Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“What about reservations?”

“Just do the best you can.”

“Can I call you? You’re taking your cell?”

“Absolutely. I have a room at the Boston Harbor Hotel. You should call me there before you lock up at night. And I’ll need you in at ten to do reconfirmations and answer the phone.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“You don’t have to pay me,” Adrienne said. She felt like a tidal wave was crashing over the perfect sand castle of her life. Thatcher gone for three days. Fiona sick enough for a hospital. Adrienne left in charge of the restaurant in the height of the season. It was impossible, wasn’t it, what he was asking of her? As though he had told her she had to land an airplane or dock an ocean liner. “You can pay me, but I’m not worried about money. I’m worried about you. And Fiona. Is she going to be all right?”

“I’ll know more tomorrow,” Thatcher said. “She has a lot of anxiety. Father Ott is sitting with her right now.”

“Father Ott?”

“She’s afraid she’s going to hell,” Thatcher said. He cleared his throat. “Listen, I have to go. Call me before you close, okay?”

“Okay,” Adrienne said.

He hung up.

Some time would have been nice, a few minutes to collect herself, to wrap her mind around what this phone call meant. But it was six o’clock, the waitstaff wanted confirmation that they were perfect-they were-and Rex played the theme from Romeo and Juliet. The first table arrived: a male couple who was staying at the Point Breeze. Adrienne sat them at table one, handed them menus, and told them to enjoy their meals, but when she said this, it sounded like a question, and in fact, as she looked at their perplexed tan faces, she was thinking: Fiona is afraid she’s going to hell. Adrienne headed for the bar; she needed her drink.

“Where’s the boss man?” Duncan asked.

How much was she supposed to say? Thatcher hadn’t given her any guidelines. “He’s not coming in tonight.”

“Out last night and tonight?” Duncan said. “You need to take it easy on him.”

“Funny,” Adrienne said. “May I have my champagne, please?”

Duncan nodded at the door. “I’ll bring it over to you,” he said. “You have work.”

Two couples were standing by the podium. Adrienne hurried over. “Good evening,” she said. “Name?”

“You don’t remember us?” asked a man with red hair and a red goatee. “We were in two nights ago? You talked us into a bottle of that pink champagne? We’re from Florida?”

“Boca Raton,” one of the women said.

Adrienne stared at the foursome, utterly lost. She would have sworn she had never seen them before in her life.

“You told us you used to work at the Mar-a-Lago,” the red-haired man said.

“I did?” Adrienne said. She must have. Okay, she had to get a grip. Shake off this feeling of being stranded in the Sahara without any Evian. She scanned the book, looking for a familiar name. Cavendish? Xavier? She smiled. “Please forgive me. I can’t remember what name the reservation is under.”

“Levy,” the man said. “But our feelings are hurt.”

Adrienne sat them at table fifteen and made a mental note to send these people, whom she still did not remember, some chips and dip. She saw Leon Cross and his wife waiting by the podium. Leon’s wife was a TV producer, a hotshot who recently tried to talk Thatcher into a reality show set at the Bistro. Initially, Adrienne had thought the Bistro would make a great setting for a reality show, but if a camera had filmed the last fifteen minutes no audience would believe it. Anxiety, death, and hell among the hardest-to-get reservations in town? Then there was Leon Cross himself, who sometimes came to the restaurant with his wife when he sat at table twenty (Adrienne led them there now), but just as often came with his mistress (who was older than his wife and a nicer woman) when he sat at table nineteen in a dark corner under the awning.

No one would believe it.

Party of eight from the Wauwinet, party of four waitresses from the Westender celebrating a birthday, party of five that was a single mom out with her two kids and their spouses. Then a series of deuces, then a four-top that was two couples celebrating the fact that they’d been friends for twenty years. The phone rang and rang. Adrienne checked each time to see if it was the private line-no. She didn’t answer. Delilah ran her a glass of champagne and Adrienne took half of it in one long gulp.

She hurried into the kitchen to put in two orders of chips. The kitchen seemed the same except that instead of Fiona, Antonio was expediting.

“Ordering sixteen,” he called out. “One foie gras, one Caesar.”

“Yes, chef,” Eddie said.

“Ordering twelve,” Antonio said. “Two chowder, one beet, one foie gras killed, Henry baby, okay?”

“Yes, chef,” Henry said.

Adrienne held up two fingers to Paco and he started slicing potatoes on his mandolin. Adrienne knew it would take six minutes and she should get back out front, but she lingered in the kitchen for a minute. Everything seemed way too normal. The Subiacos worked as though nothing was wrong. The baseball game was on. She poked her head back into pastry. Mario was pulling a tray of brownies out of the convection oven. Adrienne stared him down. They had never talked about Fiona’s illness.

“What?” he said. “You want one?”

“Thatcher and Fiona are in Boston,” Adrienne whispered. “They’re going to be gone for three days. Fiona is in the hospital. ”

Mario squeezed Adrienne’s face to make fish lips. It hurt. “It’s okay,” he said. “This happens. They put Fiona on a vent and it clears things out. They pump her full of miracle drugs. It makes things better. Trust me. It’s no big deal.” He let Adrienne’s face go.

“Really?” Adrienne said.

“Fifteen years ago, we’re in Skills One together and the day before our practical, she goes into the hospital. Big hospital down in the city. So I know something’s wrong. As soon as I finish my test, I take the train to see her and she tells me about her thing. And I think maybe I’m gonna cry but then I realize Fee is the toughest person I know. She’s gonna survive. And, like I said, that was fifteen years ago. She goes back to school the next week, makes up her practical, scores a ninety-seven out of a hundred. I get a seventy-three. Suddenly, she’s the one who’s worried about me. And for good reason.” Mario cut the crispy edges off the brownies. “She’ll outlive us all. You watch.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said. That was what she wanted to hear. She smacked Mario’s butt and walked back to the hot line.

Spillman burst into the kitchen. “Adrienne, can you open wine for table fifteen? I’m slammed, and they say they’re friends of yours.”

“Sure,” Adrienne said. She returned to the dining room. Rex was playing Barry Manilow. She took the Levys’ wine order, retrieved the bottle from the wine cave, opened the wine and served it, all in under five minutes, at which point she remembered the chips and dip. Adrienne delivered chips and dip to the Levys, then Leon Cross. She returned to the podium and finished her champagne. Run the restaurant by herself? she thought. Piece of cake!

Smack in the middle of first seating, two women walked in wearing baseball hats and jeans. Adrienne felt a headache coming on. The Bistro didn’t have a dress code, she reminded herself. The best tippers were often the guests who were underdressed. One of the women was wearing giraffe-print Prada mules and Gucci sunglasses. She took the sunglasses off as she approached the podium.

“Is it all right if we eat at the bar?”