Chapter 8
EIGHT
WINNIE
With Lorenzo at his conference, Winnie stayed in Chatham, the house was essentially the nicest Airbnb she could never have afforded.
She checked in with the carpenter who was working on the deck stairs (she’d offered him twenty percent more if he made the job a priority, since carpenters were in high demand on the Cape).
She also made sure the landscaper knew not to cut back the beach plums and would mow the grass on the diagonal per Lorenzo’s request.
Apparently, he’d been pleased enough with her work so far to expand her duties.
He gave her access to his email so she could cull the junk and say no to any requests that “waste my time”—anything not incredibly prestigious, that was.
She also printed out his fan mail, which was a bit of a surprise to her…
gushing thanks from patients and their families, suck-up notes from residents who wanted to work under him, compliments from his colleagues.
She printed those out and sorted them into color-coded folders so he could look at them when he wanted to (if ever).
She also organized his calendar (and hers) with hour-before alerts for every meeting, surgery or engagement.
In addition to his daily runs (sometimes done before it was light out), Lorenzo belonged to a fancy gym in Boston, one that was open twenty-four hours a day.
At his instructions, she found four ninety-minute gaps in his schedule each week so he could stay fit.
It was satisfying. He had an impressive life, she was learning.
All the hype seemed true. And at the end of those days, while he was in Boston or traveling, she sat on the deck, walked on the beach, then sat on the deck some more and read.
The big blond dog was often out, galumphing down the beach, rolling in the sand, barking at waves.
Winnie loved playing with her, as the dog was pure joy (and wet fur, and sand, and loved to shake the minute Winnie was close enough).
She had taken to calling the dog Fluffina Laroux, for obvious reasons.
So far, she had yet to see a human with the dog, and Fluffina had quickly learned that Winnie had bacon treats.
She didn’t seem particularly well trained, though she was very smart.
Winnie taught her to sit, lie down and fetch, though Fluffina wanted Winnie to chase her and romp before surrendering the stick.
As Winnie headed back, the dog would follow her to the beach stairs, then sit, her head cocked hopefully, waiting to be invited into the house.
“Sorry, honey,” Winnie said. “I don’t think the boss would appreciate that. ”
Whoever owned the dog was lucky. Fluffina was good company…sometimes the only creature Winnie spoke to while at Lorenzo’s, in person at least. On the rare day Fluffina wasn’t on the beach, Winnie felt a real pang of missing her. Wondered about her owners, and if she got enough attention.
Winnie had never been the kind of person who’d had friends.
When you grew up in a big family, maybe you didn’t need friends as much.
In school, there were the kids she sat with during lunch, but as far as sleepovers and giggles, not really, no.
Within the family, Lark and Addison were welded together, psychically connected to the point where they spoke in unison or wore their hair the same way without planning.
Harlow was eight years older than Winnie, and it was only in the past little while that she’d stopped treating Winnie like she was six.
Robbie, when he wasn’t making fun of her or another family member, had dozens of male friends, and until recently, shared a sticky, foul-smelling house with four or five of them.
Over the summer, he and Rosie had bought a pretty little house in Eastham down by Boat Meadow, one of the prettiest bayside beaches on the Cape.
Her parents were great…seriously, no complaints unless Winnie thought really hard.
Sure, she’d felt lost in the shuffle, but they’d had five kids in nine years.
She understood. They liked her (in addition to loving her), often called her their most sensible child, the one who could handle a crisis without a flicker of an eyelash.
Harlow might freeze when surprised, and Addie fainted at the sight of blood.
Lark was a weeper, Robbie too irreverent.
Winnie was the one who got shit done. It was a point of pride.
But there weren’t many crises where her skill set was needed, and being slightly invisible was a comfortable place to be.
Addie had once told her she was probably on the spectrum, but Winnie thought she just liked solitude more than most. She owned a paddleboard, grew flowers in her tiny garden, read and listened to books, and loved to bake.
She didn’t drink much and, unlike her grandfather and Robbie, had never tried weed.
She didn’t have a house big enough to host family events, and other than her birthday, didn’t do much that warranted celebration.
In other words, she was a wallpaper sort of person. Every family had one.
