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n, running down the middle, not in a straight line, but a jagged one, like the line in the middle of a graph, measuring stocks, or the weather in North Dakota over a five-year period. And when I turned his arm over, I would see on his wrist half a tattoo. Half an anchor tattoo—half his history. And, now, mine.
Griffin’s arm around me—the way it felt—this part, I already knew by heart.
26
Griffin decided it came down to the music. The success or failure of the restaurant’s opening came down, he announced, to the perfect mix of the nine seminal albums he was compiling into one mix, music ranging from Astral Weeks to Boxer to 18 Tracks to In the Aeroplane over the Sea to The Blue Album to End of Amnesia to I’m Your Man. Music that would seep into the way he prepared the food, that would seep into the way everyone tasted it.
We spent so long trying to get the song order just right (what would best complement an amuse-bouche of grilled figs stuffed with blue cheese? “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right”? “Cyprus Avenue”?) that somehow, when it was time to open, I was still racing around with damp hair plastered to my head, in my highest heels, printing out the night’s menus, ignoring the still-empty walls, the not-yet-working fireplace. Ignoring the fact that we were still without a name for the place.
Griffin was right about one part, though: being nameless wasn’t a problem. Everyone in town knew exactly where to go. Everyone in the six towns over too, judging by the crowd present by 5:35 P.M., a mere five minutes after we soft-opened the door, when already there wasn’t an empty seat to be found.
There was barely standing room anywhere in the entire restaurant, in fact; the overflow of friends (and friends of friends) who hadn’t secured a table in the five thirty, seven thirty, or nine thirty seatings were all standing anxiously around the bar. Jesse was not yet behind it, as he had promised to be, and the lone bartender was unequal to the task of serving drinks to everyone choosing to wait, hoping that a seat would open up at one of the community tables, hoping someone they knew would walk through the big, red door with a reservation and ask them to join.
I, meanwhile, was of little help. It was my first night ever hostessing (note once again: the ill-advised choice to wear my highest heels) and instead of doing the wise thing of sending people on their way—graciously offering to make them a reservation to join us later in the week, or over the next weekend—I was busy making promises I knew I couldn’t keep. Hang here for just another half hour or so. Hang here until I can figure out where I can seat you.
I was so busy offering false hope that eventually I had to sneak into the kitchen (a pile of menus still in hand) to hide from our increasingly hungry and annoyed patrons.
“Why aren’t they going home?” I asked Griffin, peeking at their irritated faces through the small kitchen window. “Don’t they know I’m too busy to deal with them right now?”
If Griffin weren’t Griffin, this would be the moment he’d have said to me, Seriously? I should be asking you the same thing.
But instead, he laughed—loose and easy—as he continued plating his warm peach salad. Getting ready to move over to the entrée station, where his sous-chefs, Nikki and Dominic, were readying his beautiful branzino and herbs soaking in its parchment paper, his homemade balsamic reduction sweet enough to eat.
“It’s not a big deal,” Griffin said, “Just go out to the wine shack and grab a bottle of the Prosecco. Look for the Adami. The Adami’s good.”
“The Adami,” I repeated. Then I realized: “And pour a tall glass for anyone determined to wait it out?”
He shrugged. “I was going to say, pour yourself one,” he said. “But that works too.”
I kissed him on the cheek, and headed toward the back door, holding it open against the wind.
“You’re a genius!” I said. “And a consummate professional!”
“Be careful though,” he called after me, as I stepped into the alley. “We didn’t install the lights in the shack yet.”
“I’ve got it all under control,” I said. “I’ll be back!”
“I’ll be here,” he said.
I made a beeline toward the small, wooden shack—the cold catching me anyway. And, yet, even as I wrapped my arms around myself more tightly, I couldn’t help but catch a glance of the sky. It was, after all, pretty spectacular. The incredible stars and late-winter moon, lighting it up. It was like nothing I had ever seen, a sky that impossibly bright. I couldn’t help but think that that felt like a good thing—like a good omen—for the restaurant. For the night ahead.
I removed the padlock and stepped up into the small shack, barely lit—only by that bright sky—and I said it out loud, “Adami,” reminding myself what I was looking for among the dark bottles, some still in boxes, most shelved and ready to go.
Then I spotted it out of the corner of my eye on a lower shelf—showing off its orange label, the flair of its bright green bottle. A row of Adami.
I reached down and lifted two bottles out, checking each of their labels to be certain. Which was when, from where he stood right behind me in the wine shack doorway, he spoke up.
“Hello, Adams. . . .”
Nick. Saying hello. Just like that.
I turned around fast. I turned around so fast—absolutely convinced I couldn’t have heard it, what I was absolutely convinced I’d heard—that I dropped them. I dropped both of the Adamis as soon as we were face-to-face, green glass flying everywhere, the sparkly, cool liquid covering Nick’s ridiculously heavy winter boots, my ridiculously open toes.
I dropped to my knees, immediately starting to search for the sharp, green shards—starting to sop up the bubbly wine. This instead of hello. This instead of, what are you doing here?
Nick dropped down to his knees too, right across from me, our knees almost touching.
“Careful there,” he said.
