Adrienne greeted him smiling widely. It had been a good morning.
“You have something in your teeth,” he said.
She bolted for the ladies’ room. Sure enough, tomato skin.
“My worst nightmare,” she said when she emerged. “With my father and all.”
“How did the calls go?”
“Fine,” she said. “I ruined Jennifer Devlin’s birthday. You didn’t tell me it was a surprise.”
“Oops,” he said.
“The Parrishes are bringing their grandson.”
He winced. “Is it that time of year already?” he said. “What does he eat these days?”
“French fries. Darla said French fries.”
Thatcher shook his head. “We served him French fries last year. He fed them to the seagulls. She’s forgotten.”
“There’s a list of people for you to call back. A man named Leon Cross called on the private line to say it was urgent and top secret.”
“It’s always urgent and top secret with Leon,” Thatcher said. “Anything else?”
“I had a delicious lunch.”
“Good. Fiona made it for you?”
“Uh, Antonio, I think.”
“Okay,” Thatcher said. Adrienne thought he looked pale and a little distracted but she was not going to ask him about the priest.
“Can I go?” she asked.
“Wait,” he said. “I have something for you.” He held up a white shopping bag. “Here.”
Now Adrienne was nervous. She peeked in the bag. Clothes? She pulled out a blue dress made of washed silk that was so soft it felt like skin. Size six. There was another dress in a champagne color-the same cut, very simple, a slip dress to just above the knee. There was a third outfit-a tank and skirt in the same silk, bottle green.
“These are for me?”
“Let’s see how they look.”
She took the bag into the ladies’ room and slipped the blue dress on over her bikini. It fell over Adrienne’s body like a dress in a dream-and it would look even better when she had the right underwear. So here was her look. She checked the side of the shopping bag. The clothes had come from a store called Dessert, on India Street, and Adrienne recognized the name of the store as the one owned by the chef’s wife, the redhead who had been so kind during soft opening. If you come in, I’d love to dress you, free of charge. So maybe Thatch didn’t pay for these clothes. Still, it was weird. Weird that Thatcher had told her she needed a look, weird that he (or the redhead) had perfectly identified it, and weird that she now had to model it for him, proving him right. She stepped out into the dining room.
He gazed at her. And then he gave a long, low whistle. That did it: Her face heated up, the skin on her arms tingled. She had never felt so desirable in all her life.
“Tomorrow’s your night off?” he said.
She nodded. Wednesday was her night off. Last Wednesday, because everyone she knew on the island worked at the restaurant, she stayed home, ate frozen ravioli, and watched a rerun of The West Wing.
“I scheduled myself off, too,” he said. “I want to take you out for dinner.”
This stunned her so much she may have actually gasped. “Who’s going to work?” she asked.
“Caren,” he said. “She loves to do it. And we only have seventy on the book.”
Adrienne ran her hands down the sides of her new dress. The silk was irresistible.
“Will you go out with me?” he asked.
Rule Three: Exercise good judgment about men! Dating her boss did not seem wise. It seemed dangerous, more dangerous than getting entangled with Mario. And yet, she wanted to go. Rules, after all, were made to be…
“Sure,” she said.
When Adrienne saw Thatcher at work that night, she thought things would be different between them. But Thatcher was preoccupied by the Lefroys’ reservation. It wasn’t a health inspector visit, but he wanted the restaurant to be clean. He wanted it to sparkle. And so, when Adrienne arrived, expecting compliments on the new champagne-colored dress, he set her to work polishing glasses and buffing the silver with the servers. At the menu meeting, he demonstrated the way he wanted the busboys to use the crumbers (and they were short a busboy since Tyler would be eating tonight with his parents). The staff ate family meal on the beach and Thatcher made them brush every grain of sand from their person and wash their feet in a bucket before they were allowed back in the restaurant.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Thatcher assigned Adrienne to the Parrishes during first seating.
“I want you to really watch them,” he said. “Anticipate their needs. Especially Wolf’s.”
“It sounds like you’re asking me to babysit,” Adrienne said.
“We’re going to do what it takes to give Darla and Grayson some peace,” Thatcher said. “We want them to enjoy their meal, yes or no?”
The Parrishes arrived fifteen minutes late, which was unheard-of, and what this meant was that instead of getting them squared away early on, they were smushed at the entrance with three other parties who needed to be seated, and two gorgeous blond women who showed up without a reservation. Adrienne directed the Swedish bikini duo to the bar, sat the Devlins at table twenty-five, and led a deuce staying at the White Elephant under the awning. Then she returned to the podium to properly greet the Parrishes.
“Sorry,” Adrienne said.
Grayson held up a palm. “It’s our fault,” he said. “We had a little trouble getting out of the house.”
Darla was holding a little boy’s hand. “This is Wolfie,” Darla said.
Wolf had white-blond hair and eyes that were mottled and puffy. His breathing was hiccupy. Adrienne crouched down. Despite her years of babysitting the twins, she did not consider herself someone who was good with children and yet now she wanted to succeed, if only to impress Thatcher.
“Hi, Wolf,” she said. “My name is Adrienne.”
He harrumphed and locked his arms over his chest.
Darla smiled at him with all the love in the world, then whispered to Adrienne, “He’s not having a good night.”
Adrienne led the Parrishes to table twenty, and Bruno appeared seconds later with their drinks.
Adrienne pulled Bruno off to the side. “Order of frites, pronto,” she said. “Wolfie’s not having a good night and Thatcher wants Mr. and Mrs. P to be able to eat in their accustomed silence.”
“Bitchy!” Bruno said. He paused. “Is that a new dress?”
“Yes,” Adrienne said. “Thank you for noticing.”
Caren approached Adrienne with a stone face. “I’m going to kill you.”
“Why?”
“You put those girls at the bar.”
“What girls?” Adrienne checked the bar. Ah, yes, the girls. They were laughing, and flashing Duncan with their remarkable cleavage. Adrienne instantly understood the problem, but come on! She was busy and they were all adults here. Well, everyone except for Wolfie.
“They didn’t have a reservation,” Adrienne said.
“You could have put them at three.”
“I guess I could have, but…”
“They’re all over him,” Caren said. “And he’s just eating it up. Oh, and look. They ordered apple martinis. What an insipid drink.”
“Okay, well, I’m sorry. I have to put a…”
Thatcher passed by, touching Adrienne’s arm. He raised one pale eyebrow.
“I have to put a VIP order in,” Adrienne said to Caren.
“Champagne?” Thatcher said.
“I’ll get your champagne,” Caren said. “Let me get it.” She strode toward the bar.
Bruno breezed by with a huge plate of fries. “These are for Dennis the Menace,” he said. “You want to deliver?”
“I have to put their VIP order in,” Adrienne said.