“She wouldn’t let me come this time,” he said. “I didn’t get to see her.”
“JZ…”
JZ stared into the bowl. “Thatcher married her.”
“I know.”
“She really wanted to be married. I should have done it a long time ago.”
“I would have liked that better,” Adrienne said.
“But I couldn’t. My hands were tied.”
“So you’ve said.”
“She never believed that.”
“I’m sure she understood.”
“She said she did, but she didn’t. And now she’s dead.”
Adrienne nodded.
“I wanted to see her. But Thatch is taking her body…” Here, JZ paused, put his hands over his eyes. His left leg was shaking. “He’s taking her body back to South Bend. Her parents want a family-only service at their church.” He looked at Adrienne, tears falling down his face. “I can’t even go to her funeral.”
Adrienne held out the side towel again, but JZ didn’t take it. The phone rang. Line one. Adrienne wanted to smash the phone against the wall. She still had to call everyone on the staff and have them in here in an hour. The ringing phone seemed to keep JZ from careening into the abyss of his own sadness. He straightened, cleared his throat.
“I should go. I’m making deliveries today. Today’s my last day.”
“You’re quitting?”
“I need to be closer to my family. Shaughnessy.”
“That makes sense,” Adrienne said. Suddenly, she felt angry at JZ. She guessed being “closer to my family” meant that he would get back together with his wife. So Thatcher had been right. JZ had never risked anything for Fiona at all, not really. He was nobody’s hero. Sorrow flooded Adrienne’s stomach; she couldn’t even fake a smile. “I guess I’ll see you later?”
“No,” he said. “I’m never coming back.”
At eleven, the staff sat around table nine much as they had at the very first menu meeting of the summer: Delilah next to Duncan, Joe, Spillman, Elliott, Christo, Caren, Gage, Roy, Tyler. The Subiacos sat at the adjoining table-Antonio, Hector, Louis, Henry, Eddie, Paco, Jojo. Bruno was in the kitchen brewing espressos and Adrienne stood with Mario holding the baskets of crackers. The place was silent. Everyone knew Fiona was dead, and yet Mario took it upon himself to announce it.
“Fiona died at two o’clock this morning at Mass General. Thatcher was with her.”
There was crying. The loudest crying was from Delilah, but the men cried, too-Spillman and Antonio and Joe. Adrienne didn’t cry and neither did Caren. Adrienne squinted at the ocean. It was an exquisite day, which seemed so wrong. Everything was wrong.
“Are we staying open?” Paco asked.
“No,” Mario said. “We’re closing.”
“So that’s it, then?” Eddie said. “It’s over?”
“It’s over.”
Mario had a sheaf of envelopes and he handed one to each staff member. Checks. Five thousand dollars for each year employed at the Blue Bistro. Caren’s check was for sixty thousand dollars; Adrienne’s was for five. Adrienne studied her name typed on the light blue bank check: Adrienne Dealey. She remembered back to her first morning, the breakfast. She had taken a gamble, and she had lost. It’s okay if you don’t love me, she thought. But it wasn’t okay.
There was still work to do. Adrienne had to call every guest who was on the books for the next five days. It took several hours and she was worried her voice would falter, but it didn’t. The restaurant is closing early. All reservations are cancelled. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. I’m sorry… that’s all I can tell you. Mario brought her a pile of crackers on a napkin. The rest of the staff was getting drunk at the bar-Duncan was pouring-though some, like Tyler, Elliott, and Christo, had left right away. Adrienne cancelled with Holt Millman’s secretary, Dottie Shore, she cancelled with Darla, she cancelled with Cat, the Devlins, the Kennedys, Leon Cross, and the local author.
What happened? Darla asked, Dottie Shore asked, the local author asked.
I’m sorry, Adrienne said. She felt bad because she liked these people, she felt she knew them though she probably didn’t and they certainly didn’t know her. They would never understand the blow she’d been dealt: Thatcher married Fiona before she died. They would never know how her heart felt stripped and exposed, like the yolk of an egg separated from its whole, like a child without a mother.
I’m sorry, she said. That’s all I can tell you.
The last person Adrienne called was Mack Peterson. Guests from the Beach Club held thirty-seven reservations in the last five nights. Thatcher had been right about Mack: He was good for business.
“We’re closing early,” Adrienne said. “Please convey to your guests how sorry we are for the inconvenience.”
“They’ll get over it,” Mack said. “The important thing is that everyone there is all right. Is everyone all right?”
“I’m sorry,” Adrienne said. “All I can tell you is that we’re closing. But thank you, Mack, for all the business you sent us.”
“Half my staff leaves on Labor Day and we’re open another six weeks,” Mack said. “If you’re looking for a job, call me. I would love to hire you.”
“That’s very kind,” Adrienne said. “Thank you.”
She crossed the last names from the reservation sheet and double-checked her list to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anyone. She called Bartlett’s Farm to cancel their vegetable order, she called East Coast Seafood, she called Caviarteria in New York, she called the mushroom company in Kennett Square, she called Classic Wines, she called Flowers on Chestnut, she called the cleaning crew. Closing, closing, closing. And then it was done.
Mario walked out of the back carrying two steaming plates: omelets.
“You want?”
“No,” she said.
“Come on, you have to eat something.”
“Something,” she said. “But not that.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Mario said. “Me and Louis and the cousins are looking to buy Sloop’s down on Steamboat Wharf. Maybe this fall if we can get the money. Open it up next summer as Calamari Café, Italian with Cuban accents. Antonio as chef. We want you to work the front.”
Adrienne shut her eyes. She was shocked that Mario would mention his new restaurant on the very morning that Fiona had died. And yet, wasn’t that human nature-the desire to move forward, to move away from the bad, sad news? Wasn’t that what Adrienne and Dr. Don had been doing their whole lives? Hadn’t they always hoped that grief was something they could run away from? Adrienne imagined the Italian-Cuban café that the Subiacos would open next June. It would be a great place. Another great place.
“Sorry,” Adrienne said.
Mario cocked his head. “Come on, you think about it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But no.”
“Okay,” Mario said, holding out the omelets. “I’ll give these away to somebody else.”
Caren, Bruno, and Spillman sat at the bar, drinking, and eating omelets.
“Fiona was like my sister,” Caren said. “I didn’t always like her, but I always loved her.”
“She knew we loved her,” Bruno said.
Spillman set his beer down on top of his check. “I don’t even want this money,” he said.
“You could give it to charity,” Duncan said.
“Red would kill me,” Spillman said.
Caren glanced at Adrienne then reached out for her hand. “Are you all done?”
“Yeah.”
“So have a drink. Champagne?”
“I can’t,” Adrienne said. “I don’t care if I ever drink champagne again.”
“How about something else?” Caren asked. “Martini?”
“No,” Adrienne said.
“You look awful. Sit down. How about a Coke?” Duncan pulled out a glass and hit the gun. He slid the Coke across the bar.