Chapter 6
SIX
WINNIE
She was not enjoying her evening.
She’d gone into town, plugged in Chief Brody, her beloved electric car, and killed some time walking down Main Street as it charged.
She’d just been in town this morning, so she didn’t need anything, though the smells of garlic and seafood were wicked hard to resist. But good food in a nice restaurant reminded her of Mitchell.
Her steps slowed as she passed a restaurant.
There, seated at a window, was a couple about her age, smiling, talking.
The woman reached out to touch the back of the man’s hand, and they laughed about something.
She’d been like that. It was as alien as picturing herself living on Mars.
Just a couple of weeks ago, she’d pictured asking Mitchell to come as her date to Robbie and Rosie’s wedding.
She’d gone solo to her three sisters’ weddings, happily so.
But in this case, she’d imagined telling her family that yes, she’d been seeing someone, maybe it was getting serious, then fending off the barrage of questions that would follow.
He’d come to dinner at Addie and Nicole’s to meet everyone a few weeks before the big day, and his warm brown eyes would meet hers across the table.
He’d see her as special, even in that happy, unruly mob.
One night about two months ago, he’d made her a late dinner at his barren condo, and he’d dropped a kiss on her shoulder as he passed by on his way to the stove.
So much feeling—warm, gooey, hot-chocolatey love—bubbled up in her chest, and she took a breath, then hesitated.
Do it, Winnie, she told herself. He’s special.
Don’t be so wary all the time. Don’t blow it.
“I never believed all this really happened,” she said.
“Believed all what happened, honey?” Mitchell asked.
Honey. Her blood slowed and thickened to that same substance, thick and golden and sweet.
“Love,” she said, blushing. Yes. She, Windsor Eleanora Smith, had brought up the subject of love. Had implied that she loved Mitchell Prescott before he had implied he loved her.
“It’s definitely happening with me,” he said, and then clothes were basically flying through the air, and they were laughing, and one of them was lying and the other was an idiot.
How long would it take for these memories to stop mugging her?
She gave herself a mental shake and kept walking, past the great smells, the little bookstore, the churchyard with the darkest blue hydrangeas she’d ever seen, then made her way back to Chief Brody, who was now sufficiently charged at 62%, more than enough to get her back to Wellfleet tomorrow.
When she returned to Lorenzo’s, she pulled her completely acceptable-looking-if-not-adorable car into his garage, eyed the Lamborghini with disdain and then walked across the yard to the back entrance to her quarters, as Lorenzo had called them.
The nicest servants’ quarters in history, probably.
Lorenzo clearly didn’t come down here to watch TV, since there was no place to sit.
What a waste. It would be amazing to watch a Patriots game down here.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Robbie.
Hey, winona, what r u doing? want company?
Her mouth tugged. Robbie liked to pretend he was as deep as a piece of paper, but she knew better.
She remembered how he cried when their oldest sister went to college, how he’d confided his adolescent love for Rosie to her (and only her, a secret she’d kept until two years ago).
He’d bonded so easily with Matthew, the son Harlow had put up for adoption, and his deep friendship and love for Grandpop were totally pure.
Granted, they all worshipped Grandpop, but he and Robbie were a fixture.
Who else asked their grandfather to be best man?
I’m at work, but thanks.
How’s the job?
Great! she typed, then deleted it
Pretty well. Busy. Nice place.
Cool. See you this weekend, yeah?
Yeah. Rosie & I are talking flowers. Any favorites?
Roses, obvs.
Ew. You’re so smarmy now. I kind of hate this side of you.
He sent a GIF of Betty White giving the middle finger.
She couldn’t top that, so she hit the laugh response and opened her laptop.
She had a spreadsheet for their wedding, as she’d had for every event, from speed dating to funerals (yes, it was a thing).
Robbie and Rosie’s wedding would be Christmas-themed, all deep red, white and green, held at the gorgeous Chatham Bars Inn, which knew how to do luxe events.
Winnie didn’t mind posh weddings when the bride was as casual as Rosie was (and when she was a guest who got to eat all that good food).
After all, the money went to the local economy—the hotels, servers, florists, caterers, bridal shops, hair and makeup artists.
Rosie was an easy client, loving pretty much everything Winnie showed her.
Winnie had designed the invitation, two Rs facing each other, intertwined, roses spilling down the signs, and Rosie got tears in her eyes.
“It’s beautiful, Winnie. So special. I wonder what you’ll do when your own wedding rolls around. ”
“Elope,” she said. In that moment, she pictured her and Mitchell in a cute town in New Hampshire or Vermont.
Shit.
She tossed her laptop aside on the bed and went up the spiral staircase. She was starving, and the Tony Chocolonely bars were calling her name. Lorenzo stood at the complicated stove, a piece of fish in the frying pan, asparagus boiling in a pot next to it.
“You don’t have a couch downstairs,” she said. “It makes watching television a bit less comfortable.”
He glanced at her. “I haven’t gotten around to furnishing the whole house. And I don’t watch television.”
“Ever?”
“Very rarely. Order one.”
“One what?”
“A couch. Something tasteful, please, in keeping with the aesthetic of the house. You can check the labels in the living room. Do not buy from a big-box store. Feel free to use the space while you work here. In your off-time, of course.”
Gosh, she could sit on it and everything? “Okay.”
