Thatcher said. Adrienne wrote on a yellow legal pad: “Restaurant=food.” She sat at one end of a very long table, a twelve-top, in the dining room with the rest of the staff—five waiters; three bussers; the bartender, Duncan; and a young female bar back. Thatcher was the professor. Adrienne was the nerdy kid who took too many notes—but Thatcher had asked her to Please absorb every word I say, so that this, the soft opening, might go as smoothly as possible. The dining room had been completely transformed since the morning of her breakfast. The wood floors had been polished, the wicker chairs had been cleaned, the plastic sheeting was rolled up so that every table had an unimpeded view of the gold sand beach and Nantucket Sound. Landscapers had planted red and pink geraniums in the window boxes that lined the outer walls of the restaurant and in the wooden dory out front. All of the tables were set for service and the waiters (three veterans, two newcomers) had arrived early to polish the glasses.
