The Blue Bistro (42 page)

At family meal, Adrienne ate only a salad.

Caren said, “On a diet?”

“No. I’m eating tonight with Fiona.”

Caren’s eyebrows arched. She said nothing, though Adrienne knew she was curious. Adrienne was not only curious but worried. She expected to be chastised for running out of the restaurant and allowing Thatcher to drink. Adrienne had no words to offer in her own defense; she was going to take her punishment. She had to admit, though, that Fiona hadn’t seemed angry or perturbed that morning when she invited Adrienne to dinner, and so what really worried Adrienne was that Fiona might not even know that Thatch had been drinking, but she was sure to find out over the course of the night. Every time Adrienne went back into the kitchen for chips and dip, she expected Fiona to cancel. But Fiona treated Adrienne normally, which was to say, with complete indifference. She was expediting, the kitchen was brutally hot—so hot they had the oscillating fans going—and they were too busy to gossip.

“Ordering table four,” Fiona called out. “Two Caesars, one crab cake SOS. Ordering table twenty-three, three bisques, one foie gras, killed. Another person who doesn’t know how to eat. Jojo, baby, I need more of those square plates. Stop the cycle now and finish them by hand, please.”

Adrienne inhaled the smells of grilling and sautéing and frying. Three weeks until the end of the world.

Between seatings, Adrienne stood with Thatch at the podium. His hands were shaking.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Fine.”

“Fiona seems better.”

“I just hope she isn’t wearing herself down.”

“She thinks you worry too much.”

“Ha!”

“I’m eating with her tonight,” Adrienne said.

“Yes. She told me.”

Adrienne wished the news had come as a surprise to him. But Thatcher and Fiona were like an old married couple; they shared everything with each other first.

“What do you think she wants?”

“A woman’s perspective.”

“Why not Caren?”

“Do I really have to answer that?”

“I guess not.” Caren wasn’t exactly the girlfriend type. “I just wonder what she wants to talk about.”

“She didn’t tell me and I didn’t pry. I assume it’s something that I, as a man, wouldn’t understand.”

Christo approached the podium with a pepper mill. “This thing’s empty. I twisted it over a Caesar at table fifteen for, like, five minutes until we figured there wasn’t anything coming out. Unless it’s white pepper. It’s not white pepper, is it? Because if it is, that old guy eating the Caesar is going to croak.”

“Your former boss told me you were smart, Christo,” Thatcher said. “That’s why I hired you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There are peppercorns in the pantry,” Adrienne said. “They’re black.”

“I don’t have time. I thought the busboys were supposed to do it. I thought they filled them every night.”

Thatcher nodded at the kitchen door. Christo went, huffing.

“Are you angry?” Adrienne asked.

“You mean because it’s August and one of my servers hasn’t deciphered the pepper mill?”

“No, because I’m eating with Fiona.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

By midnight, Adrienne was starving. The crackers came out and she could have eaten the whole basket. But she held herself to two, then two more the next time Louis passed by. She longingly contemplated two more, but then she saw Thatcher coming toward her with the cash box and receipts. He was smiling.

“Lots of expensive wine tonight. Table twenty-six ordered two bottles of the Chateau Margaux. I don’t even know who those people are, do you?”

Adrienne checked the book. “Beach Club. Mack sent them.”

“Guy knew his wine.”

“Mack said he was a doctor in Aspen.”

“You know him?”

“No. Duncan knows him. Can I go?”

“You can go.”

“And what will you eat? Are they sending something out?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Go.”

“Are you sure, because . . .”

“Adrienne,” Thatcher said. “Go.”

It felt awkward, like a first date. Fiona was in the walk-in checking inventory, telling Antonio what she needed to get up at the farm and what they should order from Sid Wainer. Adrienne poked her head in and said, “I’m here.”

Fiona looked confused, sweaty, and pale. Then, it seemed, she remembered. “What do you want to eat?” she said.

Adrienne was so hungry she would have eaten straight from the industrial-sized container of sour cream on the shelf in her line of vision. “I don’t know,” Adrienne said. “What are you having?”

“What I’m having is neither here nor there. You should order what you want. You know the menu?”

“Yes.” Already, Adrienne felt like this was a test she was failing.
Think,
she implored her brain.
What did she want for dinner?
“Steak frites. Actually, no, the crab cake.”

