“Come on out,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
Adrienne shut off the water, tapped her toothbrush angrily against the side of the sink, and flung open the door.
“You have some nerve,” she said.
He held up a wine key. “I’m going to show you how to use this. Now. We’ve waited too long.”
How did he manage to look better than ever on the one night (possibly of many) Adrienne had arrived at work prepared to hate him? It looked like he had gotten some sun-his face had that healthy golden glow. Did you go to the beach? Adrienne wanted to ask. But no, she wouldn’t. Just as she wouldn’t ask him, How was your dinner? (though she had practiced the exact tone of sarcasm and contempt).
How did he have the presence of mind to stand before her holding up the wine key as innocuously as a door-to-door salesman? Did he not remember pressing his body up against hers the night before? Did he not remember how tenderly he kissed her eyelids closed? How did men find the nerve the next day to act as though nothing had ever happened? (And it wasn’t just Thatcher, Adrienne conceded. She’d seen it time and time again.)
Over Thatcher’s shoulder, Adrienne saw Joe and Spill-man lighting candles. Rex began to play “Old Cape Cod.” Adrienne rolled her eyes. She would be a brick wall.
“Fine, the wine key,” she said. She followed Thatcher into the wine cave. He closed the door behind them and Adrienne thought, Okay, here it comes. The wine key was a ruse. He was going to apologize.
Thatcher removed a bottle of red from the rack. Bin forty-one: Cain Cuvée-they sold it by the glass as well as from the list.
“First,” he said, “you have to cut the lead.”
She stared at him, trying to make her eyes as hard as the point of an awl.
“Some restaurants have a special tool for this,” Thatcher said. “Not us. We use the very inexpensive, very user-friendly Screwpull. Wait until you see how easy this is.” He used the sharp end of the key to cut the lead, which was the metal wrapper over the cork. He pulled it off. Then he set the plastic arms of the Screwpull over the cork, inserted the key, and turned the knob at the top. Turned and turned-and like magic, the cork appeared. “A third grader could do it,” he said. He set the bottle aside and pulled out their most popular bottle of white-Menetou-Salon, from an area of France near Sancerre. Adrienne had heard Thatcher give the spiel on this wine before-the vintner was also the mayor of the town.
“You try,” he said, handing her the bottle and the key.
She cut the lead, peeled it away (a little less seamlessly than Thatch, but she got it), set the Screwpull in place, and turned. Out came the cork. Piece of cake.
“Fine,” she said.
“The waiters open their own wine,” Thatcher said. “I open for VIPs, and I open when the waitstaff is slammed. Step in when you feel you’re needed.”
“Fine, fine.” She dug her heel into the floor in a way that she hoped conveyed her impatience. She was wearing yet another pair of new shoes-buff-colored Jimmy Choo sling backs-that she’d bought that afternoon in an attempt to make herself feel better.
“And there’s one more thing,” Thatcher said.
Something in his voice made her look at him and their eyes locked. I am a brick wall, she thought. I am a swan carved from ice.
“What’s that?” she said.
He held her gaze for whole seconds of precious time. Outside the door, Adrienne could hear Spillman’s voice: “Has anyone seen the boss man?” Thatcher didn’t move. He just held Adrienne captive with his eyes and when Adrienne thought it was inevitable-they were going to kiss-he snapped out of his daze.
“Champagne,” he said. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. He unfolded a towel from the Sankaty Head Golf Club. “Up front, you’ll use a side towel, or even a dinner napkin,” he said. He removed the foil from the cork, wrangled off the cage, and showed Adrienne the bottle with the naked cork. “You could push at the bottom of the cork until it shoots out, but champagne corks are unpredictable. You could take out someone’s eye. Best-case scenario, the cork gets lost in the sand and one of our guests with an environmental conscience writes a letter to the Inquirer and Mirror about how we here at the Blue Bistro are littering Nantucket’s pristine beaches. So.” He covered the cork with the golf towel and twisted. “Twist while pulling up.” The cork came free with a muted pop. Thatcher whipped off the towel. The lip of the bottle showed a wisp of smoky carbon dioxide; he tossed the cork in the trash. “Take this out to Duncan and have him pour you a glass,” he said. “It’s time to get to work.”
So that was it. They were together in the wine cave with the door closed for six whole minutes and all she’d gotten was a deep stare and a lesson on one of the world’s easiest tasks. Adrienne saw her options: quit or work as though nothing had happened. Life wasn’t made any easier by the fact that everyone on the staff knew she and Thatcher had been out together-and likewise, everyone knew that Thatcher returned to the restaurant to eat with Fiona. Caren had said it best that morning while she and Duncan (reunited) drank espresso and Adrienne drank ginger lemon tea because, to add insult to injury, Adrienne had a killer hangover, the worst of the summer so far. Caren had said, “How was your date? It couldn’t have been too wonderful.”
And Adrienne said, “There is something very fucked up going on between Thatcher and Fiona.”
Caren and Duncan had stared at her blankly but when they thought she wasn’t looking, they exchanged an alarmed glance. Adrienne caught it and said, “And you two pissants know what’s going on and you won’t tell me.”
Caren had nodded very slowly. “They’re friends,” she said.
And Duncan said, “I have to go. I’m sailing with Holt Millman at ten.”
Adrienne tried to lose herself in the service. One hundred and one covers on the books, but first thing there was a walk-in party of four, dressed in workout clothes. They informed Adrienne that they had arrived on their bikes after a long ride to Sconset, and they wanted to know if they could eat dinner and get back into town before dark.
“Sure,” Adrienne said. Table three was empty; it was a less desirable table, saved on slower nights for walk-ins. She sat the party, gave them the exact time of sunset along with their menus, and told them she’d have the kitchen on top of their order. The head biker palmed her fifty bucks.
“Thanks,” he said. “We’re really hungry.”
Joe took the table; he was psyched. “Good work,” he said. “How was your date last night?”
“What date?” she said.
She was a swan carved from ice.
First seating breezed by. She delivered three orders of chips and dip, and she opened four bottles of wine. She completely ignored Thatcher and, at a couple of points, she was so busy, she forgot him.
In between seatings, Thatcher called her over to the podium. “Can I brief you?”
While he talked, Adrienne stared at the ceiling.
Table eleven was a four-top under the awning, a good table: a local lawyer and her husband and their friends visiting from Anchorage, Alaska. The lawyer was not Thatcher’s lawyer but she was a prominent Nantucket citizen-on the board of Hospice and the Boys & Girls Club-and a regular guest. VIP. Adrienne had delivered their chips and dip and opened their wine, the fantastic Leeuwin chardonnay from Western Australia. Now they were eating their entrées and Adrienne saw the lawyer glancing around the dining room in distress. Adrienne hurried over.
“What can I help you with?” she asked.
The lawyer beckoned Adrienne closer. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “But my friend swears her swordfish is overcooked.”