Chapter 11
ELEVEN
LORENZO
When Winnie had woken up from her nap on the flight, he’d gone over the conference program, noting which speakers he might want to hear and briefly explaining the topics. Damian Hughes was giving a talk on how to handle unexpected findings during an elective surgery. A little league topic.
“Like if you’re putting in breast implants and find a tumor?” Winnie asked.
“Yes. Like that. But that rarely happens because imaging is so accurate these days.”
“Maybe in some less-funded places, you’d be more likely to be surprised,” she suggested.
She had a point. But knowing Damian, the talk would be sophomoric—teratomas, no doubt, along with the accompanying pictures for effect. That was one way of keeping an audience’s attention. The other was to have a deep understanding of the topic.
“What else would be an unexpected finding? Like a tooth or hair in a tumor?”
The exact definition of teratoma. “Yes. There have also been times when parasites are discovered, or a sponge from a previous surgery. Abscesses, necrosis, chocolate cysts.”
“Gross,” she said, a hint of admiration in her voice.
“At any rate, I won’t be going to that one. It’s pure showmanship. Zero value to someone like me.”
“Mm-hm.” She looked back to normal now, thank God. “Which doctors do you want to meet up with?” she asked, looking back at her laptop screen.
* * *
Once they checked in at the hotel, he gave her the spare key card for his room if she needed to access it, then went up to his room. He’d stayed in this suite before, and it was elegant and comfortable. He texted Winnie:
Is your room satisfactory?
Very.
He appreciated her brevity and lack of emojis, something his sisters and mother seemed unable to live without.
Then, with a sigh, Lorenzo left his room.
The conference didn’t start until tomorrow, but he would go to the iconic Top of the Mark, look out the windows at the view, and let his colleagues approach and chat him up.
He hated that. Not the conversing, just the glad-handing and small talk. So unnecessary.
He texted Winnie again.
I will be socializing in the bar with colleagues. You have the rest of the day off.
He hit send, then, a second later, added:
Enjoy
* * *
When he came back to his suite later that evening, he was hungry—he hated eating at professional events—irritable, thirsty (must each glass of water be seventy-five percent ice?) and tired. It took a moment for him to notice his room looked different from earlier in the day.
Ah. A cut-glass bowl of oranges sat in the center of the round table in the living room area of the suite.
A bottle of Brennevin and two glasses were set out on the coffee table.
On another table was a basket that contained protein bars—Jacob, the kind he liked best. In addition to the orchids that had already been in the suite, there were two glass vases containing huge, fluffy dahlias in a very pleasing shade of pale peach.
Also, a printed itinerary of the next three days, complete with times, locations and speakers of the talks he’d indicated.
His own presentation would be at 1:30 tomorrow and was in boldface.
She had entered “potential downtime” in the gaps during the day.
He liked hard copy. Holding a sheaf of papers put people off more effectively than holding a phone.
There was also a note, printed in a slightly different font from the itinerary.
Dear Lorenzo,
I sent your blue and gray suits to be pressed, as well as your shirts.
They’ll be brought up to your room before 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.
There is mineral water in the fridge and a bottle of Brennevin if you decide to have a drink.
There are also some protein bars (all natural and organic) on the counter.
I put a pack of travel-size candles on your night table in case you like that sort of thing.
Supposed to help you destress and sleep (dubious, but worth a shot).
I am nearly done jazzing up the PowerPoint and will send that to you later tonight so you can review it.
I will be awake and ready at 7 a.m. in case you need anything. I hope you sleep well.
Winnie
P.S. The flowers are to thank you for being so kind at the airport. They also cheer the place up.
Well. That was…that was very thoughtful. Should he thank her? No. She was thanking him. Also, he remembered her saying flowers cheered up his house in Chatham. The little joke was not lost on him.
He wondered what she was doing. If she’d had dinner. If it would be appropriate for him to ask her to have dinner, since he’d given her the time off.
Lorenzo knew he was perceived as an arrogant prick (rightfully so, he could acknowledge).
Work was sacred to him, requiring complete and utter focus and only the best team members.
Sure, he tore residents new orifices on a regular basis.
Yes, he shredded nurses who weren’t attentive enough.
He had to. Because although he wasn’t warm and fuzzy, he had a 95.
