Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“Why?” Adrienne said. “Has he been with a lot of women?”

“No,” Caren said. “He hasn’t gone on a date in the twelve years I’ve known him.” She slapped her magazine shut. “And that’s why you should be careful.”

Thatcher arrived at five to seven bearing a bouquet of red gerbera daisies. He looked like an old-fashioned suitor: He was dressed in a jacket and tie, holding out the flowers, and he had a very clean-shaven look about him. Haircut, she realized after studying him for a second. Adrienne was glad Caren was at work-she might have teased this version of Thatcher Smith. Earnest, fresh-faced, with flowers, on his first date in twelve years.

“Look at you,” Adrienne said. She carried the flowers into the kitchen, where she hunted for a vase. No vase. She filled one of the unused sunflower canisters with water.

Thatcher followed her in. “Look at you, ” he said. “That dress. I can’t get over it.”

“Good,” Adrienne said, smiling. She grabbed a gray pashmina (borrowed from Caren, with her permission) and checked her silver-beaded cocktail purse (ditto): lipstick, dental floss, a wad of cash, just in case. “Let’s go.”

Thatcher took her to 21 Federal, in the heart of town. The building was one of the old whaling houses; inside, it had a lot of dark wood and antique mirrors. The woman working the front wore Janet Russo and had a professional manicure. She smiled when they came in and said in a flirty voice, “Thatcher Smith! The rumors are true!”

Thatcher put a finger to his lips, and the woman said, “You don’t want anyone to know you’re here? Would you like to sit in the back?”

“Even better,” Thatcher said, pointing at the ceiling.

The woman led them up the staircase. “Siberia, it is,” she said.

The upstairs of the restaurant was even more charming than downstairs, Adrienne thought. There was a darling little bar and a couple of deuces by the front windows that looked down onto Federal Street. Thatcher pulled out Adrienne’s chair then seated himself. The hostess whispered in Thatcher’s ear. He nodded. A second later, an elderly bartender appeared with their drinks: Veuve Clicquot for Adrienne and a club soda with lime for Thatcher.

“Our compliments, Mr. Smith,” said the bartender.

“Thank you, Frank.”

“The hostess forgot our menus,” Adrienne whispered.

“No, she didn’t,” Thatcher said. “I’ve ordered for us already.”

Adrienne tried to relax. She gazed out the window at the cobblestoned street below. “Okay,” she said. “You’re the boss.”

Thatcher lifted his glass to her. “Thank you for coming out with me tonight,” he said. “I don’t do this enough.”

Adrienne clinked his glass and sipped her champagne. “From what I hear, you don’t do it at all.”

“You’ve been talking to Caren?”

“Of course.”

“She thinks she knows everything about me,” Thatcher said. “But she doesn’t.”

The hostess approached the table again and whispered something else in Thatcher’s ear. The whispering was in very bad taste; Adrienne would never do it.

Thatcher said, “Not tonight. Sorry. You’ll tell them I’m sorry? But not tonight.”

The hostess disappeared. Thatcher turned to Adrienne. “The chef wants to prepare us a tasting menu.”

“That’s nice,” Adrienne said.

“It’s a commitment,” Thatcher said. “And I have other plans for us.”

“Do you now?” Adrienne said.

“Yes, I do.”

A few minutes later the bartender, who was keeping a shadowy profile behind the bar, presented two plates. “The portobello mushroom with Parmesan pudding,” he announced.

Thatcher lit up. He spun the plates. “This is the best first course on the island,” he said.

“If you’re not eating at work,” Adrienne said.

“Right,” Thatcher said.

Adrienne brandished her knife and fork. She was used to eating family meal at five thirty and now, nearly two hours later, she was starving. She tasted a bite of the mushroom, then a little of the creamy, cheesy pudding. The dish was perfect. Thatcher stared at his plate, smiling at the mushroom as though he expected it to smile back. Was he nervous?

“I read an article about you this morning,” Adrienne said.

“Which one?”

“ Notre Dame magazine.”

He raised his pale eyebrows. “You must have been doing research,” he said. “I gather you’re not a subscriber.”

“No,” she said. “I went to three colleges, but I wouldn’t call any of them my alma mater.”

“Where is your degree from?”

“Florida State,” she said. “Psychology. I did my first two years in Bloomington, then a year at Vanderbilt, and I ended up at Florida State-and that’s where I got into hotels. My adviser at FSU got me a job on the front desk at the Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach.”

“Starting your enviable life of resort-hopping.”

“Exactly.” Adrienne took another bite of her mushroom. “In that article, it said Fiona had a childhood illness.”

“Now you know why I don’t like journalists,” he said. He twirled his glass then looked around the dining room-they were the only people eating upstairs. He hunched his shoulders and said, “Can we not talk about the article?”

Adrienne didn’t care for his tone of voice; it was the same tone he used at work when he was telling her what to do. She was about to say something tart when the bartender appeared with a second glass of champagne. Adrienne drank half of it down, questioning her decision to come on this date. This was what had happened in her relationship with Kip Turnbull in Thailand; right before they broke up he was micromanaging her personal life, telling her how to defog her snorkel, insisting she condition her hair with coconut milk, feeding her psychedelic mushrooms without her knowledge. That was the problem with dating the boss; they couldn’t get over themselves. Adrienne concentrated on her appetizer. It was pretty damn good, though she now resented the fact that Thatcher had ordered it for her, as though she weren’t educated enough to select something on her own. She noticed Thatcher still wasn’t eating. He was looking at her with a worried expression.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If you want to know something about me, you can just ask. You don’t have to read about me in my alumni magazine. Most of what I tell reporters is baloney anyway.”

Adrienne nodded once, but only to let him know she’d heard him. She finished her mushroom and her champagne in silence, and feigned interest in the photographs of sailboats on the walls. Then, when she could avoid conversation no longer, she reached for Caren’s purse. “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said. “Where is it?”

“Down the hall,” he said. He stood up when she left, just like Adrienne’s father used to do for Rosalie. Adrienne gave him points for that.

The hall leading to the bathroom was adjacent to a back corridor that was used as a waiters’ station. Adrienne noticed the folded food stands, the stacks of china and linen, the racks for the silver, the bud vases, and a plastic pitcher of white freesia stems. She eyed the computer where the waiters placed orders. Just as she was about to step into the ladies’ room to check her teeth, she heard two female waiters talking as they trudged up the back stairs.

“He hasn’t been here in, like, five years,” one said. “And Fiona, you know, never eats anywhere.”

“That’s not Fiona he’s with tonight?”

“No, it’s some other chick. He’s not married to Fiona or anything.”

“Oh, I know.”

Adrienne made sure the waiters got a good look at her before she entered the ladies’ room. Some other chick!