The Blue Bistro (19 page)

“I have to use the ladies’ room,” Adrienne said.

She nearly tripped on the uneven floor on the way to the bathroom and when she got inside, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were bright pink.
I am drunk,
she thought.
Schnockered.
She splashed her face and pulled out her dental floss. Who are you, Adrienne Dealey?
I am a person who cares about dental hygiene.

They climbed into Thatcher’s silver pickup. His truck was impeccably clean and smelled like peppermint. Adrienne fell back into the gray leather seat while Thatch fiddled with the CD player. He put on Simon and Garfunkel.

“How old
are
you?” she asked.

“Old. Thirty-five.” He rummaged through the console and brought out a tire gauge. “I’m going to take you up the beach,” he said. “Do you have any objections to that?”

“None,” Adrienne said. The clock in the car said ten thirty. She couldn’t help thinking about the restaurant: Had Caren and Duncan made up? Would they be sneaking in
gropes and shots of espresso, giddy with their freedom like kids whose parents were away for the weekend? Would they be playing techno on the stereo (which Thatch hated) and hogging all the crackers for themselves? “Do you miss work?” she asked. She noticed his cell phone sitting in the console next to the tire gauge, his ring of Bistro keys, and a tin of Altoids, but he hadn’t so much as checked his messages.

“No,” he said, starting the engine and pulling out of town. “Not at all.”

When Adrienne next opened her eyes, she was alone in the truck. It was dark, and looking out the window she saw nothing but more dark.

“Thatcher?” she said.

She heard a hissing noise outside her window. When she opened her door, she saw Thatcher kneeling by the front tire letting out air. From the dome light she could see sand dunes covered with eelgrass.

“This is the last one,” Thatcher said. He checked the tire with the gauge and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. He had removed his jacket and tie and his shirt was open another button at the neck.

“Where are we?”

“Dionis Beach,” he said. “Have you been here?”

Adrienne shook her head.

“Good,” he said. “Hang on.”

He drove the truck up over the dunes with abandon, bouncing Adrienne out of her seat. Thatcher whooped like a cowboy and Adrienne prayed she didn’t vomit. (She had a worrisome flashback from twenty years earlier: the Our Lady of the Assumption carnival, cotton candy, kettle corn, and the tilt-a-whirl. Her mother holding back her hair in a smelly Porta-John.) Then, thankfully, they were on the beach, and the water was before them, one stripe shining from the crescent moon. The beach was deserted. Thatcher parked the truck then opened Adrienne’s door for her. He spread a blanket on the sand.

“You came prepared,” she said.

“Lie down,” he said. “But keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, boss,” she said.

After getting gracefully to the ground in her dress, Adrienne looked at the stars. Thatcher lay on his side, staring at her. She closed her eyes. She could fall asleep right here. Happily, happily. Listening to the waves lap onto the beach. She heard Thatcher’s voice in her ear.

“I’m going to kiss you if that’s okay,” he said.

“It won’t be our first kiss,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I let one slip at the restaurant. I thought about apologizing to you for that, but I didn’t feel sorry.” And with that, he kissed her. One very soft, very sweet kiss. The kiss was fleeting but it left a big ache for more in its wake. Adrienne gasped, taking in the cool sea air, and then Thatcher kissed her again. Even softer, even shorter. The third time, he stayed. They were kissing. His mouth opened and Adrienne tasted his tongue, sweet and tangy like the lime in his drink. She felt like she was going to burst apart into eighty-two pieces of desire. Like the best lovers, Thatcher moved slowly—for right now, on the blanket, it was only about the kissing. Not since high school had kissing been this intense. It went on and on. They stopped to look at each other. Adrienne ran her fingertips over his pale eyebrows, she cupped his neck inside the collar of his shirt. He touched her ears and kissed the corners of her eyes, and Adrienne thought about how she had come right out with the truth about her mother at dinner and how unusual that was. And just as she began to worry that there was something different this time, something better, of a finer quality than the other relationships she had found herself in, she and Thatcher started kissing again, and the starting again was even sweeter.

