Chapter 10
TEN
WINNIE
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she returned, and wheeled his suitcase toward him.
“Espresso?” he asked.
“No thanks,” she said, eyeing his sludge. She’d grab a cup of Dunkin’ at the airport.
The pit of her stomach was quivering with excitement about this trip.
For one, the clothes. Sure, they were all black and white and gray, but she’d never worn such a nice outfit as the black pants, black sweater and black boots she currently had on.
She looked like a really cool assassin, she thought, or a French woman.
Same vibe. Her bag was the only thing that wasn’t new, but it was a Kate Spade backpack in emerald green, a gift from Addie a couple of Christmases ago, and it added a cheery splash of color.
She’d never been to San Francisco before. Hopefully, she’d have some time to walk around a little if Lorenzo didn’t need her. Get some chocolate at Ghirardelli, maybe, or ride a cable car.
“Here’s your boarding pass,” Lorenzo said, texting it to her.
She looked at it. Seat 2B. “Is this in first class?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Cool.” She’d never traveled first class before. According to Addison, first class meant a cleaner bathroom and a seat an inch or two bigger than in economy. Thrilling, the privileges of wealth.
Lorenzo sipped his espresso and stared out the window.
He really was attractive, Winnie thought.
She wondered if he had an arrangement with someone for sex (though if he did, it wasn’t on his calendar).
At the restaurant last night, a woman had been very obviously staring at him, which Winnie found unsubtle and also rude.
They weren’t together, but they could’ve been.
Happily, Lorenzo ignored her, or just didn’t see her.
Winnie suspected the latter. He was not the type whose attention wandered, and last night, his attention had been on her.
I want you to look like the successful woman you are.
That sentence had been both a slight insult and also incredibly validating. She was getting used to that combination from Dr. Satan.
A car service picked them up at 6:30, and traffic was only on a scale of 8, 10 being a standstill. “We probably could’ve walked here faster,” she observed.
Lorenzo didn’t answer, eyes on his phone. “I’m sorry, I have to call the hospital,” he said. And then, right before her eyes, he transformed from Lorenzo Santini into Dr. Satan.
“This is Dr. Lorenzo Santini. What is your name?” he asked, his tone sharp as a razor.
“I’ve just read the chart for Mrs. Singh, Nurse Hall.
” Her name sounded like a curse. “How is it that you haven’t managed to check my patient’s vital signs in the past two hours?
She was in surgery for five hours yesterday, Nurse Hall, and survived a complicated tumor removal in addition to having two feet of her small intestine removed.
What if she’s bleeding internally, Nurse Hall?
Well, how would you know? The chart says her dressing was soaked.
Do you want her to die of an infection because of your neglect, Nurse Hall?
You don’t. Well, that’s very reassuring to hear.
Are you a critical care nurse? You’re a floater?
Jesus Christ. If you’re ever assigned to one of my patients again, you tell Verline I specifically said you were not to be involved in their care.
Put her on right now. Yes, Verline the charge nurse, for God’s sake. ”
Winnie met the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Yikes, she telegraphed. He lifted an eyebrow. Guess he drove for Lorenzo regularly.
“Verline, it’s Lorenzo Santini. A floater? For one of my patients? I understand you’re short-staffed, but…yes. Thank you. I appreciate that.” He ended the call. “Incompetence,” he muttered. “I hate incompetence.”
“Yeah, that came through,” Winnie said. “Will your patient be okay?”
“Yes. A very good nurse has been assigned to her, one who’s cared for my patients before. They’re not all standing around like idiots, scrolling on their phones when they should be working.”
“The Dr. Satan thing is making sense.”
He slid her a glance. “Don’t forget you work for Dr. Satan.”
“You’re proud of that nickname, aren’t you?”
He looked at her again, and maybe there was a hint of a smile in his eyes. She smiled back. If she worked for Dr. Satan, did that make her head demon or something? She could get behind that title…
“Here we are, Dr. Santini,” the driver said, pulling up to the curb at their terminal. “I’ll get your bags.”
Inside was the usual airport chaos. Lorenzo headed right for the scanners that seemed right out of a cautionary sci-fi movie. “You’ll have to go through regular security, so I’ll meet you at our gate. Please apply for the facial recognition scan for the next time we have to travel.”
“Okay,” she said, watching as he walked away.
