Adrienne’s best Fourth of July, just like the other best moments of her life, had happened Before-before her mother got sick. Adrienne was eleven years old. In the morning, Rosalie and Dr. Don worked together in the kitchen preparing a salad for the potluck dinner while they watched Wimbledon on TV. Then, at four o’clock, they walked across the street. (Adrienne remembered her old neighborhood in summer-the smell of the grass, the huge, beautiful trees, the grumble of lawn mowers and the whirring of sprinklers.) Seven families gathered at the Fiddlers’ pool for swimming and croquet and a cookout. And Popsicles and flashlight tag and sparklers. Adrienne had been part of a family with the other kids, kids she hadn’t seen or thought of for years and years: Caroline Fiddler, Jake Clark, Toby and Trey Wiley, Tricia Gilette, Natalie, Blake and David Anola. The girls lined up their Dr. Scholl sandals and lay back in the grass looking up at the stars and searching for any hint of the big fireworks being set off in Philadelphia. They talked, naïvely, about boys; Natalie Anola had a crush on Jake Clark. The world of boys at that point to Adrienne was like a wide, unexplored field and she was standing at the edge. At ten o’clock, Rosalie and Dr. Don, flush with an evening of Mount Gay and tonics, dragged Adrienne home where she fell asleep in her clothes. Happy, safe, excited about the possibilities of her life.
That one was the best, and Adrienne had spent all the interceding years mourning, not only the loss of her mother, but the loss of that happiness. Right this second she felt a glimmer of it-Nantucket Island, in Thatcher’s arms, watching the colors soar and burst overhead, feeling a breeze, finally, coming off the water. Forget the Galápagos, she told herself. Forget that there were 125 people yet to feed. Forget that Fiona would have twice the amount of time alone with Thatcher that Adrienne had. Forget all that because this moment was great, great enough to make it into her memories. Adrienne savored every second, because she feared it wouldn’t last.
8
Hydrangeas
July was true summer. It was eighty-five degrees and sunny-beach weather, barbecue weather, Blue Bistro weather. The bar was packed every night, and the phone rang off the hook. Florists came in to change the flowers in the restaurant from irises to hydrangeas. Hydrangeas like bushy heads, bluer than blue.
Adrienne was admiring the bouquet of hydrangeas on the hostess podium when the private line rang. It was a Monday morning and she was covering the phones while Thatcher met with a rep from Classic Wines.
“Good morning, Blue Bistro.”
“Adrienne?”
“Yes?”
“Drew Amman-Keller. I’m surprised you’re not out jogging. It’s a beautiful day.”
“Well, you know,” Adrienne said, glancing nervously around the dining room, “I have to work.”
“I’m calling to confirm a rumor,” Drew Amman-Keller said.
Adrienne held the receiver to her forehead. Should she just hang up?
“What rumor is that?”
“Is Tam Vinidin eating at the bistro tomorrow night?”
“Tam Vinidin, the actress?”
“Can you confirm that she has a reservation?” he asked.
Adrienne laughed. Ha! “I wish she did. Sorry, Drew.” She hung up.
A few minutes later, JZ’s truck pulled into the parking lot. He rolled in the door with two boxes of New York strip steaks on a dolly.
“Hey, Adrienne!” he said.
“Hey,” she said. “How’s everything? How’s Shaughnessy?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “She leaves for camp in two weeks.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s good,” he said. “I’m going to sneak over here for a vacation.”
“That’ll be nice,” Adrienne said. “Fiona will be happy.”
JZ backed up the dolly. Before he headed into the kitchen, he said, “I heard Tam Vinidin is eating here tomorrow night.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. Guy on the boat told me.”
“She hasn’t called,” Adrienne said. She flipped a page in the reservation book. “I hope she calls soon. We’re almost full.”
As JZ pushed into the kitchen, Hector popped out. Of all the Subiacos, Hector was Adrienne’s least favorite. He used the foulest language and was merciless when he teased his brothers and cousins. Adrienne was not excited to see his tall, lanky frame loping toward her.
“Hey, bitch!” he said.
Adrienne rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Hector?”
“Special delivery,” he said. He palmed a fax on top of the reservation book. “It’s our lucky day.”
Tam Vinidin was coming to eat at the Blue Bistro! She wanted table twenty at seven thirty and she wanted it for the night. She would allow one photographer, a woman almost as famous as she was, to take her picture while she ate. She was on the Atkins diet. She wanted Fiona to make her a plate of avocado wrapped in prosciutto and Medjool dates stuffed with peanut butter. She would drink Dom Pérignon.
Adrienne checked the book. Tuesday nights the Parrishes ate at table twenty first seating, and one of Mario’s friends from the CIA was coming in with his wife at nine. Adrienne would have to bump them both for Tam Vinidin. She wondered about the photographer. Would she need a table, too? And what about the Dom Pérignon? The bistro didn’t carry it. Adrienne called Thatcher on his cell phone. Since he was with a wine rep, he could order a case. Her call went to voice mail. “Thatch, it’s me,” Adrienne said. She was so excited, she could barely keep from screaming. “Tam Vinidin is coming in tomorrow night at seven thirty. We need a case of DP. Call me!”
Adrienne loved Tam Vinidin with a passion. She was sexier than JLo and prettier than Jennifer Aniston. And she was eating at the Bistro! Adrienne would get to meet her, open her champagne, deliver her chips and dip. She reread the fax. She had to e-mail her father.
Adrienne took the fax into the kitchen. Hector was drizzling olive oil over a hotel pan of fresh figs, and Paco was shredding cabbage for the coleslaw.
“Where’s Fiona?” Adrienne asked.
Hector nodded at the office. The door was closed. Adrienne knocked.
“Come in!”
Adrienne opened the door. Fiona was sitting at Thatcher’s desk filling out order forms. She had plastic tubes up her nose; she was attached to an oxygen tank.
“Oh, sorry,” Adrienne said.
Fiona looked up. “What is it?”
Adrienne tried not to stare at the tubes. “Tam Vinidin is coming in tomorrow night.”
Fiona blinked. “Who?”
“Tam Vinidin, the actress?”
Fiona shook her head. “Never heard of her.”
Never heard of her? She must be kidding. “You must be kidding,” Adrienne said.
Fiona took a deep breath, then coughed. “What can I do for you, Adrienne?”
“This is a fax from her manager,” Adrienne said. “She wants all this… stuff. She wants-Here, you can see.” Adrienne let the fax flutter onto the desk.
Fiona read. “She can’t have twenty tomorrow night and certainly not at seven thirty. It’s Tuesday. She can’t have a photographer. She can’t have DP and I’m not making that ridiculous food.” Fiona handed the fax back to Adrienne. “If she wants to sit at table eight and drink Laurent-Perrier and eat off the menu like everybody else, then fine. Otherwise, send her to the Summer House.”
“Wait a minute,” Adrienne said. “This is Tam Vinidin, Fiona. You don’t know who this person is.”
“That’s right,” Fiona said. “Thank you, Adrienne.”
Adrienne appealed to Thatcher when he returned from his meeting, but he backed up Fiona.
“She’s right,” he said. “We might be able to slide Mario’s buddy to table twenty-one, but we can’t move the Parrishes.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re the Parrishes.”
“But this is Tam Vinidin.”