Yes,
Adrienne thought.
Something was different this time.

How much time passed? An hour? Two? Of lying on the blanket kissing Thatcher Smith, the man who had handed her a new life on this island. Adrienne felt herself drifting to sleep, she felt him kiss her eyelids closed—and then suddenly, like a splash of icy water, like a bolt of lightning hitting
way too close, like the foul smell that wafted from the restaurant garbage, there came a noise. From the car. Thatcher’s cell phone.

He pulled away. Checked his twenty-thousand-dollar watch in the moonlight. And ran for the truck.

He took the call standing in the deep dark a few yards behind his truck. Which was smart, because if he’d been closer, Adrienne would have yelled at whomever was on the other end.
How dare you spoil my night!

Thatcher snapped the phone closed as he walked back toward Adrienne who was now sitting up on the blanket, headache threatening.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said.

“That was Fee.”

“Fiona? What did she want?”

“It’s twelve thirty. My dinner is ready.”

“Your dinner is ready,” Adrienne repeated flatly. “Your
dinner
is
ready
?”

“We eat together every night,” he said.

“Yes, except tonight you’re on a date with me. Tonight you ate with me.” As soon as she said the words, she realized he
hadn’t
eaten—he had barely touched his food. Because he knew all along that he was going back to the Bistro.
To eat with Fiona.
“Take me home,” Adrienne said. “Take me home right now.”

“You’re tired anyway,” he said. “You were practically asleep.” He tried to reach for her but she climbed into the truck and made a point of slamming the door in his face. She fastened her seat belt and when Thatcher got in, she stared out the windshield at the black water of the sound.

“Don’t be mad,” he said.

“This is weird,” Adrienne said. “You going back to have dinner with her. It’s
strange.
”

“I realize it must seem that way.”

“She loves JZ,” Adrienne said.

“What do
you
know about it?” he asked.

“I saw them together yesterday,” Adrienne said. “She left with him. She loves him.”

“She does love him,” Thatcher said. “But what I asked was, what do you know about it?”

“Nothing,” Adrienne admitted. “She was coughing and he picked her up and held her.”

“Okay,” Thatcher said, as if he’d made some very important point. He started the truck and eased them out over the dunes, the truck rocking gently this time, as gently as a cradle.

He pulled into her driveway by quarter to one.

“Don’t bother getting out,” Adrienne said. “I can see myself in.”

“I’m walking you to the door,” Thatcher said. He returned to his persona of old-fashioned suitor and took her arm. She had forgotten to leave on any lights and so the cottage was pitch-black. As they stood at the doorway, Thatcher touched the strap of her blue dress. Adrienne knew she should thank him for the date; he’d gone to a lot of trouble. But she was angry, incredulous, defiant.
His dinner was ready!

He leaned in to kiss her and she let him. She thought maybe she could keep him. Maybe his dinner would go cold and Fiona would have to throw it away. They kissed and kissed; Adrienne had never felt such urgency.

“Stay with me,” she said.

He pressed her against the door frame and for the first time she felt his body right up against hers and it was an even better feeling, if that were possible, than the kissing. She could feel herself winning, she could see the future: his shirt coming off, her blue dress dropping into a silk puddle on the floor, the two of them entwined in Adrienne’s bed. Caren’s shock the following morning at the espresso machine when Thatcher joined her for a short black. But then, just as Adrienne knew he would, he surfaced from the pull of her desire with a gulp of air like a man who had been drowning.

“Go,” Adrienne said.

And he went.

How did men do it?

It was ten minutes to six on Thursday night, 101 covers on the book, and Thatcher actually had the gall to knock on the door of the ladies’ room where Adrienne was brushing her teeth and deciding whether or not to quit.

“Come on out,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

Adrienne shut off the water, tapped her toothbrush angrily against the side of the sink, and flung open the door.

“You have some nerve,” she said.

He held up a wine key. “I’m going to show you how to use this. Now. We’ve waited too long.”

