The Blue Bistro (40 page)

“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.”

He took a deep breath, then made a face like a judge deliberating.

“Okay, I’ll tell her. Be right back.”

He pulled Caren away from a four-top and whispered in her ear. Caren did not seem pleased. She glanced at Adrienne at the podium. Adrienne stared down at her ruined reservation book. Why did there have to be nights like these?

Thatcher dragged Caren back to the podium. Adrienne chose not to meet her gaze.

“I’ll just stay here,” Adrienne said.

“No,” Thatcher said. “You won’t. You’re coming with me or you’re fired.”

Adrienne rolled her eyes for Caren’s benefit, but Caren would have none of it. She was pissed. The first thing she did was march to the bar to tell Duncan.
They’re going to the party.
Adrienne said, “Okay, let’s get out of here, then.” And they left.

Holt Millman’s house was located on the harbor side of Hulbert Avenue. It was a thirty-second drive from the bistro.

“See?” Thatcher said as he pulled up to the white gates. A valet came out to take his keys. “We could have walked.”

Adrienne tried to exude nonchalance. She had come to terms with Holt Millman’s wealth during her sail on
Kelsey.
But she had never seen a house or grounds—or a
bash
—like this one. She and Thatcher walked through the white gates onto an expansive lawn bordered by lush flower gardens. A tent was set up in the middle and there were people everywhere—people and tables of food and waiters in white jackets with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Adrienne took a glass and Thatch said, “I’m going to get a club soda.”

“I’ll come with you,” Adrienne said.

She and Thatcher weaved between the clumps of laughing, chatting guests. The house loomed in front of Adrienne; it was the biggest house she had ever seen at this proximity. It had classic Nantucket features: gray shingles, climbing New Dawn roses on trellises, huge windows, and five brick chimneys. Adrienne snatched an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray. She had eaten a sausage grinder for family meal but this food was too gorgeous to pass up. She stopped at the buffet table and dipped a crab claw in a lemony mayonnaise. Her champagne was ice cold; it was crisp, like an apple. Across the tent, she saw Darla Parrish and her sister Eleanor standing in front of a table where a man was slicing gravlax. Adrienne turned away; she wasn’t in the right mood for Darla. She saw Brian and Jennifer Devlin talking to the manager of the Nantucket Golf Club and his pregnant wife. Everywhere Adrienne turned—guests! She looked for Thatcher but he was gone. She moved through the crowd to the bar hunting for his blue blazer. Nearly every man at the
party wore a blue blazer, so she cast her eyes at the ground hoping to pick out his Gucci loafers.

Where was he? Adrienne experienced a twinge of panic, like when she had gotten lost as a child (the Christmas light show at Wanamaker’s—her mother had been hysterical with worry). The panic gave way to guilt; she should leave now, escape, run down the road back to work. But mostly what Adrienne felt was curiosity, a pressure behind her eyes, urging her to see, to soak it in. Tomorrow, she would e-mail the details to her father.

Behind the tent, a slate walkway led to a tall privet hedge and through an archway was the pool area. The pool was a simple rectangle, dark and exotic-looking. There was a waterfall at one end. There were people surrounding the pool, another bar, more tables of food. Adrienne saw Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy talking to another couple and when Mrs. Kennedy saw her, Adrienne felt like she had no choice: She had to go over and say hello.

She positioned herself at Mrs. Kennedy’s elbow. “Hello,” she said.

The man Adrienne didn’t know was telling a story. He paused when Adrienne spoke and looked at her briefly, then went back to telling his story. Something about a flight he had recently been on, an aggressive passenger, a pilot who had been sent back from the cockpit with pepper spray. Adrienne was trapped at Mitzi Kennedy’s elbow—it would be too awkward to walk away and yet no one in the circle had acknowledged her presence. So walk away. But then the man finished his story and there were
ohs
and
ahs
and then a brief silence. Adrienne touched Mrs. Kennedy’s arm.

“Mrs. Kennedy, hello.”

Mitzi Kennedy stepped back; it seemed Adrienne had caught her off-guard. She regarded Adrienne with a blank expression, and Adrienne thought,
I have sat you every week since the first of June, I have opened your champagne and chatted with you about your son’s college applications, and I have bent over backward to give you a better table. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me.
But sometimes, if you saw someone
out of context . . . so Adrienne identified herself. “Adrienne,” she said, “from the Blue Bistro.”

“I know who you are,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “I’m just trying to figure out what you’re doing here.”

“I . . .” Adrienne was at a loss for words. She smoothed the material of her dress and wished she was wearing something new. “We were invited. Thatcher and I. He’s around here somewhere.”

Mrs. Kennedy looked nonplussed. Adrienne considered drowning herself in the pool. She tried to catch Mr. Kennedy’s eye—he was always friendly, friendlier than his wife. But he was deep in conversation with the man who had been telling the story about the airplane and he didn’t notice Adrienne.

She drifted away in what she hoped was a graceful fashion, like a flower petal being carried off by the breeze. Who was she kidding? She qualified as staff to 99 percent of the people at this party and no one wanted to be caught chatting with the staff.

Her main objective now was to find Thatcher and convince him to return to the restaurant. She wasn’t wearing a watch but it was nearly dark and she guessed it must be almost eight. They would have to be back by nine: thanks to Doyle Chambers, Caren didn’t even have a book to work from to get second seating down. So Adrienne decided to return to the tent to track down Thatcher. Problem was, the Kennedys were standing on the slate path that led back to the tent and now, worse than almost anything Adrienne could imagine, they were talking to Drew Amman-Keller. Adrienne spun around and headed in the opposite direction, praying Drew hadn’t seen her. She followed a path that led around the right side of the house—over a white shell driveway, through an arbor hung with grapevines, toward the ocean. This was the front lawn, which had a stunning view of the harbor: sailboats, Brant Point lighthouse, the jetty. Adrienne wished she could enjoy the party instead of negotiating it like a live minefield.