“Start with the crab cake. Then you can have the steak. What temp?”

“Rare.”

Fiona looked sideways at Antonio. “Got that?”

“Yes, chef,” he said. “You feel okay?”

“I’ll just have some bisque,” Fiona said. She wiped her forehead with a side towel. “I may not come in tomorrow.”

“I’m making you a sandwich, too,” Antonio said. “You have to eat.”

Fiona shooed Antonio out of the walk-in. “All these men telling me what to do,” she said. “Did you bring a drink from the front?” she asked Adrienne.

Adrienne held up her champagne. “Would you like anything?”

“I drink water,” Fiona said. “Wait for me outside. I’ll be just a minute.”

Adrienne got a glass of ice water with lemon and carried it out to the plastic picnic table. It was another lovely night. The full moon lit up the whole beach; Adrienne could see her shadow in the sand. She sat in one of the plastic chairs. It was peaceful here. The noise from the bar was reduced to a faint bass line.

Adrienne waited for what seemed like an eternity—she was nervous and hungry—but then Fiona appeared holding two plates and two sets of silverware. She had taken off her chef’s jacket to show a white tank top underneath and had let her hair down. Adrienne rose to help her.

“The crab cakes,” Fiona said. “Go ahead and sit. I sent Jojo to the bar to get us a bottle of champagne.”

“You did?”

“I decided I want some. I haven’t had a drink in forever.”

Adrienne sat down, staring at the two plump, golden brown crab cakes floating in a pool of Dijon cream. She restrained herself until Fiona sat, then she took a bite, and another. Then, she felt, she had to confess.

“Thatcher was drinking last night,” Adrienne said.

“He told me.”

“He started while I wasn’t looking. I was . . . off somewhere.”

“But once you got back, you asked him to stop?”

“I asked him. He didn’t stop.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Fiona said. “He’s an alcoholic.”

“I know.”

“Do you know? It’s a disease. Thatcher has a disease just like I have a disease.”

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Adrienne said. “I didn’t know anybody at the party except for guests and I didn’t feel like I could ask a guest for help.”

“It’s okay,” Fiona said. “I don’t mean to scold you.”

“But I feel awful . . .”

“Don’t,” Fiona said. “It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I’m the reason why he drinks. I’m the albatross around his neck.”

“No, you’re not,” Adrienne said.

“Yes, I am,” Fiona said, in a voice that ended the topic.

Adrienne took another bite of her crab cake and gazed at the water. Next to her, Fiona spooned soup in tiny bites. Adrienne looked at Fiona’s hands. There was something funny about her fingers. They were clubbed on the ends and her nails were bluish. Fiona caught Adrienne staring, and Adrienne looked at the sky.

“Full moon,” she noted.

“The Native Americans call it the sturgeon moon in August,” Fiona said. “That’s one of the useless things I happen to know.”

Fiona was sweating despite the breeze; she looked sick for the first time to Adrienne, but sick like a normal person, like she might vomit or faint. She took a huge breath and Adrienne could hear the struggle it took to get air in. Then Fiona coughed. She coughed and coughed until her eyes were watering and it looked like her face was falling apart. Adrienne didn’t know what to do. Was this the time to call the ambulance? Just then Jojo came out with a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. He set the bottle down and walloped Fiona on the back, like it was the most normal action in the world.

“You okay, chef?” he said.

She coughed a bit more then stood up, moved into the shadows, and spat. When she came back, her face was dark red. “Sorry,” she said.

“Please don’t worry,” Adrienne said. “Would you like some water?”

Fiona chugged the whole glass of water. “Thanks for the bubbly,” she said.

“No prob,” Jojo said. He was the only Subiaco who was still boyish. Adrienne loved his long eyelashes and his slow smile. He was what a Subiaco looked like before he became smooth like Mario or capable like Antonio or gross like Hector. “I’m going to call it a night.”

“Okay,” Fiona said. “See you tomorrow.”

Jojo left and Fiona reached for the champagne. Gently, Adrienne took the bottle from her, opened it with the softest pop, and poured two glasses. It might be worse for Adrienne to drink with Fiona than it had been for her to drink with Thatcher. She had no idea. But Fiona seemed eager—she raised her glass in Adrienne’s direction and took a long sip.

