Chapter 9
NINE
LORENZO
Lorenzo had asked Winnie to come to Boston.
But it was the family photos that really got to him.
Every time he saw one, his hypothalamus passed his pituitary gland a little oxytocin into his bloodstream.
In addition to the photo of him meeting William for the first time, there was one of him and Lucy, a picture of his parents on their wedding day (where she had found that, he had no idea).
There a casual shot of him and Dante last year, one of the few times where they looked like brothers, not distant relatives, the both of them leaning on the deck railing here, their faces turned toward each other in conversation, neither particularly smiling, but both of them relaxed.
There was a photo of him dancing with Noni at Sofia’s wedding…
Noni had wobbled to her feet, and Lorenzo could still feel the pleasure of making his grandmother smile and laugh, hearing her Italian words telling him she was too old for this.
Some part of him had known it would be the last time they’d have a chance for something fun.
Sure enough, Noni had died a few weeks later.
In short, it was incredibly nice, having a personal assistant. He hadn’t realized she’d be quite so personal, digging into his family photos and rearranging things, but oddly enough, he didn’t mind. The flowers. The bread. The rearranged and artfully ordered bookcases.
His phone dinged—the doorman letting him know that a Ms. Smith was here to see him. Send her up, thanks, he wrote back. A moment later, Winnie walked into his apartment, dressed in boring clothes—beige pants, navy sweater, small hoop earrings, and sensible brown shoes.
“You look like a nun,” he said.
“Nice to see you, too, Dr. Satan.” She seemed unperturbed. “Actually, since I’ve been working for you for a month now, can I just call you Satan?”
He ignored the request, still frowning at her frumpy clothes. “As my assistant, I’d like you to dress more professionally. Especially as you’ll be coming with me to San Francisco.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“Is that a problem?” he asked. “I believe you said attending conferences would not be a problem, and I asked if this time frame was free. We leave at seven in the morning.” She had said she was free, and he’d be irked if she begged off.
This conference was the most prestigious of the year—he’d be giving a presentation on potential complications when using techniques for abdominal surgery.
He’d also agreed to sit on a panel or two, though he liked that less. “Winnie? Will that be a problem?”
“I just wish you’d mentioned it before now.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.” She fished out her phone and read, “‘Is your calendar free Monday through Thursday?’ Me: ‘Yes.’ End of conversation.”
“Oh.” Guess he hadn’t mentioned it specifically. “Well, you’re free, so I’d like to take you to the conference.”
“No, that’s fine. I just didn’t realize I’d be away for a few days. I’ll have to drive back and pack, then make it to Logan by seven a.m. I guess I also have to book myself a ticket.”
“I had my travel agent do it. I’m firing him, by the way, so expect that to become one of your duties. So you have no clothes or toiletries?”
“Not with me, no.”
“In the future, you should keep some things here. For now—" He paused. She didn’t exactly dress to impress. He glanced at his Apple watch. He had allocated two hours for their meeting, but he was a surgeon, and multitasking came easily. “Let’s go. I can fill you in on what I’ll be doing at the conference and what I need from you while we get you some appropriate clothing. ”
“We’re going shopping?”
“You just said you have nothing with you. Bring your iPad.”
One hundred and seventeen minutes and several thousand dollars later, Winnie had a work wardrobe appropriate for the PA of a renowned surgeon.
A breathless clerk from one of the posh stores on Newbury Street had helped select something she called a “capsule wardrobe,” and Winnie had tried things on without complaint.
A white suit, a black suit, a black dress, a white shirt, gray pants, black pants, black sweater, white sweater.
Two pairs of shoes, a pair of boots. The clerk was folding the clothing now, and Winnie was back in her sad, nun-like outfit.
She took out her hair elastic, smoothed her slightly disheveled hair back, and refastened her ponytail.
“Does all this work for you?” he asked, indicating the array of bags on the counter.
“Sure. I could’ve gone to Marshall’s and gotten essentially the same thing for about two hundred dollars. But if dressing women is your kink, well, I work for you, Satan.”
He narrowed his eyes, an unfamiliar sense of…something…uncurling in his stomach. Something not unpleasant. He liked that she sparred with him, wasn’t intimidated by him, took things in stride. He liked it a lot. “I want you to look like the successful woman you are.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, then her cheeks flushed an attractive pink. “Well. Thank you.”
“A perk of the job. I should have thought of it before. I’ll give you a wardrobe allowance.”
“This is plenty,” she said. “Please.”
“I bought your sister some dresses when she worked for me,” he said.
“Oh, I know. We heard all about that. You have great taste.”
Lorenzo glanced at her, but there didn’t seem to be a subtext there. “Thank you.”
Once again, Winnie looked plain yet tidy. He could see her resemblance to Lark, though Winnie’s face was less…dewy and sentimental somehow. Lark wore her heart on her sleeve; Winnie had hers firmly tucked away, a quality he appreciated.
Lorenzo paid and took the bags. He glanced at his watch. 5:04. It was early, but they hadn’t really discussed the conference. “Would you like to have dinner?” he surprised himself by asking.