How did he manage to look better than ever on the one night (possibly of many) Adrienne had arrived at work prepared to hate him? It looked like he had gotten some sun—his face had that healthy golden glow.
Did you go to the beach?
Adrienne wanted to ask. But no, she wouldn’t. Just as she wouldn’t ask him,
How was your dinner?
(though she had practiced the exact tone of sarcasm and contempt).

How did he have the presence of mind to stand before her holding up the wine key as innocuously as a door-to-door salesman? Did he not remember pressing his body up against hers the night before? Did he not remember how tenderly
he kissed her eyelids closed? How did men find the nerve the next day to act as though nothing had ever happened? (And it wasn’t just Thatcher, Adrienne conceded. She’d seen it time and time again.)

Over Thatcher’s shoulder, Adrienne saw Joe and Spill-man lighting candles. Rex began to play “Old Cape Cod.” Adrienne rolled her eyes. She would be a brick wall.

“Fine, the wine key,” she said. She followed Thatcher into the wine cave. He closed the door behind them and Adrienne thought,
Okay, here it comes.
The wine key was a ruse. He was going to apologize.

Thatcher removed a bottle of red from the rack. Bin forty-one: Cain Cuvée—they sold it by the glass as well as from the list.

“First,” he said, “you have to cut the lead.”

She stared at him, trying to make her eyes as hard as the point of an awl.

“Some restaurants have a special tool for this,” Thatcher said. “Not us. We use the very inexpensive, very user-friendly Screwpull. Wait until you see how easy this is.” He used the sharp end of the key to cut the lead, which was the metal wrapper over the cork. He pulled it off. Then he set the plastic arms of the Screwpull over the cork, inserted the key, and turned the knob at the top. Turned and turned—and like magic, the cork appeared. “A third grader could do it,” he said. He set the bottle aside and pulled out their most popular bottle of white—Menetou-Salon, from an area of France near Sancerre. Adrienne had heard Thatcher give the spiel on this wine before—the vintner was also the mayor of the town.

“You try,” he said, handing her the bottle and the key.

She cut the lead, peeled it away (a little less seamlessly than Thatch, but she got it), set the Screwpull in place, and turned. Out came the cork. Piece of cake.

“Fine,” she said.

“The waiters open their own wine,” Thatcher said. “I open for VIPs, and I open when the waitstaff is slammed. Step in when you feel you’re needed.”

“Fine, fine.” She dug her heel into the floor in a way that she hoped conveyed her impatience. She was wearing yet another pair of new shoes—buff-colored Jimmy Choo sling backs—that she’d bought that afternoon in an attempt to make herself feel better.

“And there’s one more thing,” Thatcher said.

Something in his voice made her look at him and their eyes locked.
I am a brick wall,
she thought.
I am a swan carved from ice.

“What’s that?” she said.

He held her gaze for whole seconds of precious time. Outside the door, Adrienne could hear Spillman’s voice: “Has anyone seen the boss man?” Thatcher didn’t move. He just held Adrienne captive with his eyes and when Adrienne thought it was inevitable—they were going to kiss—he snapped out of his daze.

“Champagne,” he said. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. He unfolded a towel from the Sankaty Head Golf Club. “Up front, you’ll use a side towel, or even a dinner napkin,” he said. He removed the foil from the cork, wrangled off the cage, and showed Adrienne the bottle with the naked cork. “You could push at the bottom of the cork until it shoots out, but champagne corks are unpredictable. You could take out someone’s eye. Best-case scenario, the cork gets lost in the sand and one of our guests with an environmental conscience writes a letter to the
Inquirer and Mirror
about how we here at the Blue Bistro are littering Nantucket’s pristine beaches. So.” He covered the cork with the golf towel and twisted. “Twist while pulling up.” The cork came free with a muted
pop.
Thatcher whipped off the towel. The lip of the bottle showed a wisp of smoky carbon dioxide; he tossed the cork in the trash. “Take this out to Duncan and have him pour you a glass,” he said. “It’s time to get to work.”