The Blue Bistro (15 page)

“Lighter than air,” he said. “I make the best marshmallows in the country, maybe the world.”

“Okay, Marshmallow King,” she said. “I have to get to work.”

Mario replaced his headphones and separated another egg while doing the samba.

Back in the kitchen, Hector was peeling and deveining shrimp with a tool that looked like a plastic dentist’s probe. He had a mountain of shrimp on his left and a mountain on his right—uncleaned and cleaned. He tossed the shells into a stockpot.

“That’s a lot of shrimp,” Adrienne said.

“Shrimp bisque,” Hector said without looking up. “Shrimp toast, shrimp for fondue.”

The oldest Subiaco, Antonio, a man with a mustache and
gray hair around his ears, trimmed lamb. He worked so fast Adrienne feared he would cut himself, especially as he seemed intent on listening to what sounded like a baseball game being broadcast in Spanish on the Bose radio. The baseball game broke for commercial and Antonio called out, “Where’s the steak?”

“It’s still on the truck,” somebody answered.

“Well, go get it, Louis.”

“No fucking way,” Louis said. “They’re out there fighting.”

They’re out there fighting.
Adrienne hung around for a beat to see if anyone would respond to this, but no one did, and Adrienne took this as her cue to leave. As she stepped into the dining room, she bumped into Fiona. Fiona alone, her eyes pink and watery. She stopped when she saw Adrienne and brushed an imaginary hair from her face.

“Thank you for covering the phones,” Fiona said. “I know I’m supposed to make you lunch, but I can’t today. I have to get out of here for a while. I’ll ask Antonio to do it. You know Antonio? He’s my sous.”

Adrienne smiled. “Sure. Whatever.”

“What would you like?”

“Anything,” Adrienne said. “I don’t mean to complicate your day.”

Fiona coughed—briefly, dryly—into her hand. “Fine,” she said. “One anything. I’ll have him bring it out to you in an hour or so.”

Thatcher had left a list of fifty names and numbers. Eighteen reservations for first seating, thirty-two for second. About half the reservations were people staying at hotels and inns—three reservations from the Beach Club, two from the White Elephant, two from the Pineapple Inn. Next came a bunch of names that Adrienne, after a week of work, recognized: Parrish (six o’clock, of course, it was Tuesday), Egan, Montero, Kennedy (no relation, though Mr. Kennedy was one of the investors, and Adrienne saw the word “comp” next to his name in the book), Jamieson, Walker, and Lefroy.
This last name was underlined and followed by three exclamation points, and Adrienne realized that it was Tyler the busboy’s parents—his father the health inspector. That’s right, she remembered now: The cleaning crew was coming in late today so that everything had a better chance of staying spic-and-span. The staff was eating family meal out on the beach, picnic-style—sloppy joes, potato salad, and root beer handmade by Henry Subiaco, the sauté cook. If the root beer tasted good, Henry was going to try to market it next year when the restaurant was closed. Next year, when the restaurant was closed, Adrienne might have finally figured out what was going on while the restaurant was open. She glanced up to see Fiona rush out the front door. Through the window, Adrienne watched her climb, climb, climb (Pammy Ipp up the sycamore tree) into the cab of JZ’s truck. They were in love. Adrienne felt victorious about this knowledge, despite the fact that she would now have to erase JZ from her shortlist of possible men to date.

The work Thatcher left seemed very straightforward. Taking reservations was another story; that involved the calculus of who fit where and what time and—most crucially—at which table. Apparently some guests got their feelings hurt over where in the restaurant they sat, so this was Thatcher’s department. Adrienne called the first name on the list: Devlin. Next to the name Devlin, it said “birthday/dessert-candle/no chocolate.”

A woman picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Good morning,” Adrienne said. “Is this Mrs. Devlin?”

“Why, yes it is.” The woman sounded both wary and hopeful, like maybe Adrienne was calling from Publishers Clearing House and maybe she’d won something.

“This is Adrienne calling from the Blue Bistro.”

“Yes?” More hopeful now than wary.

“Just calling to confirm your reservation tonight for a party of six at six. It’s somebody’s birthday?”