There were fewer people on the front lawn: several couples
who, like herself it seemed, had strayed from the heart of the party and wanted to get a look at the water. Then Adrienne heard a burst of joyous laughter and she knew a group of people was approaching behind her but she was afraid to turn around.

Someone took her arm at the elbow. “Adrienne? My God, it’s you, it’s really you.”

A wave of relief and salvation rolled over Adrienne. She wished Mitzi Kennedy was nearby to see the look of delight on Holt Millman’s face.

“You must meet my friends,” he said. “Frank and Sue Cunningham. Jerry and Ann Longerot. And certainly you know Catherine.”

Catherine. For the first time since she walked through the white gates, Adrienne smiled. It was Cat. Conservative tonight in a blue seersucker sundress and flats.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Holt said. “I’m honored. I’m thrilled. I want to give you a tour of my house. Would you like more bubbly?” He took Adrienne’s glass and handed it to one of his friends. “Jerry, your job is to get that filled, pronto. And bring Adrienne one of those shrimp puffs. Those are good.”

“I’m fine,” Adrienne protested. “Actually, I have to find Thatcher. We just stopped in for a minute. We have to get back to work.”

“Work?” Holt Millman said. “No, no, no, sweetie. I’m not willing to let you leave.”

Adrienne turned her eyes to the house. They were now standing on a gorgeous semicircular deck—another bar, more food. Jerry Longerot handed Adrienne a filled champagne glass and a shrimp puff. A tour of the house would take forever. It was not an option.

“I must find the ladies’ room,” Adrienne said. She grabbed Cat’s forearm. “Do you know where there’s a ladies’ room?”

“Follow me, girlfriend,” Cat said. “I wired every inch of this house.”

They left Holt Millman standing on the deck. “We’ll be back,” Adrienne said.

“Because I want to give you a tour!” he called out.

Adrienne followed Cat to the pool house. Adrienne was feeling happier. The eleventh richest man in the country—the owner of all
this
and more—loved her. And she had found Cat, who was ten times more glamorous than Mitzi Kennedy.

“Where’s your husband?” Adrienne asked. “Is he out back?”

“He’s in Montana,” Cat said. “Fly-fishing.”

“Oh,” Adrienne said. “I have to find Thatcher. You haven’t seen him?”

“I’ve never seen Thatcher at a party before in my life,” Cat said. “I didn’t think he went to parties.”

“He doesn’t,” Adrienne said. “This is an aberration.”

They opened the door to the pool house. Adrienne heard a strange noise; it sounded like a hurt kitten. Cat disappeared into the powder room and Adrienne poked her head into the changing room. A woman sat at an old-fashioned dressing table, crying into her hands. Adrienne said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” and the woman looked up. Adrienne saw her face in the mirror. Darla Parrish.

Again, Adrienne wondered why there had to be nights like this. Why had she agreed to come to this party? And why, oh why, had she strayed from Thatcher’s side?

“Darla,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“Adrienne, honey,” Darla said. She held her arms out. “Give me a hug.”

Adrienne bent down and embraced her. She watched herself in the mirror. From the back, she thought, Darla could have been her mother. They could have been mother and daughter hugging. Gently, Adrienne released her hold. She heard the toilet flush, then water, then Cat’s face appeared in the mirror. Cat pointed at the door. Adrienne nodded and Cat left.

“Is everything okay?” Adrienne asked. She felt herself slipping back into restaurant mode. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I need another drink,” Darla said, though Adrienne
could smell the Southern Comfort on Darla along with her Shalimar. She eyed the glass of melting ice on the dressing table. Did Darla expect Adrienne to fetch her another drink? Maybe she did. Adrienne considered it, but instead she said, “Let’s go out. I’m trying to find Thatcher and we can look for your husband.”

“Grayson isn’t here,” Darla said, and she started to weep again.

“Oh, right,” Adrienne said. “You came with Eleanor?”

Darla nodded, face in her hands. Adrienne plucked a tissue from a box on a nearby table and held it out to Darla. It was getting later and later; it might be as late as eight thirty. Adrienne started to panic. She had to get back to the tent and find Thatcher—if she couldn’t find him, she was leaving anyway. Either way, Caren was going to be bitter and with good reason.

Darla dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “He’s having an affair,” she said. “He’s been having an affair for twelve years.”

“Oh,” Adrienne said.

Darla nodded firmly as though Adrienne had just said something she very much agreed with. “One of my bridge partners back home.”

Back home was Short Hills, New Jersey. Darla had cancelled once, and another time come to the Bistro with Eleanor, because Grayson had business back in Short Hills.

“I’m sorry, Darla. That’s awful. Shall we try to find your sister?”

Darla gripped Adrienne’s arm in a way that made it clear she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Promise me you won’t marry Thatcher,” Darla said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re as free as a bird,” Darla said. “That’s always what I think of when I see you. Drinking champagne, in your beautiful silks, flitting here, flying there—you’re a bird. Free, free. I wouldn’t want to see Thatcher or anyone else clip your wings. Promise me you won’t marry Thatcher.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Adrienne said. “Life has too many surprises.”

“Oh, honey,” Darla said. She had a smudge of lipstick on the bottom of her front tooth. Adrienne nearly pointed it out, but she didn’t have the heart. She excused herself for the powder room. When she peeked back in a minute later, Darla was gone.

At ten minutes to nine, Adrienne found Thatcher standing at the main buffet table eating stuffed mushrooms. She took his arm. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “How do we get the car from the valet?”