Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“Well, you’re going to miss my father,” Adrienne said. “Tonight’s the only night he’s eating at the Bistro.” And that only because he insisted. The other two nights Adrienne had booked him at the Pearl and the Club Car. Thatcher had set Don and Mavis up in a hotel room at the Beach Club, where reservations in July and August had been booked for six months. Thatcher talked to Mack and Mack had a last-minute cancellation and so Dr. Don and Mavis were staying in a room on the Gold Coast. Adrienne had worried about the price, but her father seemed excited about paying six hundred dollars a night for a room. This was a very special vacation, he said, and there would be no skimping.

By the time she got to work, Adrienne’s stomach was churning like Mario’s Hobart mixer. There were 247 covers on the book. Family meal was shrimp curry over jasmine rice and a cucumber salad, but Adrienne couldn’t eat. She begged Mario to make her some of his banana French toast with chocolate syrup-what she needed was some comfort food-and Mario bitched about the two hundred and fifty other people he had to feed that night. Since he had put the writer from Vanity Fair on a plane back to New York without a story, and since he had lost five hundred dollars for breaking his contract with his publicist, Mario had gotten good at bitching. He worked too many hours, he made too little money, he wasn’t treated like the genius he knew himself to be. Still, Adrienne knew that he liked her.

“My father is coming in tonight with his… friend,” Adrienne told him.

“Your father’s gay?” Mario said.

“No,” Adrienne said. “Why do you ask?”

“The way you said ‘friend’ sounded funny.”

“It is funny,” Adrienne said. “But he’s not gay. The woman he’s coming with is his… hygienist. She’s his employee. Just please don’t think it’s my mother. Mavis is not my mother. My mother died when I was twelve.”

Mario crossed himself then held up his palms. “I’ll make the toast,” he said.

But Adrienne couldn’t eat the French toast either-her anxiety level rose to her eyebrows every time she reviewed the reservation book. The circle that stood for table twenty said “Don Dealey.” Her father was coming to the restaurant tonight, stepping into her life for the first time since he’d flown to Tallahassee for her college graduation. Always she went to him. She liked it that way; it gave her control. This feeling she had now was a distinctly out-of-control feeling.

Thatcher joined her at the podium. “I missed you today,” he said. “What did you do?”

“Sat on the beach and stressed.”

“About what?”

“Do I really need to say it?”

“Your father?”

Adrienne nodded. She didn’t want Thatcher to know how nervous she was because she wasn’t sure she could explain why. Her father meeting Thatcher, Thatcher meeting her father. The disastrous dinner with Will Kovak years earlier festered in her mind. Why was her father coming to see her this year of all years? Why hadn’t he come to see her in Hawaii when she was low on friends and spent most of her evenings wallowing in misery over her breakup with Sully? It seemed so much sager to follow the example of her fellow employees and keep family members out of the restaurant. She thought of how morose Tyler Lefroy had looked at the table with his parents and his sister. Tonight, that would be her.

“You haven’t noticed my haircut,” Thatcher said. “I had Pam squeeze me in because your father was coming.”

Adrienne looked at him blankly. “You’re right,” she said. “I didn’t notice.” She checked her watch. “Five minutes until post time.” She wandered over to the bar and Duncan slid her drink across the blue granite.

“So what do you think about Caren going to see the Stones with this Tate guy?” Duncan said.

Adrienne shrugged. “She’s psyched about the concert.”

“Yeah, but what about the guy?”

“He’s loaded, I guess. He owns a villa on St. Bart’s.”

“She says they’re just friends.”

“Of course, they’re just friends,” Adrienne said. “You’re not worried about Caren?”

“They’re sharing a hotel room,” he said.

“It has two beds,” Adrienne said. “I’m sure that since the two of you are so happy together, nothing will happen with this Tate person, even if he is rich. And handsome.”

“Handsome?”

Adrienne tried not to smile. “I saw his picture. The guy looks like George Clooney.” She pointed to the row of bottles behind Duncan. “But I’ll bet he can’t make a lemon meringue pie martini.”

“Thanks,” Duncan said. “You’re a pal. Hey, your parents are coming in tonight?”

Adrienne took a long sip of her champagne. “My father,” she said. “And his hygienist.”

Duncan looked at her strangely.

“My father’s a dentist,” Adrienne said. “He’s coming with a woman who works for him. His hygienist.”

Duncan smiled. “Sure.”

Adrienne took another drink. This was more than half the problem-explaining about Mavis. There was no easy way to do it, and yet Adrienne had vowed that she was going to be honest. She would not pretend Mavis was her mother.

She heard Thatcher say, “You must be…”

Adrienne slowly turned around to see her father and Mavis standing by the podium. Dr. Don was a good six foot two, and he looked tan and handsome. He’d lost weight and he was wearing new clothes-a lizard green silk shirt and a linen blazer. Adrienne was suddenly overwhelmed with love for him. It was a love that had lasted twenty-eight years and had solely sustained her for the last sixteen. It was a love that was the ruling order of her life; she was able to exist only because this man loved her.

“Dad,” she said.

He hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head, rocking her back and forth. “Oh, honey,” he said. Adrienne hid her face in the soft material of his shirt. “I forget just how much I miss you.” He held her apart. “Smile.”

She had brushed and flossed when she first got to work because she knew he would ask. He always did. She smiled, but when she smiled she felt like she might cry. She took a deep breath and regarded Mavis, who was beaming at her. No, this was not her mother, but Mavis was, at least, familiar. She had the same haircut, the same frosted coral lipstick, the same minty smell as Adrienne kissed the side of her mouth. She wore a red dress with gold buttons-that was new.

“Mavis, hi.”

“Hi, doll.” The same vaguely annoying nickname: doll. Mavis called everyone by diminutives: doll, baby doll, sweetie, sugar, honey pie. Except for Adrienne’s father whom she called “the doctor,” when she was speaking about him, and “Donald,” when she was speaking to him.

Adrienne felt a light hand on her lower back and she remembered Thatcher. Thatcher, the restaurant, her job.

“Daddy, Mavis, this is Thatcher Smith, owner of the Blue Bistro. Thatcher, my father, Don Dealey, and Mavis Laroux.”

“We just met,” Thatcher said. He glanced from Adrienne to Don and back again. “I wish I could say I saw a family resemblance.”

Don laughed. “Adrienne looks like my late wife,” he said. He turned to Mavis. “Doesn’t she?”

Mavis nodded solemnly. “Spitting image.”

Adrienne plucked two menus from the podium. “Okay, well,” she said. “Since you’re here, you might as well sit. Follow me.” She walked through the dining room to table twenty, wobbling a little in her heels. Something felt off. She tried to think: Her father was definitely at table twenty. She would seat him, give him a menu, and have Spillman get him a drink. Thatcher would put in the VIP order. Fine. The restaurant was sparkling and elegant. Rex played “What a Wonderful World.”