“It’s my birthday,” she said. “But I didn’t know we had reservations at the bistro. For six at six, you say? I hope
we’re not bringing the kids. Maybe you’d better talk to my husband, Brian. He’s right here.”

During the switch of the phone, Adrienne checked the notes after the Devlins’ name: “birthday/dessert-candle/no chocolate.” Nowhere,
nowhere,
did it say “surprise,” and yet that was clearly what it was. Adrienne had single-handedly ruined the woman’s birthday surprise.

Mr. Devlin was appropriately gruff. “Thanks a lot,” he said.

The next three phone calls were easy—Adrienne left clear, concise messages on voice mail for the guests who were out swimming or golfing or shopping from the Bartlett’s Farm truck on Main Street. Adrienne called the White Elephant and confirmed for those guests. She called Mack Peterson at the Beach Club, who was also on her shortlist of potential dates, but he showed no special interest in the fact that it was Adrienne calling rather than Thatcher. He was all business. “We have a guest who thinks she may have left her sunglasses there last night,” he said. “I guess they’re Chanel sunglasses and
très cher.
Last name Cerruci.”

Adrienne checked the shelf inside the podium. “I . . . don’t . . . see them here,” she said. She scanned the book from the night before to see if Thatcher had written a note about sunglasses. “Well,” she said, “the Cerrucis sat down last night at nine fifteen. What are the chances that Mrs. Cerruci was wearing her sunglasses at nine fifteen?”

“Oh, Adrienne,” Mack said wearily. “You just don’t understand the people I deal with all day.”

Adrienne glanced at the disheveled dining room. “The cleaning crew hasn’t been here yet,” she said. “I’ll call you if we find them.”

“Thank you,” Mack said, and he hung up.

Adrienne wrote herself a note—“Sunglasses”—while she dialed the Parrishes’ number. Darla picked up.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Darla. It’s Adrienne from the Blue Bistro.”

“Oh, you sweetheart!”

“Just calling to confirm two people at six tonight,” Adrienne said.

There was a long pause on the other end.
Oh, God,
Adrienne thought.
What now?

“We have Wolfie,” Darla said.

“I’m sorry?”

“We have Wolfie, our grandson, for the next two weeks. I told Thatcher this! To change the next two weeks of reservations to include Wolfie. I told him! Oh, wait, maybe I didn’t. Maybe I’m thinking of that darling Mateo at the Boarding House. We eat there every Wednesday. Sorry, sorry. The next four reservations we’ll be a party of three because of Wolfie. He’s six years old. And here’s the thing: He’s a picky eater.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said. Next to the Parrishes’ name, she erased “2” and penciled in “3” with an asterisk next to the three that said, “Wolfie—picky eater.”

“A very picky eater.”

Adrienne remembered babysitting for Mavis’s twins. Graham would eat anything she put in front of him, but Coleman, the one who could hear, would eat only mayonnaise sandwiches.

“What does he eat?” Adrienne asked. “I can make a note for the kitchen.”

“He likes Froot Loops,” Darla said. “And a certain kind of yogurt that is bright pink and has a dinosaur on the package.”

“Is that it?” Adrienne asked. She was pretty sure cereal and children’s yogurt weren’t going to come out of the kitchen, even for the Parrishes. “Does he eat French fries?”

Darla laughed. “Of course! I’m almost certain. Let’s just get him French fries, then. Will you write it down?”

“I’m writing it down,” Adrienne said.

“It’s just . . . well, he lives with his mother.”

“Say no more,” Adrienne said, as if she understood what that was supposed to mean. Though really, she didn’t want to hear it. She liked Darla and wanted to keep it that way. “We’ll see you at six.”

At eleven thirty Antonio, the sous chef, brought Adrienne her lunch. She was on the phone with Mrs. Lefroy, otherwise she would have kissed the man. The plate looked gorgeous. As soon as Adrienne hung up, she poked her head into the kitchen to say “Thank you, gracias, thank you.” Antonio waved. Adrienne sat at a table in the bar and dug in. This was Antonio’s interpretation of “anything”: succulent black olives, sun-dried tomatoes and marinated artichokes, three kinds of salami, tiny balls of fresh mozzarella, roasted cherry tomatoes, some kind of creamy eggplant dip that made her swoon, and a basket of warm focaccia. Miraculously, the phone stayed quiet while she ate. She had two calls remaining and she was done.

