“The bar is closing,” Thatcher announced. “Right now. Tabs are forgiven, but I have to ask you all to leave immediately. We’ll reopen tomorrow night at six.”
There was a din of chatter. Adrienne could sense the guests’ confusion, their resistance. Thatcher grabbed the hand bell and swung it through the air like a madman swinging a hatchet. Adrienne eyed the kitchen door. It’s Fee.
People filed past her. “Sorry about this,” she said, as calmly as she could. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” The stench of emergency was in the air-this was even before Adrienne heard the approaching sirens-and someone said the word “fire.” There was pushing. One woman stumbled; the heel broke off her shoe and the people behind her piled up, yelling, “Get up! Get out!”
“There’s no fire,” Adrienne said loudly. “But you have to go. No fire. Please go. See you tomorrow.”
Because there was still a crowd in the parking lot-guests lingering, trying to figure out what was going on-the paramedics took Fiona out through the back door. Adrienne saw her on the stretcher, and she rallied the staff to act as a barrier to the public. Adrienne stood shoulder to shoulder with Caren and Joe and next to Joe was Spillman and next to Caren was Duncan and Elliott and Christo and Louis and Hector and young Jojo on the end, crying. And Delilah was crying. Fiona was unconscious, her face ashen, her lips blue. The paramedics slapped an oxygen mask on her face and they did a lot of shouting, numbers, a code. Thatcher climbed into the back of the ambulance and the doors slammed shut behind him. Adrienne felt an arm around her-Mario. The ambulance cut a path through the crowd and sped off, sirens wailing.
Adrienne turned to Mario. “Now what?” she said. “What do we do?” She wanted to hitch a ride to the hospital. She wanted to be with Thatcher, but Mario steered her back toward the Bistro.
“Close out the bar,” he said. “Get the money. Go home.”
“Go home? But what about…”
“They’ll medevac her to Boston,” Mario said. “She’ll be at Mass General in less than an hour. It’s okay.”
“I don’t know how you can say that,” Adrienne said, and she went inside.
August twenty-fifth: two hundred and fifty covers on the book, twenty reservation wait list. There was no tomato special; Antonio was too distraught to put one together. Adrienne had received a phone call from Thatcher at five o’clock that morning. He talked, Adrienne listened.
“Keep the restaurant open. No matter what happens, keep it open. She’s in and out of consciousness. She wants the restaurant open. That’s all she asks, Is the restaurant open? I tell her yes. The answer has to be yes.”
Adrienne swallowed. Her voice was thick with sleep. “Should I call JZ?”
“I already called him.”
“Is he coming?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She says she doesn’t want to see him.”
“She’s lying.”
“That’s not for you to say.” Thatcher paused. “It’s really not.”
“Okay,” Adrienne said. “Sorry.”
“You don’t know what this is like for me,” he said.
“Sure I do,” Adrienne said. “I watched my mother die.”
“How is that the same thing?”
“Because…”
“Because Fiona is dying. Is that what you mean? It just so happens, they’re trying another drug today, okay? Another drug!”
“Why are you fighting with me?” Adrienne said. “Thatcher, I love you.”
“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll call you later.” And he hung up.
At ten o’clock, Adrienne fielded phone calls, including a call from the Inquirer and Mirror with a reporter asking about the emergency vehicle the night before. Adrienne offered no comment. She was edgy, distracted. After she’d hung up with Thatcher she’d lain awake until the sun rose. Adrienne felt like she had just thrown something of enormous value into the ocean and watched it sink. Lost forever.
When the Sid Wainer truck pulled into the parking lot, she went to the door, her heart knocked around. She would talk to JZ. But the driver wasn’t JZ; it was some young kid, blond, tan, too good-looking.
“Where’s JZ?” Adrienne asked.
“He’s out,” the kid said. “Sick.”
That night, family meal was ten pizzas from the Muse. Adrienne wanted to say something at menu meeting, but what to say? Fiona’s left lung had collapsed, she was coughing up blood, her O2 sats were very low. The lung infection she’d been battling all summer was back, but they were trying a new drug. That, and praying for a lung donor. Thatcher had given Adrienne these stark details but had asked her not to share them. And so, Adrienne sat quietly at the twelve-top while the staff ate pizza. She watched Tyler stuff half a piece in his mouth like a healthy eighteen-year-old boy who was ten days away from having every freedom of his young life rescinded at military college. She watched Caren, who was eating a bowl of lettuce that she had swiped from the reach-in. She watched Joe, who ate his pizza neatly, with a knife and fork. The staff looked tired, worried, uninspired. Adrienne lifted a slice of pepperoni off the greasy paper plate, but she couldn’t eat. She was starving, ravenous, but food wasn’t going to help. She was hungry for something else: the phone ringing, Thatcher’s voice, good news, love.
And yet, the restaurant opened at six and service began: the pretzel bread, the mustard, the doughnuts, the VIP orders, the crab cakes, the steak frites, the fondue. Antonio expedited, the kitchen sent out impeccable plates, Rex played the piano, Duncan poured drinks, Tyler Lefroy complained that he was working twice as hard as Gage who, he informed Adrienne, had gotten stoned before work. The guests laughed, talked, paid their bills, left tips, raved about the food. No one could tell there was a single thing wrong.
Holt Millman was in, table twenty, party of four. Better than ever, he said. Tell Fiona I said so.
Thatcher didn’t call. Adrienne left him a message with the totals from the floor and the bar. She said nothing else.
August twenty-sixth: two hundred and fifty covers, thirty-six reservation wait list. The special was an inside-out BLT: mâche, crispy pancetta, and a round garlic crouton sandwiched between two slices of tomato, drizzled with basil aioli. Adrienne’s stomach growled at the sight of it, but she couldn’t eat.
Cat was in, having fondue at one of the four-tops in the sand. They polished off a magnum of Laurent-Perrier, then ordered port. So Cat was tipsy and then some when, at the end of the night, she pulled Adrienne aside.
“There are rumors going around,” Cat said.
“Really?” Adrienne said. “What’s the word?”
“The word is that Fiona is dead.”
Adrienne laughed; it was a strange sound, even to her own ears. “No,” Adrienne said. “She’s not dead.”
The next morning, Adrienne called her father at work. She got Mavis on the phone, who said, “Adrienne, doll, he’s with a patient. Can I have him call you?”
“I have to speak with him now,” Adrienne said.
Mavis put Adrienne on hold to some awful Muzak and Adrienne stared at the calendar in the front of the reservation book. One week left. That was it. She took a deep breath. Well, there was always Darla Parrish, who kept insisting she was going to accompany Adrienne into the next chapter. Adrienne couldn’t decide if that made her feel better or worse.
Her father came on the phone. “Honey, is everything all right?”
When Adrienne took a breath to answer, a sob escaped. She cried into the phone and imagined herself facedown on a childhood bed she had long forgotten-her father and her mother, too, smoothing her hair, patting her back, telling her not to worry, telling her everything was going to be just fine.