Adrienne might have laughed, but a few nights earlier, a busy Saturday night, Thatcher and Fiona had both been an hour late because they attended five o’clock mass at St. Mary’s. His meeting with a priest seemed to follow in this vein.
“I was there until two last night,” she said. “And I was hoping to go to the beach today.”
“I’ll pay you,” Thatcher said.
“Obviously.”
“I’ll have Fee make you lunch.”
Adrienne smiled into the phone, thinking: teeth, clothes, her ten-speed bike. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
According to her sports watch, it only took her twelve minutes to make it to the fork in the road, but that wasn’t fast enough. She saw Thatcher driving toward her in his silver pickup on his way into town.
“Good, you’re here,” he said, though she was still three hundred yards from the restaurant. “I left the book open for you with a list of people to call to reconfirm. It’s easy. Just remind them of their time and the number in their party and note any changes, any special requests. Birthdays, that kind of thing. Okay?”
Adrienne was dying to ask him why he was going to see a priest. “What if someone calls for a reservation?”
“Write down the name and number and I’ll call back after twelve.”
Adrienne saluted and Thatcher drove away.
Adrienne pedaled toward the Bistro. It was another glorious day-bright sunshine, crisp, clean sea air. She had worn her bikini under her clothes; after Thatcher returned, she was going to lie on the beach in front of the restaurant.
Adrienne had expected the restaurant to be deserted but there were five cars and a big Sid Wainer truck in the parking lot. The delivery truck. Adrienne’s heart trilled at the thought of JZ, whom she hadn’t seen since the first night of bar. A second later she caught a glimpse of him from the back, in uniform, engaged in a heated conversation. Adrienne stopped her bike behind the car she knew to be Fiona’s-a navy blue Range Rover with tinted windows. Though she heard JZ’s voice, she couldn’t make out what he was saying. The back of his delivery truck was open, and in its dim interior she spied crates of lemons and limes, long braids of garlic, cartons of eggs, and a wooden box stamped HAAS AVOCADO-CALIFORNIA. Adrienne dismounted her bike and walked it closer to the front door. As she did, she heard one sentence very clearly. “I love you so much it’s making me weak.”
And then she heard someone answer. “It’s not enough, JZ. It will never be enough.”
Adrienne knew it was Fiona-of course, it was Fiona-but she had to get a visual. She peeked around the next closest car, Mario’s red Durango. From there, she could see them: JZ in his olive drab pants and white uniform shirt, and Fiona in cut-off jean shorts, a pale pink tank top, and pink leather clogs. Both of them looked anguished, close to tears. And then Fiona started to cough, a deep wracking cough that sounded like she was trying to dislodge a piece of concrete from her lungs. It caused her to bend at the waist, one hand bracing her knee, one hand covering her mouth. JZ picked her up under her arms and pressed her tiny body against his. Fiona’s clogs dropped from her feet. Adrienne couldn’t tear her eyes away-she could sense Fiona’s lightness and JZ’s strength, their mutual sadness and rage-God, how long had it been since she felt that way about someone? Ever? Fiona continued to cough, her face hidden in JZ’s shirt.
Adrienne leaned her bike against the geranium-filled dory and proceeded inside. It was, quite possibly, the most heartbreaking embrace she had ever seen.
The Bistro looked different during the day. It seemed tired and exposed, like a lady of the evening roused from sleep the next morning without her makeup. The tables were bare and the white wicker chairs had been flipped upside down on top of them so that the cleaning crew could do the floors. But the cleaning crew hadn’t arrived yet, and the floor was covered with dropped food and sticky puddles.
Since she knew Fiona wasn’t in the kitchen, Adrienne poked her head in. Half the crew was at work prepping. Joe was making the mustard in a twelve-quart stockpot. Adrienne watched him for a minute, in awe of the sheer volume of ingredients: a pound of dry mustard, five cups of vinegar, eight cups of sugar, a whole pound of butter, and a dozen eggs. Joe added sixteen grinds of white pepper from a pepper mill that was longer than his arm. Adrienne blew Joe a kiss, then she poked her head around the corner into pastry.
Mario was rolling out dough. She watched him flour the marble counter and work a huge mass of dough with his Walkman on.
When he saw her, he removed his headphones. “What are you doing here?”
“Working,” she said. “What are you making?”
“Pies,” he said. He checked his watch and wiped his brow on his shoulder. “And I have two kinds of ice cream to make. And a batch of marshmallows. And lemon curd. And I have pineapple to roast. And the rolls, but I save those for last.”
“You’re in the weeds, then?” she asked.
“Never me, baby,” he said.
Adrienne wanted to ask him about Fiona and JZ, but she was afraid that either he wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to know or else he would tell Fiona that she’d asked. So instead, Adrienne said, “How’s Delilah?” (It came as no surprise to find out that, after the night of the harem pants and finger cymbals, Mario and Delilah were having a fling.)
“Oh, honey,” he said. He cut twenty perfect rounds out of the dough and draped them into doll-sized pie pans.
“What?” Adrienne said.
“You want me to tell you about the sex?”
“No,” Adrienne said.
“Then what did you ask about Delilah for?”
She was just making conversation. Anything so she could stay and watch Mario work. He moved the pie dough into the freezer and set a timer. Then he began the ice cream. He took a carton of sixty eggs from the walk-in and proceeded to separate the yolks from the whites by sifting the whites through his fingers.
“Some people think sugar is the key to desserts,” Mario said. “But I am here to tell you that if you want a good dessert, you have to start with a fresh egg.” He held out his palm, displaying a whole, perfect, bright orange yolk, which he slipped into his Hobart mixer.
“What do you do with the whites?” Adrienne asked. “Throw them away?”
“I use them in the marshmallows,” he said. “Have you ever tasted one of my marshmallows?”
She shook her head.
“Lighter than air,” he said. “I make the best marshmallows in the country, maybe the world.”
“Okay, Marshmallow King,” she said. “I have to get to work.”
Mario replaced his headphones and separated another egg while doing the samba.
Back in the kitchen, Hector was peeling and deveining shrimp with a tool that looked like a plastic dentist’s probe. He had a mountain of shrimp on his left and a mountain on his right-uncleaned and cleaned. He tossed the shells into a stockpot.
“That’s a lot of shrimp,” Adrienne said.
“Shrimp bisque,” Hector said without looking up. “Shrimp toast, shrimp for fondue.”
The oldest Subiaco, Antonio, a man with a mustache and gray hair around his ears, trimmed lamb. He worked so fast Adrienne feared he would cut himself, especially as he seemed intent on listening to what sounded like a baseball game being broadcast in Spanish on the Bose radio. The baseball game broke for commercial and Antonio called out, “Where’s the steak?”
“It’s still on the truck,” somebody answered.
“Well, go get it, Louis.”
“No fucking way,” Louis said. “They’re out there fighting.”
They’re out there fighting. Adrienne hung around for a beat to see if anyone would respond to this, but no one did, and Adrienne took this as her cue to leave. As she stepped into the dining room, she bumped into Fiona. Fiona alone, her eyes pink and watery. She stopped when she saw Adrienne and brushed an imaginary hair from her face.