Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“We’re talking about it,” he said.

This answer saddened her even more. They were making plans without her. Everyone was: That morning, Adrienne had heard Caren on the phone with a Realtor in Providence, Rhode Island.

“Providence?” Adrienne had said when Caren hung up, only slightly cowed by the fact that she’d been eavesdropping. “What happened to St. Bart’s?”

“That part of my life is over,” Caren said. “It’s time to move on. I have to get a real job. I have a degree in biology, you know. I could work in a lab.”

“You’re a scientist? I thought you did ballet.”

“I’m too old for ballet now. I’m almost thirty-three. I have to get some structure in place. Some health insurance.”

“What about Duncan?” Adrienne said.

“He’ll be in Providence, too,” Caren said. “Providence is not a place I would have chosen on my own.”

“What’s he going to do in Providence?”

“Work for Holt Millman,” Caren said.

“As a bartender?”

Caren laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

So Caren and Duncan were off to Providence and the Subiacos were talking about opening their own place. Henry Subiaco had his root beer. Spillman and Red Mare were moving to Brooklyn; they were going to work for Kevin Kahla at Craft and start trying to have a baby. To avoid being stranded out in the cold, Adrienne told herself she could always go to Telluride with Kyra and the painter-or she could put her finger on the map and pick a new place. But what Adrienne really wanted was to go where Thatcher went and do what he did. He had cancelled the trip to the Galápagos, but no plans appeared in its place. Adrienne was left to speculate: He would ride it out with Fiona, whatever that entailed.

While Adrienne was lost in this train of thought, Mario picked up his magazine and started reading again.

“I should get back to work…” Adrienne said, but he didn’t answer. He wasn’t listening.

Adrienne returned to the front to find Doyle Chambers pacing by the podium. Adrienne steeled her resolve, then breezed around him as if he weren’t there. She checked her running watch, which she kept inside the podium: five fifty-five, three feet above sea level. She rechecked the reservation book.

“Adrienne,” Doyle Chambers said.

She held up a finger- One minute -with the authority (she hoped) of the conductor of an orchestra. Doyle Chambers worked on Wall Street. He was intense, he was fastidious, he was busy. He and his mousy wife, Gloria, rented a house in Quaise, and flew to Nantucket on their jet every weekend. Doyle never requested reservations so much as demanded them. Adrienne had sat him at least six times over the course of the summer and each time he had made her feel increasingly menial. The world was Doyle Chambers’s servant. But not tonight.

“I called you three times and left three messages on your cell phone,” Adrienne said. She glanced up to see Gloria, wearing a fringed shawl like a rock diva of a certain era, slinking around by the front door. “I made myself clear. Call back to reconfirm or I give away your table.”

“Adrienne.”

“It wasn’t like you,” Adrienne said. “But you didn’t call me back.”

“A reservation is a reservation,” he said. “Do you understand the meaning of the word? I reserved a table.”

“It’s the middle of August, Mr. Chambers,” Adrienne said. She breathed in through her nose and if she could have breathed out fire, she would have. “I gave away your table.”

“No!” he said. His voice reverberated through the restaurant. Adrienne turned around. It was empty except for the servers who looked up from their polishing and straightening, startled. When they saw it was just Doyle Chambers releasing testosterone, they resumed work.

In response to his raised voice, Adrienne lowered hers. “Yes,” she said. “Those, I’m afraid, are our rules. However, since you’re here early, you’re more than welcome to sit at the bar.”

“Sit at the bar?” he said. “Sit at the bar like I’m someone who doesn’t have enough pull to get a real table?”

Adrienne wished she could blink herself back into pastry with Mario, love bite, indifference, and all. She could watch the ice cream machine churn liquid into solid. She peeked out the window, hoping that Thatcher and Fiona had skipped the last hymn and Thatcher’s silver truck would be pulling into the parking lot any second. Doyle Chambers never spoke like this to Thatcher; he only bullied women. Caren had refused to serve him years ago.

“ Pull has nothing to do with it,” Adrienne said, her voice practically a whisper. “If you’d like a table, you have to make a reservation, then reconfirm. It’s a Saturday night in August. I have a twenty-one-reservation wait list. I called your cell phone three times. You did not call me back. I waited until two o’clock, which is, incidentally, two hours past the deadline, then I gave away your table.”

Doyle Chambers snatched a pack of matches out of the bowl and whipped them sidearm at the wall behind Adrienne’s head. Gloria Chambers slipped out to the parking lot. Adrienne felt someone by her side: Joe.

“I can’t believe this!” Doyle Chambers shouted. “What is the point of making a reservation if it doesn’t reserve you shit!”

“Hey, man,” Joe said. “Lower your voice. Please. And stop throwing things at the lady. She’s just doing her job.”

Doyle Chambers glared at Joe and took a step toward him. Fight, Adrienne thought. Duncan rushed over from the bar and grabbed Doyle Chambers’s arm in a good-natured, break-it-up way.

“Doyle,” he said. “Dude, you have to chill. I’d be happy to set you up at the bar.”

Doyle Chambers shrugged Duncan off. “I’m not eating at the bar,” he said. “I’m eating in the dining room. I have a reservation.”

“You had a reservation,” Adrienne said. She was shaking, but it felt good to be enforcing the rules, especially with a cretin like this. He beat his wife; there wasn’t a doubt in Adrienne’s mind.

Doyle Chambers looked at the ground and said nothing. His face and neck were red, the part in his sandy blond hair was red. Adrienne thought he was collecting himself. She thought maybe he would apologize and maybe he would agree to sit at the bar. Duncan, who prided himself on being a man’s man, would buy him a round of drinks and put in a VIP order. But when Doyle Chambers raised his head, Adrienne could see nothing of the sort would happen. He lifted his hand and Adrienne thought he was going to strike her, but what he did was more devastating. He grabbed Adrienne’s reservation book and ripped out the page for that night, crumpling it in his fist. “No!” Adrienne cried. But before she or Joe or Duncan could comprehend the full meaning of his action, Doyle Chambers was out the door, pushing past a party of eight that was on their way in. Adrienne darted out from behind the podium and made it to the doorway in time to see Doyle and Gloria Chambers tear out of the parking lot in their convertible Jaguar.

“There goes my night,” Adrienne said. “Literally. There goes my night. ” One of the men in the party of eight looked at her expectantly; she didn’t know who he was or where he belonged. Joe and Duncan stared at Adrienne with dumb, shell-shocked expressions. “What am I going to do?” Adrienne asked them. Joe retreated to the dining room to pass the bad news on to the other servers.

Duncan repaired to the bar. “Let me get your drink,” he said.

Adrienne returned to her post behind the podium. Her book was destroyed. In addition to Saturday, Doyle Chambers had ripped out half of Sunday. Adrienne tasted the grilled sausage she’d had for family meal in the back of her throat.