Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

Again, Adrienne wondered why there had to be nights like this. Why had she agreed to come to this party? And why, oh why, had she strayed from Thatcher’s side?

“Darla,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“Adrienne, honey,” Darla said. She held her arms out. “Give me a hug.”

Adrienne bent down and embraced her. She watched herself in the mirror. From the back, she thought, Darla could have been her mother. They could have been mother and daughter hugging. Gently, Adrienne released her hold. She heard the toilet flush, then water, then Cat’s face appeared in the mirror. Cat pointed at the door. Adrienne nodded and Cat left.

“Is everything okay?” Adrienne asked. She felt herself slipping back into restaurant mode. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I need another drink,” Darla said, though Adrienne could smell the Southern Comfort on Darla along with her Shalimar. She eyed the glass of melting ice on the dressing table. Did Darla expect Adrienne to fetch her another drink? Maybe she did. Adrienne considered it, but instead she said, “Let’s go out. I’m trying to find Thatcher and we can look for your husband.”

“Grayson isn’t here,” Darla said, and she started to weep again.

“Oh, right,” Adrienne said. “You came with Eleanor?”

Darla nodded, face in her hands. Adrienne plucked a tissue from a box on a nearby table and held it out to Darla. It was getting later and later; it might be as late as eight thirty. Adrienne started to panic. She had to get back to the tent and find Thatcher-if she couldn’t find him, she was leaving anyway. Either way, Caren was going to be bitter and with good reason.

Darla dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “He’s having an affair,” she said. “He’s been having an affair for twelve years.”

“Oh,” Adrienne said.

Darla nodded firmly as though Adrienne had just said something she very much agreed with. “One of my bridge partners back home.”

Back home was Short Hills, New Jersey. Darla had cancelled once, and another time come to the Bistro with Eleanor, because Grayson had business back in Short Hills.

“I’m sorry, Darla. That’s awful. Shall we try to find your sister?”

Darla gripped Adrienne’s arm in a way that made it clear she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Promise me you won’t marry Thatcher,” Darla said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re as free as a bird,” Darla said. “That’s always what I think of when I see you. Drinking champagne, in your beautiful silks, flitting here, flying there-you’re a bird. Free, free. I wouldn’t want to see Thatcher or anyone else clip your wings. Promise me you won’t marry Thatcher.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Adrienne said. “Life has too many surprises.”

“Oh, honey,” Darla said. She had a smudge of lipstick on the bottom of her front tooth. Adrienne nearly pointed it out, but she didn’t have the heart. She excused herself for the powder room. When she peeked back in a minute later, Darla was gone.

At ten minutes to nine, Adrienne found Thatcher standing at the main buffet table eating stuffed mushrooms. She took his arm. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “How do we get the car from the valet?”

Thatcher smiled at her. Something was funny about him. Funny peculiar.

“What?” she said.

“I love you,” he said. “I was just standing here thinking of you and how much I love you. And I was also thinking about Fiona. Fiona is really fucking sick.”

Discreetly, Adrienne surveyed their surroundings. There was a man replenishing the buffet and a couple of guests lingering at the end of the table by the crab claws. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” Adrienne said.

“It’s true,” he said. “She’s sick. She can’t breathe. Her lungs are polluted. They’re a junkyard.”

“Thatcher?”

He grinned, then pulled her in close. “This is a great party. You know how many years I’ve been invited to this party? Twelve. And I’ve never come. You know, I heard the band warming up. They start playing at nine.”

“That’s nice,” Adrienne said. “But we have to go back. Second seating. Caren has no book.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“What?”

“And you’re not leaving, either. We’re going to dance. I’ve been dying to dance with you all summer.”

Adrienne picked up Thatcher’s glass. She took a sip. It looked like club soda with lime but it was the tail end of a gin and tonic.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said.

“Yep.”

“How many of these have you had?”

“Several.”

“Several?”

“Yep.” Thatcher took the glass from her hand and emptied it into his mouth in one gulp. “Come on, let’s find the dance floor.”

“No, Thatcher.”

“Yes.” He kissed her. As angry and agitated as she was, she succumbed. She’d had two glasses of champagne herself, three including the one she drank at work to calm her Doyle Chambers-induced stress, and she had a little buzz. For the second that Thatcher kissed her, she let her mind wander. How bad would it be if she just went along with this reckless course of action? Allowing Thatcher to get drunk and dancing to this band from New York instead of heading back to the Bistro to work second seating. Caren could get everyone down with a little creativity; she knew the guests as well as Thatcher and better than Adrienne. How bad would it be to blow off a little steam?

Bad, she decided. The bar would be packed. They still had the stealing problem. Fiona was sick and the priest was there. As for Thatcher’s drinking, Adrienne didn’t know what to think. He once told her that drinking, for an alcoholic, was like falling into a river filled with raging rapids. It was easy to get swept away, to drown. So should she stop him? Yes. Get him a Coke. Or a coffee.

“We’re leaving,” Adrienne said. At that minute, she heard Thatcher’s cell phone ringing. She removed it from his blazer pocket. She didn’t check the number; the only place that ever called him was the restaurant.

“We’re on our way back,” Adrienne said.

“Don’t bother.” It was Caren. “I’m calling to tell you that Chambers’s wife came in with the page from the book. Is it me or does that woman look like Stevie Nicks? Anyway, she apologized and I can get second down. Fiona and the padre left-she went home to sleep and Antonio said everything was fine. The kitchen is cranking the plates. We’re all set. You stay and enjoy yourself.”

“No, we can’t,” Adrienne said.

“Sure you can.” And Caren hung up.

Adrienne slipped the phone back into Thatcher’s blazer. Now what to do? Thatcher didn’t ask about the phone call. He was too busy attacking the buffet table-tenderloin, crab claws, gravlax, mushrooms, cherrystones on the half shell. He held one out to Adrienne.

“Eat this,” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“Come on.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry?” he said. He piled his plate with Chinese spare ribs. “This food is incredible.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said. “We can stay. But you have to promise me you’ll stop drinking. You have to promise, Thatch.”

He gave her big eyes as he gnawed on a spare rib. “I don’t need to stop drinking,” he said. “Because I feel fine. I feel better than I have all summer. When the restaurant is closed, this is what I’m going to do. Party like this.”

Adrienne surveyed the tent. Across the lawn, she saw Eleanor leading Darla Parrish out of the party. Home for ice water, aspirin, and bed. Adrienne was relieved. Darla’s news was still ticking in her brain like a bomb that had yet to go off.

“If you feel good now,” Adrienne said, “you should stop drinking.”