Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“I did notice your dinners this summer were a little… quiet,” Adrienne said. She and Darla were sitting at table nineteen in the most secluded corner of the restaurant. It was occupied every night, but Adrienne always thought of it as the table where Leon Cross sat when he ate with his mistress. She thought of it as the table where Thatcher did the bills each night. Now it was the table where Darla Parrish had bravely decided to eat alone. She wouldn’t give up the standing Tuesday and Friday night reservations, not when the restaurant was less than two weeks away from closing. She could have invited other people to dine with her-her sister Eleanor, her best friend Sandy Beyrer-but that felt like denial somehow. She was to be a single woman; she would eat alone, with Adrienne as occasional company. Ten minutes here or there; Darla appreciated whatever time Adrienne could spare.

“Watching you gives me hope,” Darla said. “When you leave this island for the next fabulous place, you call me. I’m going with you.”

For three nights running, Thatcher had spent the night at Fiona’s house. Fiona slept hooked up to an oximeter, and when her O 2sats dropped, an alarm sounded. Thatcher was there to respond to the alarm, call an ambulance, get Fiona to the hospital, and although this hadn’t happened, he wasn’t sleeping. He showed up at work with his hair parted on the wrong side and his cuffs buttoned incorrectly. He misplaced his watch for twenty-four hours. In the days since Holt Millman’s party, the only real conversation that Adrienne had had with Thatcher was about the lost watch. He bought it for himself with his profits from the Bistro the first year. The watch and the Bistro were linked in his mind. He received compliments on the watch every night; once, Charlie Sheen had tried to buy it right off his wrist.

Adrienne understood how certain objects could hold real value, though she didn’t have anything herself that was worth anything-except now, a couple of great pairs of shoes. She offered to help Thatcher search Fiona’s place, but when she suggested this, he backed up.

“Whatever,” he said. “It’s just a watch.”

The following morning, however, when Fiona’s cleaning lady found the watch on the windowsill of Fiona’s bathroom, Thatcher’s mood improved. He led Adrienne from the podium into the wine cave, where they made love standing up with Adrienne’s back against the cooling unit. It seemed sneaky and cheap, and Adrienne thought miserably of the one-night stands Fiona had mentioned.

“I love you,” Adrienne said.

Thatcher kissed her neck in response, then he laughed. “Ha!”

She could tell he was thinking about the watch, and sure enough, once Adrienne was back at the phone, Thatcher asked her to clear a table for Consuela, Fiona’s cleaning lady-dinner for two, on him.

Three nights without Thatcher turned into five, six, seven.

“It’s been a whole week,” Adrienne said to Caren. It was another hot, sunny morning. They sat at the sawed-off table in the shade of the backyard, Adrienne drinking tea, Caren drinking espresso and poring over the Pottery Barn catalog. She needed furniture for her new apartment.

Caren looked up from a page of leather sofas. “Are you worried?”

“I’m furious,” Adrienne said. She was in her running clothes, ready to put on her shoes and go. But now that she had Caren’s attention, she wanted to keep it. “I know I should feel sorry for Fiona, but I can’t.”

Caren bit her thumbnail. “That’s tricky.”

“You think I’m horrible,” Adrienne said. “I am horrible.” She stared at her bare feet. They were tan with white lines from the straps of her flip-flops; her toenails were painted “ripe raspberry.” These were the feet of a woman who had learned to stand for eight-hour stretches, and who had learned to walk in slides and sling backs with a four-inch heel. These were the feet of a woman who had kicked the bad habit of lying about her past and who had learned to trust a man and love him. The summer had been so brilliant. What was happening to her sense of peace, her happiness? What was happening to her?

Since her dinner with Fiona, Adrienne had tried to stay out of the kitchen, but she couldn’t avoid the normal course of her job. She had to pick up the chips and dip; she had to help the waitstaff. The previous evening, when Adrienne walked into the kitchen to put in a VIP order for the owner of American Seasons, she found Fiona whipping a side towel against the pass like she was a jockey in the Kentucky Derby. The sweat streamed down her face, her hair was matted to her head.

“Ordering table one: one chowder, one bisque. Who are these people eating soup when it’s so hot?” She glanced over at Adrienne. “And you, my dear, look as fresh as a fucking daisy.”

Adrienne could not get past her fury. It was a boulder blocking her path.

Adrienne left Caren to her armchairs and ottomans. Caren couldn’t handle Adrienne’s anger. There was, perhaps, only one person who could.

Adrienne pulled Drew Amman-Keller’s card out of the top drawer of her desk.

She thought he might sound smug, or victorious, but when Drew Amman-Keller answered the phone and learned it was Adrienne calling, he treated her like a friend.

“Adrienne, how’s the summer going? I mean to come in one more time before you close, but, as you know, I’m at the mercy of Mr. Millman. That was some party last week, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Adrienne said. She closed the door to her bedroom even though Caren was still outside. And Duncan-was he lurking around somewhere, or was he golfing? Adrienne hadn’t even thought to ask. She was discombobulated. She had mustered the guts to call, but now what?

“So…” Drew said. “Is there something I can do for you or did you just call to chat?”

She pictured him licking his womanish lips.

“I called to talk to you about Fiona.”

Drew Amman-Keller cleared his throat. “Would you like to talk in person? You could come here or I could come to you.”

His voice was low and smooth, like a lover suggesting a rendezvous. Adrienne moved into the doorway of her closet.

“No,” she said.

“Okay, then, the phone.”

“The phone.”

There was silence. Drew Amman-Keller was either feeling as awkward as she was or else his silence was a tactic to get her to talk. And what, exactly, was she going to tell him? Did she tell him about the concealed illness, the transplant list, the affair with the married delivery driver, the smothering friendship with Thatcher? What Adrienne needed was a friend-someone to take her side, someone to sympathize with her. She had shown up on this island with an empty Future box. Now she had plenty of money but she had nowhere to go and no plans. Her life was so devoid of people who cared that she was forced to talk to a reporter.

Drew Amman-Keller took a breath. “I can pay you,” he said.

Adrienne hung up.

She spent the rest of the day feeling both proud of herself for shutting the lid on Drew Amman-Keller and ashamed of herself for calling him in the first place. She went to Dionis Beach and lay in the hot sun at low tide. She felt her anger wilting. On the way to work that night, she stopped at Pam’s salon and bought Thatcher a gift certificate for a massage. She gave it to him before menu meeting.

“Ha! When am I supposed to use this?”

“I don’t know,” Adrienne said. “It only takes an hour.”

“Ha!”

“What is wrong with you?” Adrienne said. She felt blood rise to the surface of her face; the hair on her arms stood up. They were going to fight, and she was glad. She wanted a fight. The phone rang, the private line. Tempting, but she ignored it.

Thatcher didn’t even seem to hear the phone. “I’m tired,” he said.