She looked at the sad pot of boiling asparagus. “You know, asparagus tastes great if you grill it.” He didn’t comment. “Or at least steam it. You could put some butter in there if you want to actually enjoy it. Maybe some dill on the fish. And salt and pepper.”
“Are you a chef?”
She was not, but Mitchell had, at the very least, given her some cooking tips. “No.”
“Then save your input. I know how to cook a healthy dinner.” He paused. “Do you want to join me?”
And eat that sadness right there? “Um…” She didn’t have anything better to do, and she wasn’t sure he’d allow DoorDash to come up his precious driveway, as they had last night with her order of fried dumplings and chicken with broccoli (also a healthy dinner, in her mind).
“Will you put butter on mine, at least?”
“If you want to clog your arteries, then yes.” He opened the fridge, got another filet and added it to the pan.
Was that an almost smile? More likely a mouth spasm from the thought of butter.
She set the table in the kitchen, since she’d gone through his cabinets yesterday so she’d know where everything went (and because it was fun, seeing what he’d bought, what he still could use, getting the feel of this very elegant house).
She took out cloth napkins, since he didn’t have the paper variety, and set the table.
He brought their plates to the small kitchen table. Hers had two pats of butter melting on both the fish and the asparagus. No rice or couscous or potatoes, though. That was okay. She had peanut butter crackers in her car for emergencies.
She waited till he sat and put his napkin on his lap, then took a bite. “Not bad,” she said. He didn’t respond, but began eating himself.
Time to get to know her employer a little better. “Did you always want to be a doctor?” she asked.
“I always wanted to be a surgeon,” he said, the implication clear. Plain old doctor would not have been enough, and given his personality, she really couldn’t see him reassuring a mother of a young child or talking to a Gen-Xer about omega threes.
“And you like it?” she asked. “Being a surgeon?”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Of course. Why would I do it otherwise?”
“To help people, I guess. Heal the sick.”
“Yes, that too.”
“Lark mentioned they call you Dr. Satan at the hospital. My dad remembered that, too.”
“Your father is a doctor?”
“A nurse. Well, he’s retired now. Anyway, I gather you’re hated and feared. Wicked cool nickname.”
She could’ve sworn that one was an almost-smile.
“Did you like being an…event planner?” He grimaced slightly, letting her know what he thought of her field. She let it pass.
“Theoretically, yes. I got to be a part of the most significant moments of people’s lives.
Or at least, some significant moments.” She paused.
As she had said at trivia night, she thought some of the “events” were more narcissistic cries for attention / opportunities for Instagram posts.
“When someone is celebrating something real, it’s…
rewarding to be involved with it.” She paused.
“You did that with your sister’s wedding, right? ”
“I funded it,” Lorenzo said. “I told Sofia to do whatever she wanted and not think about the cost. My parents would never have been able to do that.” He paused. “She was one of those women who’d been dreaming about her wedding since she was a little girl.” He shrugged.
So condescending and smug…yet so nice, too, if he could tweak his words.
She looked at him as he methodically cut up his asparagus spears.
He was very good looking, she observed. Not her type, but his face was symmetrical, his eyes blue, his hair short and blond.
Gorgeous cheekbones. But removed, somehow.
His near-misses with smiling added some appeal.
Then again, she didn’t smile much either. Only when warranted.
Outside, the ocean sounded louder. Tide was coming in, and the moon was nearly full.
“How many Santini kids are there again?” she asked.
“Four. I’m the oldest, then Sofia, Dante and Isabella.”
“I’m the fourth of five,” she said. “I would’ve loved to have been the oldest.” No comment. “Are you guys close?” she asked.
“Somewhat. I lived away from them when we were growing up. I went to a school for intellectually advanced boys.”
“Oh.” Her fish was gone. Plain but tasty. The same could not be said for the sad asparagus, however. She’d definitely be hitting some peanut butter crackers, and the rejected Tony’s Chocolonely. “That must’ve been hard, being apart from the rest of them.”
“Yes.” He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, wiped his mouth, and then put down his fork. Clearly, a man comfortable with pauses. “But I lived with my grandmother and visited home when I could.”
That sounded very hard to her. “You and she were close?”
“Very.” His plate was clean, too. She bet he was still hungry, too. Too bad there was no dessert in sight. The bread she’d made had been hidden (or tossed).
“Let me clean up,” she offered.
“Nonsense. You were my guest. Go order the couch and enjoy your evening.”
Dismissed, albeit politely. “Okay. Thank you.” She stopped at the pantry. “You sure you don’t want this for dessert?” she asked, holding up the Tony’s chocolate bar.
“I don’t eat dessert.”
“Ever?”
He sighed, clearly done with her. “I can’t remember the last time I ate dessert.”
“At Lark and Dante’s wedding?”
“I passed.”
His loss. Lark and Dante’s wedding cake had been chocolate, and incredible at that. “Okay. Have a nice night, Lorenzo.”
It was weird, being in the same house as someone she barely knew.
Someone who didn’t want to talk too much, who didn’t watch TV.
She listened for movement up above as she sat on her bed, scrolling on her laptop for couches that would match his austere style.
She heard the slider open, then his footsteps on the deck.
Good. The view was the best part of his “architectural gem.” Because no matter how talented an architect or designer or landscaper was, no one could compete with the ocean.
She put her laptop away, picked up her book (a dark historical fiction novel about World War II with absolutely no romance in it) and settled back against the pillows.
She fell asleep to the sound of the waves, and for the first time in weeks, didn’t wake up until morning.