Chapter 3
THREE
WINNIE
Somebody thinks very highly of himself, doesn’t he?
Winnie thought as she drove back to the Cape after the interview.
Plus, could they not have done this on Zoom?
Instead, she’d had to drive two hours there and three hours back, thanks to the traffic at the Cape Cod Canal.
When Lark started fake-dating him, she said that his nickname was Dr. Satan. Dr. Dull was more like it.
This was Winnie’s third encounter with Lorenzo Santini. He had not improved with time.
The first time was when Lark was fake-dating him because he wanted his rude and ancient grandmother to think he was with someone before she died.
Which would’ve been sweet…if Lark hadn’t been a doctor down on her luck and Lorenzo someone who could influence her career.
Sounded like a power imbalance to Winnie, and she’d said so.
But Lark hadn’t actually minded—said it had been kind of fun, really. But Lark was a lot nicer than Winnie.
The second time they’d met him was at Lark and Dante’s wedding, which Winnie had helped plan. Lorenzo had been best man, and Winnie had asked him if he needed anything. He’d said no. His speech had been adequate. Otherwise, they hadn’t interacted.
Today, the third time, cemented her impression that Lorenzo was arrogant, condescending, and as charismatic as a box of old dirt. Yes, yes, he was a brilliant surgeon, but Winnie didn’t need surgery, so she was free to dislike him.
But she did need a job.
When she got back to the little house she was renting from her cousin, she tossed her bag on the counter, changed out of her suit and into shorts and a T-shirt.
It was mid-September, the bulk of the tourists gone, the days still warm.
She was starving, having ignored the siren song and salty scent of Burger King in Hyannis, The Knack in Orleans, Mac’s Seafood in Eastham and PJ’s in Wellfleet.
She was on a tight budget. She also hadn’t been grocery shopping since Fallyn Doane had called her a slut in Stop & Shop last week.
For one, slut-shaming was so Boomer. For two, did any of Blakelee’s friends have normal names?
(Then again, she was named Windsor, since her mother had been obsessed with Queen Elizabeth.) There in the dairy section, Winnie had stopped cold, turned and stared at Fallyn until the other woman wheeled her cart in the other direction.
But still. It wasn’t fun.
Her cupboards showed cereal and peanut butter.
The fridge held a nearly empty bottle of white wine and a stick of butter.
A reflection of her soul these days, this empty kitchen.
Until two years ago, she’d lived with her parents—not a life goal, but such were the real estate facts of today.
The Cape was an expensive market, and rentals were sky-high because of the tourist season.
But then Cynthia, their cranky, sixty-something cousin, had gotten married.
Winnie asked if she could rent the place from her, and Cynthia, less cranky thanks to her husband, said yes.
The house was small and plain—a square, unimaginative cinder-block house, no basement, tiny yard, unrenovated since its construction in the fifties.
But it was across the street from Mayo Beach, and Winnie could sit on the lawn chair and stare out into Massachusetts Bay in the crook of the arm-shaped Cape.
If she could afford it, Winnie would buy it, but Cynthia’s little place, once considered a step above a shed, would now be worth close to a million dollars. Maybe more.
Until it had imploded, Simple Celebrations, her event planning business, had been doing well.
Not as profitable as it had been when it had been owned by her former boss, Hannah Chapman, who had focused on very high-end weddings.
But Winnie had wanted something more down to earth, more homespun, and less luxurious.
Events geared to the year-rounders, not the bazillionaires who came to their huge houses for a month a year, or the brides and grooms who came here for their seven-figure weddings.
Her business plan was to do more events on lower budgets.
It had filled a niche in the market, and Winnie had hit the ground running—a good word from Hannah before she moved to France, the solid Smith family name and her own steady hand, determination and strong work ethic.
And then came Mitchell. Or rather, Tanner.
Winnie was not a romantic at heart. She bore witness to her parents’ enduring love story, saw the solid marriage of Addison and Nicole, was thrilled that Harlow had married the nicest guy in town.
She had watched Lark fall for Lorenzo’s much more charming brother, then marveled when Robbie and Rosie got engaged.
All that being said, she held no hopes for herself.
