Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

Adrienne called Thatcher’s cell phone.

“Where are you?” she said. Then thought: Try not to sound like a wife.

“At Marine. I wanted to get flags for the tables.”

“The gentleman is here with the chairs. He would like to know where to put them.”

“On the beach.”

“Right, but where?”

“Let me talk to the guy.”

“Happily,” Adrienne said. She handed off the phone to the chair man, then surveyed the dining room. What could she do to help? Set the tables? A roll of red, white, and blue bunting sat on top of the piano along with a book of music, 101 Patriotic Songs. Deviled eggs, bunting, patriotic songs. These people really got into it.

A moment later, Caren walked in. It looked like she’d been crying.

“It’s over,” she said. “I’m finished with that rat bastard.”

“Duncan?”

Caren glared at her. Adrienne tried to think: He had been there that morning. She’d heard them in the kitchen, though as a rule, she and Thatcher didn’t fraternize with Caren and Duncan. Too much like work.

“What happened?” Adrienne asked.

“He’s been cheating on me during the day, ” Caren said. “This morning? He says he has golf at ten with the bartender from Cinco. Fine. I decide to do something different because of the holiday so I set myself up with a gorgeous Cuban sandwich from Fahey and then I go to the beach at Madequecham. And lo and behold, whose car is there? Who is lying on the beach with the hostess from 21 Federal?”

“The hostess?” Adrienne said. “You mean Phoebe?”

“Phoebe!” Caren spat. “So I saunter up to the happy couple and Duncan doesn’t even blink. But I could tell he thought I followed him there or was spying on him or something. However, he pretended like it was no big deal and therefore I had to pretend like it was no big deal. He asked me to put lotion on his back, and I said, ‘No way, motherfucker.’ So then Phoebe pipes up and says she would love to put lotion on his back-and I have to sit there and watch. ” Her eyes filled up. “What am I going to do?”

Adrienne put her arm around Caren, awkwardly, because Caren was so much taller. Duncan was a woman magnet; Caren had to learn to accept it. Before Adrienne could find a way to say this, Thatcher walked in, clapping his hands.

“Good, good, good,” he said. “The two of you can hang the bunting. All the way around and try to make it even, okay? Joe’s coming in at four thirty to set the tables-and look! I got flags.” He waved a small flag in the air and his smile faded. “Is something wrong?”

Caren tucked in her shirt and sniffed. “I can’t work with Duncan,” she said. “Either he goes or I go.”

Thatcher groaned. He yanked at his red, white, and blue necktie to give himself some air. Then, slowly, he said, “I told you…”

“I know what you told me!” Caren snapped, and she burst into tears.

Thatcher’s hands hung at his sides. He gazed at Adrienne with longing. But what about Caren? Adrienne tried to make her eyes very round.

“You need to have an espresso and calm down,” Thatcher said. “Or, hell, have a drink, I don’t care. Just, please, pull yourself together because we have two hundred and fifty people coming and you are working and Duncan is working, and if tomorrow, July fifth, you two want to battle it out to see who stays and who goes, that’s fine. It’s fine on July fifth. It is not fine tonight. Tonight you have to be a brave soldier.”

Caren pouted. She was lovely, really-Adrienne had a hard time believing that Duncan would ever prefer Phoebe. “I’ll have an espresso martini,” Caren said. “Kill two birds.” She stepped behind the bar. “God, I feel like trashing his perfect setup.”

“Well, please don’t,” Thatcher said. “Delilah is working back there tonight anyway. Duncan’s on the beach. You’ll barely have to see him.”

Caren slammed a martini glass on the blue granite then poured generously from the Triple Eight bottle. “Brilliant.”

Thatcher put his arm around Adrienne and kissed her ear. “You’ll have to hang the bunting by yourself,” he said.

“What are you doing?” Adrienne asked.

“Everything else.”

By ten to six, the restaurant was ready. The bunting hung evenly all the way around the edge of the restaurant, and the tables were set with a tiny American flag standing in each silver bud vase. On the beach, two hundred and fifty chairs were set up in perfect rows. It was a beautiful night. Adrienne had wolfed down a plate of tangy, falling-apart ribs and three deviled eggs at family meal and then she rushed to brush her teeth. When she went to the bar to get her champagne, Duncan confronted her.

“I’m innocent,” he said.

“Delilah, would you pour me a glass of Laurent-Perrier, please?” Adrienne asked.

Delilah, also wearing a red, white, and blue necktie, seemed harried. She studied the bottles in the well. “Where’s the champagne?” she asked Duncan.

“In the door of the little fridge,” he said. “You’d better learn quick; you only have ten minutes.” And then, turning back to Adrienne, he said, “I know she told you.”

Adrienne watched Delilah grapple with the champagne bottle. It took her forever just to unwrap the cork. Finally, Duncan wrested the bottle from his sister. He had it open in two seconds and he poured Adrienne’s drink.

“Hey,” Delilah said. “I’m supposed to learn how to do it myself.”

Duncan ignored her. “She talked to you,” he said to Adrienne. “So if she asks, you tell her I’m innocent. Golf got cancelled, I bumped into Phoebe in town…”

Adrienne picked up her champagne. “Tell her yourself,” she said. “I’m not getting involved.”

She walked to the podium to await the onslaught with Thatcher: 125 people arriving at once.

“What was your best Fourth of July?” Thatcher asked her.

This sounded like another getting-to-know-you question. Why didn’t he ever ask her when she had time to answer?

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

“Tonight is going to be right up there,” Thatcher said. “Nobody does this holiday better than we do.”

By six thirty, 125 people were sitting down, including the Parrishes; the local author and her entourage; Holt Millman with a party of ten; Senator Kennedy; Mr. Kennedy the investor; Stuart and Phyllis, a couple who dined at the Bistro so often that their college-aged kids referred to the food as “mom’s home cooking”; the Mr. Smith for whom the blueberry pie was named, and his wife; Cat, her sister, and their husbands; Leigh Stanford with friends from Idaho; and Leon Cross and his mistress. The place was hopping. Rex played “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” followed by “Camptown Races.” The busboys brought out the pretzel bread and mustard and when Adrienne poked her head into the kitchen, Paco and Eddie were frantically plating shrimp skewers. Adrienne ran the skewers out. Ten of the thirty tables were drinking champagne; the corks sounded like fireworks.

Adrienne saw Caren out by the beach bar. From the looks of things, Caren was letting Duncan have it, but in a quiet, scary way. Letting him have it while Adrienne ran Caren’s apps and Delilah drowned in drink orders.

“Adrienne!” Delilah cried. “I need help.”

Rex launched into “American Pie.”

Adrienne ran to the wine cave for wine, she refilled Delilah’s juice bottles, and went to the kitchen for citrus. It was even hotter in there than before-so hot that Fiona had taken off her chef’s jacket. She worked in just a white T-shirt that had a damp spot between her breasts. It seemed like it took forever to get Delilah out of the weeds, yet Rex was still playing “American Pie,” and half the restaurant was singing.