The Blue Bistro (21 page)

Adrienne squeezed her water bottle in the middle, making a plastic crunch. This was the guy who had sent her to the Bistro in the first place. He’d set her up, maybe, hoping she’d spy on Fiona and report details back to him. But what kind of details was he after, exactly? “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

Drew Amman-Keller took his eyes off the road for a split second to look at Adrienne. She noticed something funny about the bottom half of his face. It was pink and raw-looking where he’d shaved, as though he’d stripped off a mask.

He downshifted and signaled to the left. “Here’s Cliff Road,” he said. “Is it okay if I drop you here?”

“I thought you were going to take me into town,” Adrienne said. “Are you trying to get rid of me now?”

He laughed. “I’m happy to take you to town,” he said. He pulled back onto the road and turned up the radio.

Adrienne collapsed back in the seat. “You’re happy to take me to town, but you won’t tell me what’s going on in the restaurant where I’m the assistant manager. You must think I’m pretty naïve.”

“I think no such thing.”

Despite the air-conditioning, Adrienne was hot. And thirsty. And angry.

“I went on a date with Thatcher last week,” she said. “But Fiona called at midnight and told Thatcher his dinner was ready and he left me at my front door.” Adrienne watched Drew Amman-Keller for a reaction, but he had none. She kicked his glove compartment and left a mark with her filthy shoe. The restaurant was turning her into a lunatic, the kind of person who confided in strangers and disrespected their brand-new cars. “You told me if I ever wanted to talk, I should call you. You gave me your card. I still have it at home.”

“Good,” he said. “Hold on to it.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll write an article about my date with Thatcher?”

“No,” he said.

“No,” Adrienne echoed. Girl likes boy, boy likes different girl. He’d heard it a thousand times before. Everyone had.

There were only two people in the restaurant whom Adrienne trusted, and one of those people was Mario. This might have seemed counterintuitive, as Mario’s reputation among the staff was for being exactly the opposite—untrustworthy, fickle, a scoundrel. He had dumped Delilah by kissing another woman on the dance floor of the Chicken Box while he was there on a date with Delilah. Delilah had cried for three days, and she begged Duncan to defend her honor. Duncan said, “I told you not to go near the guy in the first place.”

Mario was deadly as a lover, but as a friend he had a curiously golden touch. The afternoon of her ride with Drew Amman-Keller, Adrienne marched back into pastry.

“It looks like someone could use a Popsicle,” Mario said. He pulled a tray out of the freezer and handed Adrienne a creamy raspberry-banana Popsicle then took one for himself. They licked the Popsicles leaning side by side against the marble counter.

“They’re good, yeah?” Mario said.

“Yeah,” she said. She bit off a big piece and it gave her an ice-cream headache. She moaned. Mario rubbed the inside of her wrist.

“This is supposed to help,” he said.

“You just want to touch me,” she said.

“You got that right.”

She said, “Do you know what’s going on between Fiona and Thatcher?”

He dropped her arm. “There’s nothing going on.”

Adrienne threw her Popsicle stick into the trash. “You’re lying to me.”

“No,” Mario said. He moved down the counter to where the dough for the Portuguese rolls was proofing. He worked the dough with his hands. “I would not lie to you. There’s nothing going on the way you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I always know what the ladies are thinking.”

“So if it’s not what I’m thinking, then what is it?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Mario said.

The other person Adrienne trusted was Caren, but only during certain times of the day: mornings after Duncan left, in the Jetta on the way to work, as they listened to Moby.

“I am not a jealous person,” Caren said, one morning after four espressos, which was enough to make even her tremble. “You haven’t known me very long, so you’ll have to take my word for it. Usually, I eat men for breakfast.”

“I can tell,” Adrienne said.

“I’m a biting bitch.”

“You’re strong.”

“Right. Except not with Duncan. I’ve known him twelve years and I’ve seen him do all kinds of outrageous things
with women at the bar, and before it was always funny. But now it’s awful. They all want to sleep with him, even the married ones. He says he’s in it for the money, but I don’t know, it’s got to be an ego rush for him, right? This is driving me fucking nuts. But don’t tell anyone, okay? Promise you won’t tell.”