She wasn’t the type. She was too practical, too steady, too smart to believe that romance would hit her.
She had never swooned. Never really even felt lust, to be honest. Online dating, while still the best way to find a partner, felt about as fun as prison, and the stories she heard were sometimes hilariously awful, sometimes downright scary.
So she’d pass. She understood that some people wanted all the feels, the drama and romance. She had never been one of them.
Until Mitchell had placed the appetizers down and smiled at her. They chatted, Winnie not giving out too many details, being addicted to Dateline in both podcast and television forms. When Chef Mitchell Preston returned to the kitchen, she was more interested in his food than in him.
Two minutes later, he was back. “I know I just met you,” he said, “but would you possibly want to, uh…um…meet sometime? You…I…” He blushed.
He blushed. “I’d like to get to know you a little more.
I…well. This is stupid, but I feel…Jesus, Mitchell, stop talking.
” He rolled his eyes at himself, shook his head and said, “Would you like to go out sometime?”
Windsor Smith did not have that effect on men. Ever, and yet this guy was babbling around her. Huh.
“Sure,” she said, more curious than anything. She pulled out her phone, asked for his number, and then sent him a text.
Hi from Winnie.
His face lit up like the sunrise.
Weird. But there was a gooey, warm feeling in her stomach as he beamed at her and backed through the swinging kitchen doors. The bartender gave her a look, raised his eyebrows, and said nothing.
Later, Winnie would realize that was Mitchell’s M.O. She’d realize the bartender’s look and silence meant so you’re the next one and also, he’s my boss so I can’t say anything and maybe you’re an idiot if you fall for this.
She had fallen. Hard.
He thought she was funny, one of the few to catch her dry sense of humor.
Loved hearing about her family. Looked at her like she was beautiful, even though she wasn’t.
Lark and Addison were beautiful, Harlow nearly as gorgeous as they were.
Robbie made women walk into signposts. But with Mitchell’s deep brown eyes gazing at hers, his expression slightly dumbstruck, she suddenly wondered if maybe she was beautiful, too.
His smile made it feel like she’d been living in a cold, wet country and he’d just dropped her off in the Caribbean.
The first time they kissed, so much feeling had washed over Winnie she almost swooned, her legs weak, head swimming.
Her. Winnie Smith, the boring one. She’d had sex before—a guy at Cape Cod Community College, where she’d taken a few classes.
That had only happened because he was nice enough, and she figured it was time to get the virginity stuff over with.
But my God, sex with Mitchell…who was making those squeaking noises?
Who was wrapping her limbs around a man, desperate to get a little closer?
Who was kissing like she was about to die and he was the cure?
Winnie Smith, that’s who. With Mitchell, she was as bright and delightful as a daffodil.
She was sexy and sensuous, moaning as he fed her a bite of food, shivering if he touched her hair.
She was someone she barely recognized, and she liked this version of herself.
Right until she hated herself. But for six months, she had been utterly, completely, desperately in love. And look where that got her.
The night after her Ice House speech, just to ascertain that she really had blown up her business, Winnie had asked Addie to show her the texts about her, since Addie knew every mother on the Outer Cape.
“You don’t want to see that, hon,” Addie said.
“Show me.”
Wincing, Addie handed over her phone. The Mommy Mafia had been unsparing.
Okay, Tanner has never kept it in his pants, but are we really supposed to think she had zero idea he was married? Also, and this is mean, but her??? The mousy little Smith sister?
She “didn’t know.” Yeah, right. Hello, the internet was invented for a reason. Plus Blakelee posts his picture like every 10 minutes. Or at least she did.
I just wonder if W has gone after anyone else. I mean, she has access to a LOT of families, know what I mean?
And then…
Did you hear about her tirade about how stupid we all are? Okay, then! Guess I’ll hire someone who actually cares about my baby’s gender reveal.
She was unhinged at the Ice House the other night! She needs a therapist. Also, hello? We were your bread and butter, Simple Celebrations. Sorry you hate us.
Her company’s Google and Yelp reviews, once boasting a 4.9 rating, were down to 2.8. Phrases floated in front of Winnie’s eyes, making her stomach cramp.
