Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

On the twenty-eighth of June there were one hundred and ninety covers on the book, and lobster salad sandwiches for family meal. It was seventy-seven degrees in the dining room at the start of first seating, which was abnormally hot, but Thatcher pointed out that everyone would drink more. Adrienne wore the silk outfit in bottle green that matched her eyes or so she convinced herself in the bathroom while she was brushing her teeth. When she came out to the podium, Thatcher said, “I’m sitting down at table twenty to eat at first seating.”

“What?” Adrienne said, in a voice that gave away too much. Dating only a few weeks and already her interest and fear were showing. Her mind scanned possible reasons why Thatcher would eat during first service at the most visible table in the room, instead of later with Fiona. Adrienne decided it must be Harry Henderson, the Realtor, who had been calling a lot lately with people who were interested in buying the property. Harry, she was pretty sure, was on the books tonight.

“Father Ott,” Thatcher said. “The priest. And here he is now. So you’re going to have to cover.”

“Fine,” Adrienne said.

“Are you Catholic?” Thatcher asked. It seemed like an oddly personal question to be asking fifteen seconds before work started, but among the things they’d agreed upon was that they were going to get to know each other slowly, bit by bit. Adrienne had told Thatcher the story about Will Kovak and he understood. They weren’t going to stay up all night confiding their innermost secrets then wake up and claim they were soul mates.

“Lapsed,” Adrienne said. Had they been alone in the dark, though, she might have added that the last time she set foot in a Catholic church was on the afternoon of her mother’s funeral. As she followed the casket out of Our Lady of Assumption she crossed herself with holy water and left the Catholics behind. It was Rosalie who had been Catholic-and when Rosalie died, so, in some sense for Adrienne, did God. Dr. Don was a Protestant and whenever he and Adrienne moved to a new place they shopped around for a church-sometimes Presbyterian, sometimes Methodist-it hardly mattered to Adrienne’s father as long as they had a place to go on Christmas and Easter. Dr. Don donated twenty hours of free checkups to needy kids and senior citizens in the congregation per year. It was nice, but somehow to Adrienne it never felt like religion. That, maybe, was how the Protestants preferred it.

“Hello, Thatcher Smith!” Father Ott was the tallest priest Adrienne had ever seen-six foot six with a deep, resonant voice and hair the bright silver of a dental filling. He wore khaki pants and a navy blazer. A pair of blue-lensed, titanium-framed sunglasses hung around his neck. Never in eighty-two years would Adrienne have pegged him as a priest; he looked like one of Grayson Parrish’s golf partners. Thatcher and Father Ott embraced and Adrienne smiled down at the podium.

“Father Ott, please meet my assistant manager, Adrienne Dealey,” Thatcher said.

Adrienne was overcome with shyness and guilt-she could feel the words “lapsed Catholic” emblazoned on her forehead.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.

Father Ott smiled. “Likewise, likewise. Adrienne, you say? Like Adrienne Rich?”

“The poet,” Adrienne said.

Thatcher raised his pale eyebrows. “You’re named after a poet?”

“Not after,” she said. “Just like.”

Father Ott rubbed his hands together. “I’m starving,” he said. “But I promised Fiona I would bless the kitchen before the holiday. Shall we get business out of the way?”

Thatcher led Father Ott into the kitchen. Adrienne turned around. Bruno and Elliott were checking over the tables, lighting candles. Rex started up with “Clair de Lune.” Adrienne heard Duncan pop the champagne at the bar but since no one else had arrived, she decided to sneak into the kitchen. If a priest who wore Revos and knew about feminist poetry was going to bless the place, Adrienne wanted to see it.

When she walked in, the kitchen was silent. The radio had been shut off and all the Subiacos-including Mario, who had actually removed his headphones-were standing with their hands behind their backs, heads bowed. Fiona and Thatcher stood on either side of Father Ott as he placed his right hand on the pass.

“Oh, Heavenly Father, please bless this kitchen, that it may serve nourishing meals to the patrons of this fine restaurant. May we all serve with love and humility as your son, Jesus Christ, taught us to do. Grant us the strength and the patience to follow in his footsteps in this, and in all things. We ask this in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” Behind the pass, the Subiacos crossed themselves. Adrienne crossed herself for the first time in sixteen years. Father Ott kissed Fiona and she said something to him quietly while holding on to both of his forearms. Then Thatcher and Father Ott filed out past Adrienne, who was hiding next to the espresso machine. As soon as they were gone, Fiona tugged on her chef’s jacket.

“Okay, people,” she said. “You’ve been blessed. Now let’s get to work.”

Adrienne kept her eye on Thatcher and Father Ott throughout first seating and even checked on them once to see if they needed anything. Thatcher smiled at her like she was a child intruding on her parents’ dinner party. In fact, she had hoped to overhear a bit of their conversation, but from what she picked up, it sounded like they were talking about Notre Dame football.

Father Ott ordered the crab cake; Thatcher the foie gras. Father Ott drank bourbon; Thatcher drank club soda with lime. Thatcher was eating and drinking in the dining room just like a regular guest.

“Is it weird?” Adrienne asked Caren. “Or is it just me?”

“He does it every year,” Caren said. “Like sometimes an old girlfriend from South Bend will come in, or one of his brothers. And the padre comes in once a summer.”

Old girlfriend? Adrienne thought, panic-stricken. Then she thought, Oh, shit. It’s happening.

After Father Ott left, Thatcher said to Adrienne, “Can you go into the wine cave and count the bottles of Menetou-Salon? I’m worried we’re low.”

“Sure,” Adrienne said.

No sooner had Adrienne entered the luxuriously cool wine cave and opened the big fridge-there were at least thirty bottles of the Menetou-Salon, she wasn’t sure what Thatcher was concerned about-than Thatcher came in and shut the door behind him. He lifted Adrienne’s hair and pressed his lips to the side of her neck.

They kissed, with Adrienne’s back pressed up against the chilled door of the fridge. Adrienne could hear the bussers carrying their trays into the kitchen. Nice as it was to have Thatcher close, even for a minute, she far preferred having him to herself, away from work, in her bed, in the quiet wee hours.

“This is what you do the second the priest walks out the door?” she said.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he said.

Adrienne’s second relationship was a few years after her escape from Will Novak. It took place on the other side of the world with Kip Turnbull, the British owner of the Smiling Garden Resort in Koh Samui, Thailand. That was the year that Adrienne’s father worried about her the most, and for good reason. She was twenty-five years old, halfway across the globe, working in a bikini. She lived in the queen bee bungalow of the forty bungalows at the Smiling Garden Resort, sleeping alongside her boss who had a hash problem and who cheated on her, Adrienne was sure, during his monthly pilgrimages to the full moon parties on Koh Phangan.