrienne a look she had never seen before. He was angry. “Well, she can’t breathe.”
This was enough to push Adrienne over the edge into hysteria. Doyle Chambers, the precarious state of her future: job, relationship, and all. And she was premenstrual. But Adrienne simply nodded. “Okay, I understand.”
Thatcher backed down. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just…”
“It’s all right,” she said.
“So let me see the book,” he said. He regarded Doyle Chambers’s damage, then whistled. “In twelve years, this has never happened to me.”
“He isn’t allowed back,” Adrienne said. “If you let him in, I’ll quit.”
“You’ll quit?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t want that,” Thatcher said. He squeezed Adrienne’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were invited to a party.”
“A party?”
“At Holt Millman’s house.”
Holt Millman’s house. Duncan had told Adrienne about this party a few mornings earlier over espresso. Holt Millman threw a legendary cocktail party every August. Two hundred guests, vintage Dom Pérignon, flowers flown in from Hawaii, a full-blown feast by Nantucket Catering Company, and a band from New York City. Every year people got so drunk that they jumped in the pool with their clothes on.
“Are you going?” Adrienne had asked Duncan.
“No,” Duncan said. “I never get to go anywhere.”
Now Adrienne stole a glance at Duncan. He had four people eating at the bar and he was shaking up martinis.
“We can’t go,” Adrienne said. “Who’s going to work?”
“Caren,” Thatcher said.
“You’ve asked her?”
“I’ll ask her right now.”
“And who’s going to take her tables?”
“The other waitstaff can cover. Heck, I’ll give Tyler and Roy a table or two. They’ve been begging me for one all summer.”
“They have?” Adrienne said. This didn’t sound right. Tyler, especially, would not want more work. Adrienne looked around the dining room. The waitstaff was humping-it wasn’t even seven o’clock and Christo was sweating. Every single table was packed, food was just starting to come out from the kitchen. Caren was at table seventeen opening champagne, Joe was delivering appetizers. Spillman was at the Baninos’ table taking their order. Adrienne wondered if Thatcher saw what she saw. “I think it’s too busy for us to just disappear.”
“I’m the boss,” he said. “I have to get out of this place for a little while.”
“You go, then,” Adrienne said. She could sense he was about to lose his cool. “I’ll stay here and cover.”
“I will not go without you,” he said.
“Thatch.”
“We’re going,” he said. “It’s just down the road. We’ll stay an hour. We’ll be back before second seating. They won’t even notice we’re gone.”
He sounded so irresponsible, Adrienne thought he must be joking. He grabbed her by the wrist.
“Wait,” she said. “You have to tell Caren, at least.”