“I promise,” Adrienne said. She had sworn to herself that she wasn’t going to tell anyone about her ride with Drew Amman-Keller, not even Caren. But at that moment Caren seemed vulnerable—pale, sweating, shaking from her mainline of caffeine—so Adrienne said, “I know I’ve beaten this subject to death, but I really want to know what’s going on between Thatcher and Fiona.”

Caren gathered up her hair and tied it into a knot. It stayed perfect like that, without a single pin. Adrienne was both fascinated by her manipulations and driven batty by her silence. Caren was deciding how much, if anything, to divulge. “It’s a lot simpler than you think.”

“Simpler how?”

“They’re friends, like I said before. If you’re ever going to have a relationship with Thatcher Smith, you need to accept that.”

“I’m not going to have a relationship with Thatcher Smith,” Adrienne said. She needed to accept
that.

On the Sunday before the official start of summer, Caren announced from her post in front of the espresso machine that she and Duncan were going sailing on Holt Millman’s yacht and that Adrienne was joining them.

“You’re not allowed to say no,” Caren said. “Holt is thrilled you’re coming. We’re leaving in thirty minutes and we’ll be back at four.”

Adrienne knew damn well that Holt Millman had no clue who she was but Caren seemed resolute and Duncan backed her up, saying, “Yep. Better get ready.”

It was something different, a welcome change from running by herself and going to the beach by herself. Once she was heading down the docks of Old North Wharf, Adrienne
felt excited. It was another gorgeous day and she liked being among the boats—the sailboats, the power yachts—and the people loading up coolers of beer and bags of sandwiches, getting ready for a day on the water. She hoped Thatcher was cooped up inside, the phone stuck to his ear like a tumor.

Holt Millman’s yacht,
Kelsey,
was the biggest boat Adrienne had ever seen in person. It was, Duncan told her, 103 feet long with a ninety-foot main mast. It was modeled after the
Shamrock,
a 1930s era J-class racing yacht, but Holt’s boat was made out of Kevlar and honeycombed fiberglass. It had clean lines up top, Duncan said, but below deck it was a mansion—with china in cabinets, a Jacuzzi, a washer and dryer.

Duncan paused. “I’m going to guess that you’ve never seen anything like this.”

Adrienne had sailed on the Chesapeake when she was a child, she’d fished in blue water off the coast of Florida, hung on for dear life to a catamaran in Hawaii, and she island-hopped in an old junk during her year in Thailand. When she lived in Chatham, her boyfriend Sully had use of a seventeen-foot Boston Whaler and he’d even let her take the wheel. But none of that had prepared her for
Kelsey.

They took their shoes off before they stepped onto the teak deck. Holt was standing in the cockpit talking to a man with broad shoulders who looked like the captain. Holt wore a green polo shirt with
KELSEY
on the pocket; he was drinking something pink and frosty in a Providence Puritans glass. (The Puritans, Duncan had informed Adrienne in the car, were an NHL expansion team that Holt had purchased the year before.) As soon as Holt saw Duncan and Caren, he raised his glass in greeting. Adrienne wished she knew something about hockey.

“Thanks for coming, thanks for coming,” Holt said. He pumped Duncan’s hand and kissed Caren on the cheek. “And you brought Adrienne. Good for you. This boat needs more pretty women.”

Adrienne smiled. “Thanks for inviting us,” she said, but Holt Millman didn’t hear. He was calling below deck for
“Drinks, more drinks,” ushering Duncan forward, and introducing the rest of the guests with a sweep of his arm. There were five other people on the boat, some of whom Adrienne recognized. The woman who cut Thatcher’s hair sat on a cushioned bench in the cockpit talking to the hostess from 21 Federal. There were two older bond-trader type men who rose to greet Duncan and ask him about his handicap. And out on the bow of the boat was a stunning blond woman in a red bikini. She sat up and waved at Adrienne; it was Cat, the world’s most glamorous electrician.

“Cat is everywhere,” Adrienne murmured to Caren.

“She could be a model,” Caren said. “If she weren’t busy wiring Millman’s home theater.”

Caren joined Duncan’s conversation with the bond traders, leaving Adrienne to either sit alone or talk to the hostess and Thatcher’s hairdresser. While the first option was infinitely preferable, the hostess—who must have been the social director for her sorority in college—waved Adrienne over.