Do NOT hire this company.
Unethical. Slimy owner. Dishonest.
Makes fun of clients.
Not what she appears.
She’d handed Addie’s phone back to her without comment, went into her nieces’ bedroom, read them a story about a duck, then went home and Googled “countries that accept Americans for permanent residence.” Unfortunately, she didn’t have enough money to pick up and leave, not without having a useful job, like nurse or engineer.
Well. She had a new job now, and she was actually relieved that Lorenzo Santini appeared to be about as emotional as a coffee table.
It would be a very welcome change. His homes were far enough away from the Mommy Mafia that she’d have some peace—the Outer Cape felt like a different world from the mid-Cape and Boston.
She’d been standing in front of the open fridge too long. With a sigh, she pulled out the bottle of white wine, got a glass and went out to the little cement patio outside the house.
Not what she appears.
The thing was, Winnie was exactly how she appeared.
She accepted that she was a background person, the forgettable Smith sister, the boring one.
But she’d made that work for her. A behind-the-scenes person was exactly what you’d want for an event planner.
Organized, clever, friendly but not fawning, cool under pressure, and someone who always delivered a great event beyond our expectations. That’s what her reviews used to say.
Meanwhile, Mitchell’s restaurant didn’t mention his sliminess, his lack of morals. No wonder he used a different name professionally.
Her phone dinged with a text from Rosie to her and Harlow.
Want to hang out, my lovelies? Mocktail for me, real thing for you?
I’m pretty whipped. Interview in Boston. It went well, but it’s early bedtime for me.
A hundred percent honest, because Winnie never lied.
Harlow answered, and then Rosie typed something else. She knew they were checking in on her, and she appreciated it.
Another text, this time from Lark. The Smith family radar had been activated.
Thinking of you, honey! How did today go with Lorenzo?
A nearly identical one from Addie, sweetie instead of honey. She answered them both. One from Grandpop.
I JUST WANT YYYOU TO KNnoW THTAT YOU ARE A FINE PERSON MY DEAR &ADN WHO MADE THESE LETtERS SO SMALL IS THERE A WAY TO MAKE THEM BIGGER FOR MY OLD EYES
She answered them all with the facts. Fine. Got the job. Start tomorrow. I’ll come over and fix that for you, Grandpop. Mom called, and Winnie uttered the same words.
Of course, she was not fine.
Mitchell’s apartment had been so sterile.
She just thought he was too busy to decorate.
Then there was the way he said all the right things, how he’d moved in slowly.
It was not a hookup, no sir. They’d dated—properly, with late-night dinners, walks on the beach, bike rides on the rail trail—for two months before she slept with him.
She was practically a pilgrim by today’s standards.
Apparently, he liked to work for it.
Or she’d just been an easy target, this mousy Smith sister.
Addie had reported he’d been in church with his family on Sunday.
He was the one who should’ve been ashamed, and yet shame seeped from every molecule of her.
She’d slept with another woman’s husband, hadn’t dug deep enough to see if he was lying, somehow thought that a single, good-looking, talented guy would go for her.
Stupid.
She sat on the little patio and stared at the water, drinking. She should get a dog, she thought. Someone who’d truly love her. A Lexus drove by, the passenger window rolled down. A female arm extended, middle finger raised. Winnie waved back, pretending not to care.
Her phone chimed. A text from a 508 number.
You should be ashamed of yourself. Everyone hates you right now, Winnie. How could you try to brake up that sweet family?
Winnie typed back.
You mean “break,” idiot. Also, bite me.
Then she blocked the number and chugged the rest of her wine.
Lorenzo had said she’d have to stay some nights. She went inside, opened her laptop, and sent him an email.
To: Lorenzo.Santini.MD.PhD.FACS@ (for the love of God, that was a long address).
From: Winnie.E.Smith@
Re: Staying over
Lorenzo, if it’s convenient and you are in Boston, I would like to spend a few nights in Chatham to get a feel for what your household needs and to familiarize myself with the property. Please let me know if that’s agreeable.
Winnie
Less than a minute later, she had an answer.
It is.
Thank God. If she had to stay in Wellfleet another minute, she’d burst into tears.