7% success rate of not just patient survival but of a meaningful, functional recovery and acceptable quality of life.
This included the emergency and high-risk patients who were so often his patients.
So 95.7%…that was just a number he was deeply proud of.
He would not change anything. His grandmother had understood that being at such a high level meant sacrificing other parts of his life.
“I doni che Dio ci ha dato non si devono sprecare, Renzo,” she would say. The gifts from God must not be wasted.
Which, summed up, meant Lorenzo did not have much in the way of friends or a social life.
He ran six miles every day (had done so just after unpacking today), but running wasn’t a hobby.
It was a duty. He read, but only nonfiction medical works.
He had colleagues, a mentor or two, some surgical residents and a few post-op nurses whose intelligence and work ethic he respected.
His college roommate from Harvard, Obasi, kept in touch, but he did humanitarian work all over the world.
Every other year or so, Obasi would return to Massachusetts, drop him a text, and they’d have a very amiable afternoon together.
They’d both been pre-med and had become rowing partners in school, and when they got together, they’d rent a double scull and go out on the Charles if the weather was nice.
That was friendship, Lorenzo thought. When Obasi had gotten married, Lorenzo had gone to Nigeria for the wedding, even. Alone.
He also had Dante, of course. Henry, Sofia’s husband, was okay. A solid husband, which was what mattered.
His stomach growled. His watch said seven o’clock, though jet lag made it seem later.
He texted his assistant.
Have you had dinner?
Within seconds, her answer came.
I have not. Would you like to meet, or should I arrange something for you?
He hesitated, then asked,
Where are you?
Three dots told him she was answering. The dots disappeared. He hated when that happened. Phones could be so annoying, telling a person just enough to irritate. Then the dots reappeared. Good.
I’m in Pacific Heights and just walked past an Italian restaurant that smells like heaven. Sharing my location with you now. Do you need an Uber?
The location came through. He checked Google Maps.
I’ll walk. See you in 22 minutes.
The map said it would take him 33 minutes to walk, but Lorenzo was tall, fit and walked so fast that residents had to run to keep up with him. Also, he was eager to eat, especially with someone who did not irritate him.
Florio’s was warm, dimly lit and, as Winnie had said, smelled like heaven. Or at least, like his grandmother’s kitchen.
She was already there, sitting at the bar with a martini.
She must’ve gone shopping during her off-time because she was wearing jeans and a red sweater with a wide neckline.
She smiled when she saw him and moved her bag from the stool next to her.
“No Brennevin, alas,” she said. “I already checked.”
“That’s fine. By the way, thank you for all the…details. The oranges, et cetera. The itinerary. They are appreciated.”
“Those flowers are sick, aren’t they?”
“Did you buy those yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Bill me.”
“No, Lorenzo. They were a thank-you gesture. I can afford a dozen dahlias.”
“All right, then.”
“Hey, man,” said the young, tattooed bartender. “What can I get you tonight?”
“Just water,” he said. Then he added, to offset the stress of these conferences, “And whatever she’s having.”
“You got it. Miss, you ready for a refill?”
“All set,” she said. “One and done.”
“Smart lady.” The bartender smiled at her—smile-smiled, Lorenzo thought.
And why wouldn’t he? Winnie Smith was an attractive woman.
He glanced at her to assess her reaction.
She didn’t seem to be affected, even though (objectively speaking) the bartender was very good-looking in that hipster way. Earrings, beard, hair gel.
“How long are you in the city?” the bartender asked Winnie, barely looking at Lorenzo as he made his cocktail. A gin martini, from the look of it.
“Just a couple of days,” Winnie said.
“If you need any recommendations on what to see, say the word,” he said, and Lorenzo felt a flicker of annoyance.
“It’s a work trip, but thanks,” Winnie said.
Lorenzo accepted his drink from the far-too-handsome bartender. “Thank you,” he said, dismissing him. He turned to Winnie. “How was your sightseeing?”
“Great,” she said. “What a beautiful city! I love all the Victorian houses. And the gardens! There are calla lilies everywhere. Makes me want to move here.”
The bartender started to comment, and Lorenzo shifted to block him a little more. This was not dinner for three. It was for two. “Have you ever lived anywhere other than Cape Cod?” he asked. The bartender got the hint and drifted to the other end of the counter.