“Sure,” she said easily. “I’m starving.”
They walked the few blocks to Grill 23, where Lorenzo ate once a month when he needed meat, which he guiltily loved, though he otherwise kept his diet to chicken, eggs, tofu, and fish for protein.
“Very nice to see you again, Dr. Santini,” said Mateo, the ma?tre d’. “Good evening, miss. May I store those bags for you?”
“Thank you,” Lorenzo said, handing them over. Mateo then led them to a table overlooking the street, handed them the wine list and menus, and told them to enjoy their dinners.
“You’re a regular here, I take it?” Winnie asked, opening the menu. Her eyes widened. Hazel, he noted. Greenish-grayish-goldish. “Oof,” she said softly. Yes. The prices were steep, but the food was well worth it.
“I’m paying, of course. This is a business dinner.” He already knew what he was having—tomahawk dry-aged steak, baked potato (hold the sour cream and butter) and Brussels sprouts (hold the parmesan). A glass of California cabernet sauvignon.
When the waiter came by, Winnie ordered the roast chicken and a glass of pinot grigio, which made Lorenzo cringe inside. It was more like grape juice than actual wine.
“You can order whatever you want,” he said as the waiter left.
“I did,” she said.
“Both of those things are the least expensive things on the menu.”
“I like roast chicken.”
He remembered how much Lark had loved to order when she’d been his companion the summer his sister got married. Granted, she’d been a starving resident then, but she’d also enjoyed running up the tab.
“Are you close with your sisters?” he asked.
“I am. And Robbie, too. He and I shared a room for years. Are you close with yours?”
He considered the question. “Somewhat. Sofia and I get along easily. She’s closest in age to me.
Isabella is a nurse, so we have some professional things in common.
” Not many, he thought, still irked years later that Izzy hadn’t accepted his offer to pay for medical school.
“Dante and I are getting closer, now that he’s settled down. He comes by from time to time.”
“That’s nice.” She sipped some water and looked at the flowers on the table, touching one petal.
What was nice, he thought, was having a conversation with someone who wasn’t digging for more answers. Another difference from Lark.
“Do you have a partner, Winnie?” he asked. “Someone who minds you leaving for days at a time?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.” Her cheeks flushed again, a less pretty shade this time, indicating that her sympathetic nervous system had been triggered more dramatically than when he’d complimented her in the store.
The vasodilation released erythrocytes subcutaneously on the face, which had more capillary loops than anywhere else in the body.
Such increased blood flow would aid in a fight-or-flight situation.
Interesting.
“I did have someone,” she said abruptly. “We broke up.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
He paused. This was his brother’s wife’s sister, so he supposed he should say something kind. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“God, no.”
Again, appreciation flared. The server arrived with their wine, and Winnie took a healthy slug.
Over dinner, Lorenzo outlined what he wanted her to do at the conference, which was essentially make sure that everything ran smoothly. “People tend to want my time,” he said. “I don’t have a lot to give.”
“Be your Rottweiler. Got it.”
He almost smiled. “Yes. Also, I never trust the technical staff at these things,” he said. “Do you know how to connect a PowerPoint presentation to a screen?”
“I do,” she said.
“And how do you know that?”
She gave him a slightly irritated look. “Because a lot of parties feature that kind of thing…kids over the years, first dates, all that.” She took the last bite of her chicken, wiped her mouth, and set down her fork. “That was delicious. Thank you.”
“Would you like dessert?” he asked.
“Yes, but you don’t like dessert, so we can get the check. I have to pack, anyway. Do you have a suitcase I can borrow? I just thought of that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Would you like me to pack for you?” she asked.
“Oh. No, that’s fine.”
“I am your personal assistant, after all,” she said. “When I was a teenager, I worked at a clothing store in Wellfleet. I can fold clothes perfectly. And I’ve seen boxer shorts before. I’ll bet you have some things to review before tomorrow morning.”
He felt his mouth tug at one corner. “I…all right, then. Sure.” It felt oddly intimate, but as she said, that was her job.
He paid the bill, gathered up her bags, and together they walked home through the Public Garden, past the duckling statues, then onto Beacon Street. They didn’t talk.
“You have two very beautiful homes,” Winnie said as they went up the stairs of his apartment building. It was beautiful, built in the late 1800s, red brick and granite.
“Thank you,” he said. She had yet to stay over here, so he showed her to the guest room, got a spare suitcase and set his own on his bed, then pulled out the clothes he’d be wearing—three suits, five shirts, four ties, five pairs of socks, two pairs of linen trousers and two sweaters for traveling, plus his running clothes and sneakers.
And yes, his boxers. He kept a toiletry bag packed at all times, since he didn’t like to have to wonder if he’d forgotten anything.
Then he went down the hall to the library, opened his laptop, and went over his notes once more. As he did, he could hear Winnie moving around down the hall, opening doors and drawers, humming as she did.
It was a surprisingly nice sound.