And so, one of the reasons she had loved, then hated, Mitchell was because he’d made her feel like…
well, like someone else. Someone sparkling, someone who lit up a room (though that quality was one of the red flags for murder, according to Dateline).
Mitchell had made her feel special, and Winnie honestly wasn’t.
She was fine. She was dependable. She was honest and hardworking. She did not sparkle.
And then there was just the whole being part of a couple thing.
Everyone in her family—including Grandpop—had found someone.
Even Cynthia, their sour-faced cousin, had found her person and fallen in love.
Winnie had heard all the phrases people said since she was seventeen.
Are you seeing someone? Don’t worry, your time will come.
Love happens when you least expect it. Plenty of guys out there.
Have you tried online dating? Have you gotten off the apps?
Let me think if I know some nice single guy. Hm. I don’t.
The world was built for couples, and while Winnie was not a romantic, there had been a dark little corner of her heart that had hoped someday, she’d meet someone great.
That was the sucker punch of it all. She really thought she had.
Hard to accept she hadn’t sensed Mitchell-Tanner was lying.
Harder still to admit she missed feeling so… adored.
On Sunday, she drove from Chatham to Wellfleet to check in with her parents before her meeting with Robbie and Rosie.
She assured Mom and Dad she was fine, liked her job, and then went to her sister’s bookstore, where she was meeting the happy couple.
They were there, and Harlow was just closing up.
“Hi, sweetie!” Harlow said. “Take as long as you need. Just make sure Grandpop doesn’t lock himself in again, okay? He got stuck inside last week and slept here, then tapped on the window until Lillie Silva saw him and called me.”
“Left his phone at home?”
“Correct.” They both smiled.
“I’ll make sure he’s safe and sound when I leave. How are Grady and Luna?”
Harlow’s face softened. “They’re great. It’s family fun night, so we’re going to the beach to build sandcastles and then to Mac’s for lobster rolls.”
Familial bliss. “And Matthew? Mom said he’s staying for Christmas?”
“He is! The wedding is three days after his last exam, so he’ll come out for that and stay.” Harlow’s face glowed at the thought of her son, who was now in college. “Okay, gotta run. You doing okay, honey?”
“Right as rain.”
Harlow tilted her head and looked at her. “If you want to talk, I’m always here, Winnie.”
“I know. And thanks.” She did know. She just didn’t like picking her emotional scabs in front of people. She went into the main room of the bookstore and found Robbie, Rosie and Grandpop in the sitting area—R and R on the couch, Grandpop in the wingchair across from them.
“Winnie! How beautiful and refreshing you are, like a bowl of oranges! Or a bouquet of daisies! Or a flock of bluebirds!”
“Grandpop, you are the best,” she said. “Lark told me you rescued a squirrel from a tree this morning.”
“Now, now, Winnie,” her grandfather said, his blue eyes twinkling. “He looked very much like a cat, and you know how I love cats.”
“If you fall out of a tree, I’ll have to be Robbie’s best man, so be careful, okay?” She kissed his head, then turned to Robbie and Rosie. “Ready to talk nuptials?”
“I’m already working on my speech,” Grandpop said. “Trying to keep it under half an hour.”
Rosie grinned at Winnie. “It’ll kick ass, Grandpop,” Robbie said.
“Shoot for ten minutes, Grandpop,” Winnie said.
“Are you kidding?” Robbie said. “Take as long as you need, Grandpop. I want to hear how wonderful I am. The favorite grandchild, your best friend, your role model…”
“His gummy supplier. Robbie, you’ll get plenty of attention, okay? Have you thought any more about the ceremony? I sent you some readings and poems and all that. And some samples of vows.”
“We want to write our own,” Rosie said.
“Nice,” Winnie answered. “Always so meaningful. Robbie, I’ll write yours so you don’t embarrass yourself.”
“Hey! When it comes to Rosie, I’m Ed Sheeran.”
“Ew,” Rosie and Winnie said at the same time.
For the next hour, they discussed the logistics of the ceremony.
Flower arrangements—“the pretty kind,” Robbie requested—special cocktails (and mocktails, since Rosie, Dad and Nicole didn’t drink).
Dresses for the flower girls. A toast from Rosie’s dad, grace by Mom.
Winnie had scheduled their cake tasting, and Mr. Wolfe would be choosing the wine.