Read Online The Blue Bistro by Elin Hilderbrand - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elin Hilderbrand
Ads: Link
money.”
Adrienne wanted to tell Thatcher about her exchange with Fiona. She wanted to ask what he’d said about her but there wasn’t time. Between seatings, Thatcher reviewed the book with Adrienne.
“You’re going to have to learn our guest list night by night,” he said. “Some of our favorite guests only stay on Nantucket for one week of the summer, but they eat here three times during that week. They’ve been doing so for twelve years.”
Adrienne had found her yellow notepad. It was handed to her by the young bar back whose name was Delilah. Delilah was not Duncan’s paramour, but rather, his kid sister. She had just finished her junior year at Bennington, she said, and all her life she’d been waiting for her parents to give her the okay to work with Duncan.
“I have two other brothers,” she said. “David and Dennis. And they are such sticks-in-the-mud. They have kids.” As if that explained it. “Duncan is the only person in our family who leads an exciting life, and so I said to the parents, ‘Assoon as I turn twenty-one, I go where he goes.’ ” She gave Adrienne a toothy smile with her eyes all scrunched, and headed, butt-first, into the kitchen, bracing a crate of dirty bar glasses against her midsection.
Adrienne was glad for the return of her notepad. She studied the diagram of circles and squares and rectangles that was the seating chart—it might have seemed as easy as nursery school but it was more like plane geometry. She looked expectantly at Thatcher. Nerdy student a hundred dollars richer at the ready!
While some of the guests of the soft opening were summer people who had arrived early, most were year-round Nantucketers. Mack Peterson, the manager of the Nantucket Beach Club and Hotel, was coming with Cecily Elliott, the hotel owners’ daughter.
“Great guy,” Thatcher said. “He sends us
tons
of business. Good business, too—people who show up on time, drink a lot of expensive wine, et cetera.”
Adrienne wrote down their names. “Are they married?” she asked. “Mack and Cecily?”
“No,” Thatcher said. He furrowed his brow. It was funny, Adrienne thought, how Thatcher’s hair was red but his eyebrows were the palest blond. “What is your obsession with whether people are married?”
Adrienne wanted to inform him that asking if one couple was married could hardly be classified as an
obsession,
but then she remembered that she had also asked about him and Fiona. “I’m sorry,” she said, with as much poison in her voice as she could muster in her state of weariness.
Thatcher held up his pen. “Never mind.”
She recalled Fiona’s words.
Thatcher was right about you, then.
“You don’t know the first thing about me,” Adrienne said.
“Well, I know that your father is a dentist,” he said. “Your mother is a good cook. You worked in Aspen at the Little Nell, and in Thailand, Palm Beach, Hawaii, and on the Cape. You have black hair and green eyes. You’re a size six. You go to the beach without sun protection. You don’t knowhow to walk in slides. And”—he pointed his pen at her—“tonight is your first night of restaurant work.” He smiled. “How’d I do?”
Adrienne stared at the faint blue lines of her legal pad. She desperately wanted to set the record straight about her mother—although her mother
had been
a good cook, she had also been dead for sixteen years. But Adrienne didn’t have the energy. She was tired. And he was right that she went to the beach without lotion and didn’t know how to walk in these shoes. Her legs hurt, her face hurt. She wanted to sit down.
“Let’s just do this,” she said.
“We have a lot of Realtors coming in tonight,” he said. “Hopefully one of them will help me sell this place. The president of the bank is coming. The electrician is coming with her husband, her sister and brother-in-law. I don’t need to tell you how important the contractors are, right? Ernie the plumber and Cat the
Adrienne wanted to tell Thatcher about her exchange with Fiona. She wanted to ask what he’d said about her but there wasn’t time. Between seatings, Thatcher reviewed the book with Adrienne.
“You’re going to have to learn our guest list night by night,” he said. “Some of our favorite guests only stay on Nantucket for one week of the summer, but they eat here three times during that week. They’ve been doing so for twelve years.”
Adrienne had found her yellow notepad. It was handed to her by the young bar back whose name was Delilah. Delilah was not Duncan’s paramour, but rather, his kid sister. She had just finished her junior year at Bennington, she said, and all her life she’d been waiting for her parents to give her the okay to work with Duncan.
“I have two other brothers,” she said. “David and Dennis. And they are such sticks-in-the-mud. They have kids.” As if that explained it. “Duncan is the only person in our family who leads an exciting life, and so I said to the parents, ‘Assoon as I turn twenty-one, I go where he goes.’ ” She gave Adrienne a toothy smile with her eyes all scrunched, and headed, butt-first, into the kitchen, bracing a crate of dirty bar glasses against her midsection.
Adrienne was glad for the return of her notepad. She studied the diagram of circles and squares and rectangles that was the seating chart—it might have seemed as easy as nursery school but it was more like plane geometry. She looked expectantly at Thatcher. Nerdy student a hundred dollars richer at the ready!
While some of the guests of the soft opening were summer people who had arrived early, most were year-round Nantucketers. Mack Peterson, the manager of the Nantucket Beach Club and Hotel, was coming with Cecily Elliott, the hotel owners’ daughter.
“Great guy,” Thatcher said. “He sends us
tons
of business. Good business, too—people who show up on time, drink a lot of expensive wine, et cetera.”
Adrienne wrote down their names. “Are they married?” she asked. “Mack and Cecily?”
“No,” Thatcher said. He furrowed his brow. It was funny, Adrienne thought, how Thatcher’s hair was red but his eyebrows were the palest blond. “What is your obsession with whether people are married?”
Adrienne wanted to inform him that asking if one couple was married could hardly be classified as an
obsession,
but then she remembered that she had also asked about him and Fiona. “I’m sorry,” she said, with as much poison in her voice as she could muster in her state of weariness.
Thatcher held up his pen. “Never mind.”
She recalled Fiona’s words.
Thatcher was right about you, then.
“You don’t know the first thing about me,” Adrienne said.
“Well, I know that your father is a dentist,” he said. “Your mother is a good cook. You worked in Aspen at the Little Nell, and in Thailand, Palm Beach, Hawaii, and on the Cape. You have black hair and green eyes. You’re a size six. You go to the beach without sun protection. You don’t knowhow to walk in slides. And”—he pointed his pen at her—“tonight is your first night of restaurant work.” He smiled. “How’d I do?”
Adrienne stared at the faint blue lines of her legal pad. She desperately wanted to set the record straight about her mother—although her mother
had been
a good cook, she had also been dead for sixteen years. But Adrienne didn’t have the energy. She was tired. And he was right that she went to the beach without lotion and didn’t know how to walk in these shoes. Her legs hurt, her face hurt. She wanted to sit down.
“Let’s just do this,” she said.
“We have a lot of Realtors coming in tonight,” he said. “Hopefully one of them will help me sell this place. The president of the bank is coming. The electrician is coming with her husband, her sister and brother-in-law. I don’t need to tell you how important the contractors are, right? Ernie the plumber and Cat the
Similar Books