The security line would take a while, so Winnie used the time to text Robbie.
Guess where I am? Logan, that’s where. Going to SF with Dr. Satan for a medical conference.
Wow, Winfrey. You sound wicked important.
I am. You should know that by now.
Bring me a souvenir.
I will.
I want a sea lion.
Done. Tell Rosie I said hi. Oh, and tell Mom and Dad where I am. And Grandpop.
Let’s wait to see how long it takes for them to notice you’re gone. Like that time at the rest stop, remember?
She did remember. Not her parents’ finest moment.
Winnie had been eight or nine, and they’d been going to see Mom’s parents in New Hampshire.
When they stopped for a bathroom and snack break, Winnie had been the last one out of the bathroom.
She went into the food court. No Smiths that she could see.
She went outside. No Mom, no Dad, no siblings.
The car was not where she remembered it.
Long story short, they’d left without her.
So Winnie sat down on the curb and waited.
People walked past her, giving her odd looks.
One woman bent down and asked if she was okay.
She didn’t answer, unsure if she was, unsure what to do.
She decided she would wait half an hour (she’d gotten a watch for her birthday), and then call the police if her parents hadn’t found her by then.
The woman stayed, standing a few feet away.
Twenty minutes later, they were back: Mom full of apologies, Dad panicky, Robbie clutching himself with laughter, Lark sobbing, Addie irritated, Harlow comforting.
As she got in the car, Winnie looked at the woman who’d stood there and gave her a small wave.
She realized the woman had been standing guard, making sure she wasn’t kidnapped. Winnie appreciated that.
The story became family legend—how the other four had been noisy enough and distracting enough that her parents hadn’t noticed they’d left her behind.
She sent Robbie a middle finger emoji and finally got to the security check and went through.
She stopped at Dunkin’, got her coffee (extra cream) and headed for their gate.
Plenty of time. The suitcase was more like a dance partner than something she had to drag, it was so smooth and easy to maneuver.
She wove in and out of the crowd, her excitement rising with every step.
She’d looked up the hotel last night—The Mark Hopkins.
Her room was on the same floor as Lorenzo’s suite and contained a king-size bed, huge tub for the bath she would definitely take, and a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Wicked, wicked cool.
The new clothes were really nice, too. Ridiculously expensive, but she understood that she was supposed to convey a certain élan as his assistant.
She’d played it cool in the shop yesterday, but her inner Julia-Roberts-from-Pretty-Woman was squealing (and she didn’t even have to become a prostitute!) The clothes were the type she’d have chosen herself if she won Mega Millions—well made, great materials, classic but with a little bit of an edge—the black dress had an asymmetrical neckline, cutting down on the left side to expose her collarbone.
The gray sweater had mother-of-pearl buttons up the back, and the white suit jacket had cool pleats in the back.
The mix-and-match of black and white would give her a lot of options.
She would keep her hair in its sleek ponytail, maybe a tidy bun.
She’d also bought some lipstick at CVS, though she rarely wore makeup, but what the hell, right?
Maybe she’d pick up some different earrings or a bracelet when she was out and about, if she got to leave the hotel, that was.
She didn’t know how medical conferences went.
There was her gate. She pulled the borrowed suitcase close and looked for Lorenzo.
He didn’t seem to be there yet. Maybe he’d gone to a lounge to wait for boarding, though it started in ten minutes.
He was not the type to be late, though, so she wasn’t worried.
She wondered if he had dinner plans with his fellow surgeons, and if so, what she would do for the evening.
She’d text Harlow, who’d been to San Francisco a few times.
Rosie, too, would know some good places.
Then she heard a familiar voice.
“Boarding group seven? Ugh. Why is it always seven, right? I should’ve paid for the upgrade. Once we’re on, though, I’m sure we can find a way to make the time pass faster.”
She could hear the smile in his voice. She turned, and there, about ten feet away, stood Chef Mitchell-Tanner Prescott-Johnson—talking to a beautiful woman in her twenties. She was beaming at him.
Another girlfriend? Already?
Then he saw her, did a double take, then turned back to the woman.
Ignoring her. Like she didn’t even exist.
“Mitchell?” she said loudly. “Mitchell Prescott, is that you?” She closed the distance between them. “Or are you going by Tanner Johnson today? Or do you have a new name now? Anyway, how’s your wife? And the kids? Everyone’s good, I hope?”