She finished her lunch, took her plate into the kitchen, and returned to the podium to make the phone calls. One to the Wauwinet Inn, one to the message machine of a beauty salon; the woman who cut Thatcher’s hair was coming in at nine. Then, just as Adrienne took her first longing look at the beach, Thatcher’s truck pulled into the parking lot.

Adrienne greeted him smiling widely. It had been a good morning.

“You have something in your teeth,” he said.

She bolted for the ladies’ room. Sure enough, tomato skin.

“My worst nightmare,” she said when she emerged. “With my father and all.”

“How did the calls go?”

“Fine,” she said. “I ruined Jennifer Devlin’s birthday. You didn’t tell me it was a surprise.”

“Oops,” he said.

“The Parrishes are bringing their grandson.”

He winced. “Is it that time of year already?” he said. “What does he eat these days?”

“French fries. Darla said French fries.”

Thatcher shook his head. “We served him French fries last year. He fed them to the seagulls. She’s forgotten.”

“There’s a list of people for you to call back. A man
named Leon Cross called on the private line to say it was urgent and top secret.”

“It’s always urgent and top secret with Leon,” Thatcher said. “Anything else?”

“I had a delicious lunch.”

“Good. Fiona made it for you?”

“Uh, Antonio, I think.”

“Okay,” Thatcher said. Adrienne thought he looked pale and a little distracted but she was not going to ask him about the priest.

“Can I go?” she asked.

“Wait,” he said. “I have something for you.” He held up a white shopping bag. “Here.”

Now Adrienne was nervous. She peeked in the bag. Clothes? She pulled out a blue dress made of washed silk that was so soft it felt like skin. Size six. There was another dress in a champagne color—the same cut, very simple, a slip dress to just above the knee. There was a third outfit—a tank and skirt in the same silk, bottle green.

“These are for me?”

“Let’s see how they look.”

She took the bag into the ladies’ room and slipped the blue dress on over her bikini. It fell over Adrienne’s body like a dress in a dream—and it would look even better when she had the right underwear. So here was her look. She checked the side of the shopping bag. The clothes had come from a store called Dessert, on India Street, and Adrienne recognized the name of the store as the one owned by the chef’s wife, the redhead who had been so kind during soft opening.
If you come in, I’d love to dress you, free of charge.
So maybe Thatch didn’t pay for these clothes. Still, it was weird. Weird that Thatcher had told her she needed a look, weird that he (or the redhead) had perfectly identified it, and weird that she now had to model it for him, proving him right. She stepped out into the dining room.

He gazed at her. And then he gave a long, low whistle. That did it: Her face heated up, the skin on her arms tingled. She had never felt so desirable in all her life.

“Tomorrow’s your night off?” he said.

She nodded. Wednesday was her night off. Last Wednesday, because everyone she knew on the island worked at the restaurant, she stayed home, ate frozen ravioli, and watched a rerun of
The West Wing.

“I scheduled myself off, too,” he said. “I want to take you out for dinner.”

This stunned her so much she may have actually gasped. “Who’s going to work?” she asked.

“Caren,” he said. “She loves to do it. And we only have seventy on the book.”

Adrienne ran her hands down the sides of her new dress. The silk was irresistible.

“Will you go out with me?” he asked.

Rule Three: Exercise good judgment about men!
Dating her boss did not seem wise. It seemed dangerous, more dangerous than getting entangled with Mario. And yet, she wanted to go. Rules, after all, were made to be . . .

“Sure,” she said.

When Adrienne saw Thatcher at work that night, she thought things would be different between them. But Thatcher was preoccupied by the Lefroys’ reservation. It wasn’t a health inspector
visit,
but he wanted the restaurant to be clean. He wanted it to sparkle. And so, when Adrienne arrived, expecting compliments on the new champagne-colored dress, he set her to work polishing glasses and buffing the silver with the servers. At the menu meeting, he demonstrated the way he wanted the busboys to use the crumbers (and they were short a busboy since Tyler would be eating tonight with his parents). The staff ate family meal on the beach and Thatcher made them brush every grain of sand from their person and wash their feet in a bucket before they were allowed back in the restaurant.