“How’s JZ?” Adrienne asked.

“Married.”

“Married,” Adrienne agreed. “But you can’t doubt that he loves you.”

“Sure I can.”

“He loves you.”

“Yes. But it’s not enough. I want him to marry me.”

“Oh.”

Fiona took another drink and pushed her soup bowl away; she’d barely eaten anything. “You will, no doubt, find this surprising, but I am a big believer in marriage.”

“Are you?”

“My whole life that’s all I’ve ever wanted—to be married and have kids. Probably because I’ve been told since I was young that those two things would never happen. No kids, certainly. My body couldn’t handle it. And probably no marriage. No one wants damaged goods.”

“Fiona . . .”

“It’s true,” she said flatly. “If JZ really wanted to, he would have gotten a divorce. He would have taken Shaughnessy and left that awful woman.
Jamie.
She’s manipulative and dishonest. But she’s not damaged. He doesn’t make love to her like she might break.”

“Fiona.”

“Even if I get off the damn transplant list, there’s no guarantee that I’ll survive the operation, and if I do survive, they give me another five years. Five years is hardly worth leaving your wife over.”

Antonio appeared at the table with their entrées. He set down the steak frites for Adrienne and a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich with frites and a dill pickle for Fiona.

“I’m going home, Fee,” he said. “Take tomorrow off, if you want. I can do the special.”

“What would you do?” she asked.

“Those tomato flans,” he said. “With a red pepper coulis.”

“Okay,” Fiona said. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Yes, thank you,” Adrienne said.

Antonio kissed the top of Fiona’s head like she was indeed someone who might break. He nodded at Adrienne and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me,” Fiona said. “Because I have things in my life other than JZ. I’m a damn good chef. I have a devoted staff. I’ve had my own restaurant since I’ve been twenty-four years old and I’m a woman, okay? It’s unheard-of.”

“You’re the best,” Adrienne said.

“You’re trying to flatter me,” Fiona said. “But I
am
the best. I never wanted to be famous. I never wanted to have my own TV show or my own cookbook or a line of salad dressings. I just wanted to be the best, pure and simple. Next year, when this restaurant is closed there won’t be anyone on this island or anywhere else who does things the way we do them. It ends with us.”

“You’re right,” Adrienne said.

“You’re still trying to flatter me,” Fiona said. “But I
am
right. And that’s what I’ve always wanted, too. Immortality. When I die, I want people to say, ‘Nobody cooks like Fiona Kemp anymore. Nobody makes foie gras like Fiona. Nobody makes shrimp bisque like Fiona.’ ” She slammed back the remainder of her champagne and narrowed her blue eyes. “All these years I’ve been claiming I cook out of love. But I don’t. I’ve been cooking out of ambition.”

“That’s okay,” Adrienne said.

“Ambition is okay.”

“Love would have been better,” Fiona said.

Somehow they made it to the bottom of the champagne bottle. Adrienne couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw Fiona empty the last drops into her glass. Suddenly, Adrienne became aware of certain things: she had finished her steak frites, though she barely remembered eating them. Behind her, the restaurant was quiet and dark, though she didn’t recall seeing the lights go off and no one had come out to check on them. According to Adrienne’s running watch, it was five past two. Everyone had gone home, including, Adrienne presumed, Thatcher. For the last who-knew-how-long, Adrienne had been talking about herself in a way that used to make her shudder. She was giving herself up, turning herself over. She wanted Fiona to know her.

On the subject of her mother, Adrienne said:
She was a lovely person. The loveliest. Gracious, kind, funny. She died when I was twelve of ovarian cancer.

I’m sorry,
Fiona said.
Do you worry that you’ll get it?

Get what?

Cancer.

No.

On the subject of her father:
He’s getting married again after sixteen years. To the woman he brought here, Mavis.

Will you go to the wedding?

Yes.

When will that be?

October sixteenth.

Oh,
Fiona said.
That’s my birthday. I’ll be thirty-six.

This was followed by a space of silence.

On the subject of her travels:
My favorite place aside from Nantucket has been Thailand.

Never been,
Fiona said.
Never been anywhere. Not going anywhere.