Page 6 of The Quiet Tenant

Sweet Eric. A friend who remained my friend when I became hisboss. Who has my back. Who somehow believes in me, in my ability to run this place.

“Let’s try something.”

I pick up a rocks glass, give it a quick shine. Aidan Thomas raises his eyebrows at me. Something is happening, new, different. He’s not sure he likes it. It kills me to do this to him, when all he wanted was his usual Cherry Coke.

“I’ll be right back.”

I do my best to keep my stride casual. Behind the swing doors, Nick is hunched over four plates of tonight’s special—breaded pork chop with cheesy mashed potatoes and bacon-scallion gravy.Simple, but flavorful,he told me.Folks want to know what’s on their plate, but they don’t come here to eat stuff they could have made at home.Like it was his idea, and not what my father started drilling into my head before I could even walk.Real food, at good prices, too,my dad used to say.We don’t want to cater only to the city crowd. They show up on weekends, but it’s the locals who carry us through the week. We’re here for them first.

Eric passes me on his way out of the kitchen, three plates balanced on his left arm. Through the swing door, he sees Aidan at the bar. He pauses and turns back to give me a half grin. I pretend not to notice and step toward the walk-in.

“Is there any more of that elderflower tea we brewed at lunch?”

Silence. Everyone is either working or ignoring me. Yuwanda, the third musketeer of my trio with Eric, would know, but she’s in the dining room, probably reciting the pros and cons of Gewürztraminer versus Riesling. I keep looking until I locate the pitcher behind a vat of buttermilk ranch. There’s about a cup left.

Perfect.

I hurry back out. Aidan is waiting, hands on the counter. Unlike most of us, he doesn’t reach for his phone the second he’s alone. He knows how to be by himself, how to stretch into a moment to find stillness, if not comfort.

“Sorry about the wait.”

With his gaze on me, I drop a sugar cube into the glass. Orange slice, dash of Angostura bitters. I add an ice cube, then the tea, andstir. With a spoon—nothing cramps a bartender’s style as tragically as plastic gloves—I fish a Maraschino cherry out of a Mason jar.

“Voilà.”

He smiles at my exaggerated French inflection. A warmth pools in my stomach. I nudge the glass in front of him. He brings it up to his face, takes a whiff. It occurs to me, with blinding obviousness, that I have no idea what this man likes to drink aside from Cherry Coke.

“What am I having?” he asks.

“Virgin old-fashioned.”

He grins. “Old-fashionedanda virgin? I suppose that makes sense.”

Heat percolates under my cheeks. Immediately I want to disavow my body, my cheekbones reddening at the mere suggestion of sex, my hands leaving damp imprints on the counter.

He takes a sip and spares me from having to think of a witty retort, smacks his lips as he sets the glass down.

“Good.”

My knees give in for an instant. I hope he can’t see my shoulders, my face, my fingers, every muscle in my body loosen with relief.

“Glad you like it.”

Fingernails tap the left side of the bar. Cora. She needs a vodka martini and a Bellini. I fill a martini glass with ice, turn around to search for an open bottle of Champagne.

Aidan Thomas swirls the ice cube at the bottom of his drink. Takes a quick sip and swirls again. Here is this beautiful man, who has done so much for our town. Who lost his wife a month ago. Sitting at my bar, alone, even though he doesn’t drink. I have to think that if there is a gaping hole at the center of his life, then maybe maintaining this habit has brought him some form of solace. I have to think this—our shared silences, our silent routine—means something to him, too.

Everyone in town has an Aidan Thomas story. If you’re a kid, he saved your ass moments before the Christmas parade. He showed up when you needed him, tool belt cinched around his hips, to fix your wobbly sleigh, right your reindeer’s antlers.

Two years ago, when that terrible storm hit and a tree fell on old Mr.McMillan’s house, Aidan drove up and set up a generator while he worked on the power line. He returned every weekend the following month to mend the roof. Mr.McMillan tried to pay him, but Aidan wouldn’t take the money.

My family’s Aidan Thomas story took place when I was thirteen. My father was in the middle of dinner service when the walk-in fried. I forget the details, or maybe I never bothered learning them. It was always the same thing—a faulty motor, a bad circuit. My dad was losing his mind, trying to figure out how to fix it while running the kitchen. A lovely man, who was there having dinner with his wife, overheard and offered to help. My father hesitated. Then, in a rare,oh-what-the-hellmoment, he led the man into his kitchen. Aidan Thomas spent the better part of the evening on his knees, politely asking for tools and appeasing the frazzled staff.

By the time service ended, the fridge was cooling off. So was my father. In the kitchen, he offered Aidan Thomas and his wife glasses of pear brandy. They both declined: he didn’t drink, and she was newly pregnant.

I was helping out that night, as children of restaurant owners do. When I went to refill the bowl of mints on the hostess stand, I found Aidan Thomas in the dining room. He was searching his coat pockets the way customers do at the end of a meal, hoping to locate wallets and cell phones and car keys. My father’s laugh trickled from the kitchen over to us. My father, a great chef with an even greater temper, whose perfectionism so often devolved into anger. Relaxed. Enjoying a rare moment of reprieve in the restaurant he had built. As close to happy as he would ever get.

“Thank you for that.”

---