Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

Harry snapped his cell phone shut. “I called nine-one-one. An ambulance is coming.”

“An ambulance?” Adrienne said, thinking: sirens and lights, the pall of emergency and doom. “The hospital is less than two miles from here. You could drive.”

Scott Elpern glanced up. “We’re in a rental car.” These, Adrienne realized, were the only words she’d heard him speak other than Nice refrigerator.

“So?”

Lucy spoke through pursed lips. “My water broke,” she said. “I’m sitting in a huge puddle of yuck.”

Adrienne nearly laughed. Was this or was this not the theater of the absurd? She caught a whiff of something acrid: Three shrimp burning in the peanut oil. Adrienne fished them out, then she lassoed Spillman. “Let’s get guests their checks. This could turn into a circus.”

Unfortunately, it was too late. A minute later, Adrienne heard sirens in the distance, then lights flashed through the restaurant and three paramedics stormed in like they were rescuing a hostage. Conversation in the restaurant came to a dead halt; Rex stopped playing. Adrienne led the head paramedic, a woman with a long, scraggly ponytail, through the now-hushed restaurant to the Elperns’ table.

“She just started labor. I really don’t think there’s any reason to panic…”

The paramedic knelt down and spoke quietly to Lucy Elpern. Adrienne wondered what to do in the way of damage control. They would need a towel. She retrieved the Sankaty Golf Club towel from the wine cave, and on her way back to the Elperns’ table, she passed Darla and Grayson leaving.

“We loved the table,” Darla whispered. “But we’re going to get out of here before there’s any blood.”

“There won’t be any blood,” Adrienne whispered back. Would there? Grayson palmed Adrienne a hundred dollars.

The golf towel was very little help. The back of Lucy Elpern’s muumuu was soaked and this seemed to be a cause of concern for her; she didn’t want to leave the restaurant.

“Everyone will know,” she whispered.

“Everyone already knows,” Adrienne said. “And it’s no big deal. It’s perfectly natural.”

“This is so embarrassing,” she said.

The head paramedic called one of her guys for a blanket and once they had wrapped Lucy Elpern up, they led her out of the restaurant to the ambulance. The guests at the remaining tables applauded politely, much like they did when the sun set, and the decibel level rose back to normal. Adrienne trailed Lucy and the paramedic to the front door. The phone rang. Adrienne glanced over the top of the podium: It was the private line.

“Good evening,” she said. “Blue Bistro.”

“Hi,” Thatcher said. “It’s me.”

Tears welled up in Adrienne’s eyes so that when she looked out the window, the lights of the ambulance blurred and became a psychedelic soup. She didn’t know exactly why she was crying though she imagined it was a combination of anxiety, relief, and the kamikaze shot. Where the hell have you been? she wanted to scream, but she held her tongue. She should ask about Fiona, about the hospital. However, there wasn’t time to listen to the answers.

“Can I call you back?” she said. “In, say, fifteen minutes? I have to get first seating out of here.”

“Sure,” Thatcher said.

There was a long pause during which Adrienne tried to think of something else to say, but then she realized that Thatcher had hung up. She replaced the phone as the ambulance pulled out of the parking lot, sirens screeching. Tyler Lefroy was standing at the podium, a put-out expression on his seventeen-year-old face.

“Do I really have to clean that gross shit up?”

“Get a mop,” Adrienne said.

Adrienne wanted to call Thatcher back, but she couldn’t. Tables had to be turned; there were a hundred and twenty people sitting down at nine, and because of the Elpern spectacle, first seating was running behind. Adrienne monitored the progress of dessert and coffee; her foot was actually tapping. Turn ’em and burn ’em, she thought. The busboys were humping. Then Caren had a credit card war. Adrienne had heard about these but never seen one. Two men at table eight (by chance, the very men Harry Henderson had stopped to greet) wanted the bill. They were fighting over it. Adrienne’s attention was called to the problem when she heard Caren’s voice, much louder than it should have been.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure we can work this out! I am happy to split the bill.”

The men were on their feet now, tugging at either end of the bill. Thankfully, this was one of the last tables in the dining room. Adrienne approached: The table was another Realtor and his wife and a local lawyer and her husband. The lawyer’s husband was the louder of the two men, though the Realtor was physically bigger.

“I thought we agreed…” the lawyer’s husband said.

“Please, I insist, ” the Realtor growled.

Adrienne felt bad that she hadn’t at least asked Thatcher how Fiona was doing; it was a big mistake that needed to be rectified as soon as possible. With a lightning-quick movement, Adrienne snatched the bill from both men, then put her palm out.

“We don’t have time for this,” she said. Blue Bitch voice. “Cards.”

They handed over their cards and Adrienne spun on her heels. Caren followed her.

“Impressive,” Caren murmured.

Adrienne tried to call Thatcher back after everyone from second seating was settled, but just as she felt it was safe to pick up the phone, Hector appeared from the kitchen.

“The exhaust fan is out,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the kitchen is getting smoky.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said.

“We need it fixed,” Hector said.

“Fine.”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Adrienne said. She checked her watch. “It’s a quarter of ten.”

“Cat,” Hector said. “Call her on her cell phone.”

“I will not,” Adrienne said. “She’s probably asleep. ”

“If you don’t call her, the fire alarms are going to go off and the fire department will show up.”

“Take the batteries out,” Adrienne said.

Hector readjusted his White Sox hat. “This is an industrial kitchen,” he said. “Do you really think our fire alarms run on a couple of double As? You have to call Cat.”

“You’re kidding me, right? This is a joke?” Adrienne was certain it was a joke. A prank to go with Lucy Elpern’s labor. A little laugh at her expense while the boss was away.

“I’m serious,” Hector said. “Look.” He pointed to the window of the kitchen door. Smoke.

“I can’t believe this,” Adrienne said. The restaurant can run itself. Ha! as Thatcher would say. Ha ha ha!

She found Cat’s cell phone number on a list pasted to the front of the reservation book and Cat answered on the first ring. It sounded like she was in high spirits. Too high.

“Cat? It’s Adrienne calling from the Blue Bistro.”

“Hey, girlfriend!”

“Hi. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but we have an exhaust fan out.”

There was a long pause. Adrienne feared she had lost the connection, but then Cat spoke up. “I just needed to step outside,” she said. “I’m having dinner at the Chanticleer.”

Adrienne groaned. The Chanticleer was in Sconset, on the other side of the island. “So you can’t come fix it?”

“And leave behind the duck for two with pomme frites?” Cat said. “The bottle of 1972 Mouton Rothschild…”

“We could give you dinner here,” Adrienne said. “Hector said if it’s not fixed, the alarms will go.”

“Well,” said Cat. Another pause. “I’m with a party of ten and I know for a fact my husband can eat the duck for two by himself. I’ll sneak out now and come back. They’re so drunk, they might not even miss me.”