Read Online The Blue Bistro by Elin Hilderbrand - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elin Hilderbrand
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electrician. They are the
most
important. Because if one of the toilets overflows or an oven quits in the middle of service on a Saturday night, we need to be able to call that person’s cell phone and have them show up in
minutes.
Let’s see . . . we have a famous CEO coming with a party of ten—I’ll let you be surprised. No other celebrities, really—a couple of local painters and writers. They drink a lot. Where is your champagne? We didn’t sell a single glass of Laurent-Perrier first seating.”
“Sorry,” Adrienne said. She felt oddly culpable, like maybe she wasn’t enticing enough, or worthy of emulation. She headed over to the bar and when Duncan saw her he whipped a clean flute off the shelf.
“This is your third glass,” Duncan said. “How many did Thatch say you could have?”
“Three, if it’s busy.”
“It’s going to be busy in a few minutes,” he said. He poured a glass and slid it across the bar. “You’d better nurse this, though. I’ll pour you however much you want after service.”
“Thanks,” Adrienne said. “But after service, I’m going home to bed.”
“Maybe you should have an espresso,” Duncan said. “Do you want me to order you an espresso?”
“No, thanks.” But since it was nice of him to offer, she said, “I met your sister. She’s cute.”
Duncan rolled his eyes, wiped down the blue granite with a rag, and checked the level of his cranberry juice. “She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing.”
Adrienne twirled her flute by the stem. “That makes two of us.”
Caren appeared with two espressos. “Let’s do a shot,” she said to Duncan. They both threw back the coffee. Caren pointed at Adrienne’s champagne. “Better watch it. That stuff will kill you.”
Adrienne wandered back toward the front door as headlights started to pull into the parking lot. The piano player returned, smelling like cigarettes. The two new waiters had also been out on the beach smoking. The guy with the hoop earrings—name?—offered bushy hair—name?—an Altoid. The piano player—name?—glissando-ed into “We’ve Only Just Begun.”
Somehow Adrienne caught a second wind. The people who arrived for second seating were younger and better looking. In fact, they all looked like models. Cat, the electrician, was a six-foot blonde in a pair of Manolo Blahniks. She was one of the most attractive women Adrienne had ever seen and she was the electrician. Welcome to Nantucket! When Thatcher introduced Adrienne, Cat’s eyes went first to Adrienne’s shoes, then to her glass.
“You’re drinking pink champagne,” she said. “That’s what I want. Pink champagne. Let’s get a bottle. No, a magnum.”
Adrienne smirked at Thatcher. Redeemed! Thatcher led Cat’s party to table twenty while Adrienne sat a husband and wife Realtor team with a party of six. When she returned to the podium, Holt Millman—a CEO who was famous for being not only obscenely rich but legitimately so—was heading up a party of ten.
In her mind, Adrienne dashed a one-line e-mail to her father.
Holt Millman looks just like his picture on the cover of
Fortune
!
Thatcher sat the Millman party and left Adrienne to handle a party of six women, wives of the owners of other restaurants in town. Thatcher had told Adrienne that this table was super-VIP. “Because we want them to return the favor when we go out on the town.”
One of these women—again, gorgeous, red hair, fabulous shoes—said, “You’re new.”
“I’m Adrienne Dealey.”
The redhead shook Adrienne’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ve been telling Thatcher for years that he should have a woman up front. Don’t let Fiona give you a hard time.”
This caught Adrienne off-guard.
How did you know Fiona would give me a hard time?
she wanted to ask.
What does everybody on this island know about Fiona that I don’t?
“I won’t,” Adrienne assured her. She felt not only redeemed, but validated. Fiona was famous for giving
most
important. Because if one of the toilets overflows or an oven quits in the middle of service on a Saturday night, we need to be able to call that person’s cell phone and have them show up in
minutes.
Let’s see . . . we have a famous CEO coming with a party of ten—I’ll let you be surprised. No other celebrities, really—a couple of local painters and writers. They drink a lot. Where is your champagne? We didn’t sell a single glass of Laurent-Perrier first seating.”
“Sorry,” Adrienne said. She felt oddly culpable, like maybe she wasn’t enticing enough, or worthy of emulation. She headed over to the bar and when Duncan saw her he whipped a clean flute off the shelf.
“This is your third glass,” Duncan said. “How many did Thatch say you could have?”
“Three, if it’s busy.”
“It’s going to be busy in a few minutes,” he said. He poured a glass and slid it across the bar. “You’d better nurse this, though. I’ll pour you however much you want after service.”
“Thanks,” Adrienne said. “But after service, I’m going home to bed.”
“Maybe you should have an espresso,” Duncan said. “Do you want me to order you an espresso?”
“No, thanks.” But since it was nice of him to offer, she said, “I met your sister. She’s cute.”
Duncan rolled his eyes, wiped down the blue granite with a rag, and checked the level of his cranberry juice. “She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing.”
Adrienne twirled her flute by the stem. “That makes two of us.”
Caren appeared with two espressos. “Let’s do a shot,” she said to Duncan. They both threw back the coffee. Caren pointed at Adrienne’s champagne. “Better watch it. That stuff will kill you.”
Adrienne wandered back toward the front door as headlights started to pull into the parking lot. The piano player returned, smelling like cigarettes. The two new waiters had also been out on the beach smoking. The guy with the hoop earrings—name?—offered bushy hair—name?—an Altoid. The piano player—name?—glissando-ed into “We’ve Only Just Begun.”
Somehow Adrienne caught a second wind. The people who arrived for second seating were younger and better looking. In fact, they all looked like models. Cat, the electrician, was a six-foot blonde in a pair of Manolo Blahniks. She was one of the most attractive women Adrienne had ever seen and she was the electrician. Welcome to Nantucket! When Thatcher introduced Adrienne, Cat’s eyes went first to Adrienne’s shoes, then to her glass.
“You’re drinking pink champagne,” she said. “That’s what I want. Pink champagne. Let’s get a bottle. No, a magnum.”
Adrienne smirked at Thatcher. Redeemed! Thatcher led Cat’s party to table twenty while Adrienne sat a husband and wife Realtor team with a party of six. When she returned to the podium, Holt Millman—a CEO who was famous for being not only obscenely rich but legitimately so—was heading up a party of ten.
In her mind, Adrienne dashed a one-line e-mail to her father.
Holt Millman looks just like his picture on the cover of
Fortune
!
Thatcher sat the Millman party and left Adrienne to handle a party of six women, wives of the owners of other restaurants in town. Thatcher had told Adrienne that this table was super-VIP. “Because we want them to return the favor when we go out on the town.”
One of these women—again, gorgeous, red hair, fabulous shoes—said, “You’re new.”
“I’m Adrienne Dealey.”
The redhead shook Adrienne’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ve been telling Thatcher for years that he should have a woman up front. Don’t let Fiona give you a hard time.”
This caught Adrienne off-guard.
How did you know Fiona would give me a hard time?
she wanted to ask.
What does everybody on this island know about Fiona that I don’t?
“I won’t,” Adrienne assured her. She felt not only redeemed, but validated. Fiona was famous for giving
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