“Come sit with us!” she called. She moved her tiny butt a fraction of an inch to indicate that she was making room. Holt popped up the stairs with a tray of pink frosty drinks. He held the tray out to Adrienne.

“This is my own recipe,” he said. “It’s called a Kelsey. I keep trying to get Duncan to make them at the restaurant.”

Duncan lifted his head from his other conversation. “No blender drinks,” he said. “Sorry.”

Holt Millman laughed with his head thrown back, exposing his tan throat. Adrienne guessed he was nearing seventy, yet she sensed he went to great lengths and expense to keep himself looking younger. Spa treatments to erase the wrinkles from his face and neck and the like.

Adrienne accepted a drink and sat next to the hostess from 21. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Adrienne.”

The hostess clapped her hands. “We know who you are,” she said. “Because remember, I seated you? When you were on your date with Thatcher?”

The hairdresser piped in. “I just love Thatch,” she said.
“That red-gold hair. I have clients who would sell their souls for hair that color.”

“Have you two been dating long?” the hostess asked.

“We’re not dating,” Adrienne said. “It was a business dinner.”

“Oh, stop,” the hairdresser said. “I cut his hair that very afternoon and he told me he had a hot date. It didn’t sound like business to me.”

“Well, it was business,” Adrienne said. She sipped her drink. It was delicious—watermelon, strawberry, club soda, and what she thought must be vodka. It went straight to her head. She removed her T-shirt so that she was in her bikini top and shorts. The sun felt terrific.
Hot date?
She was relieved when the motor revved and the captain steered them out of the harbor.

One hour and three Kelsey drinks later, Adrienne was happier. Caren had rescued her and now Adrienne, Caren, and Cat were lying in their bikinis on the teak deck near the bow. Above their heads the sails rumbled, the ropes snapped, and a crew of young men in green shirts like Holt’s moved about—tightening, loosening, using jargon like “foredeck” and “power winches.” Nantucket was a blur of green and gray in the distance. A young woman with an English accent brought a basket of wraps and refills for their drinks. The sandwiches were beautiful pinwheels of color: avocado, tomato and bacon, goat cheese and roasted red pepper, roast beef, cucumber, and horseradish cream.
Forget Fiona,
Adrienne thought. She was never getting off this boat.

Four drinks, five drinks. Then somehow, Adrienne found herself sitting in the cockpit with the rest of the guests passing around a joint. Adrienne smoked rarely but she was so relaxed that she didn’t even blink. Everyone smoked except for Holt Millman, who just beamed as though nothing pleased him more than young people smoking marijuana on his boat. When Adrienne looked at him again, she thought maybe he was closer to sixty.

She went below deck for the first time a while later in search of the bathroom, and since she was the only one underneath
(aside from whatever sandwich genius was working in the galley) she took a look around. There was a living room with an overstuffed sofa and chairs and a wall lined with books that were held in place by a brass rail. There was a formal dining room with a bouquet of Asiatic lilies and pink roses on the oval table, and eight Windsor chairs, and the promised china in cabinets. There were a couple of small sleeping quarters, the beds decked out in Frette linens. And then Adrienne peeked quickly—because she was pressing her luck snooping around like this—into the master suite. A queen-size bed with a green silk spread, photographs of Holt Millman with Bill Gates, Holt Millman with Bill Clinton, Holt Millman with Elton John, and a framed article from
Time
about Holt Millman and his myriad companies. The article had been written by Drew Amman-Keller.

“Adrienne.”

Adrienne gasped; she’d been caught. Holt Millman himself stood in the doorway. This was, no doubt, the kind of situation that Adrienne’s father composed in his mind, the kind that turned his hair silver: Adrienne, wearing only a bikini, standing in the bedroom of Holt Millman’s yacht.

The pot made her feel like laughing; she bit her lip. “Sorry,” she said. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

“Use mine,” he said. He opened a door that Adrienne had thought was a closet, but it was the master bath. Marble, of course, with the Jacuzzi.

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

She closed the door behind her and peed—she really had to go—looking at the stacks of fluffy green towels and at the glassed-in shower. She felt the boat listing from side to side. She washed her hands with one of the cakes of sailboat-shaped soap and checked her teeth, hoping and praying that by the time she opened the door, Holt Millman would be gone. But he was right there, sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to someone on his cell phone. When she emerged, he snapped the phone shut.