Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
LORENZO
Thank God he was back in Boston, where he was more than happy to immerse himself in people’s cavities, so to speak.
The last day of the conference had been uneventful.
Nevertheless, a low current of electricity hummed in his bone marrow, uncomfortable and energizing at the same time.
He avoided Winnie until the car service picked them up to bring them to the airport.
On the flight, they both were very immersed in their laptops and had taken great care not to have an arm brush an arm.
“Do you need me here in Boston?” she’d asked as they got back to his apartment.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “But if you’d prefer to stay here and drive down to the Cape tomorrow…”
“I think I’ll head back. I miss my family.”
“Yes. Okay. I’ll be in touch.” He started to say something else…sorry, or thanks, or something. “Drive safely,” was the best he could do.
“Talk soon.” He watched as she walked to her car, put the suitcase in the back (he should’ve done that for her), then drove off. She waved. He waved back.
Do not sleep with your assistant. For the love of God, how had he made such a mistake?
Spontaneity was not something he ever indulged in.
Honestly, he wasn’t sure how it had happened.
They’d been standing in the elevator, and then without knowing he’d made the decision to move, he had her against the wall, his mouth on hers.
She could’ve kneed him in the groin, slapped his face, filed a lawsuit, or simply pushed him away and said, “No way, Lorenzo.”
Instead, she’d kissed him back.
God, what a mistake. He remembered Lark saying he shouldn’t hire someone he couldn’t fire. Now he’d slept with her. She’d be stupid if she didn’t sue him.
Her hair had slid through his fingers like water, and her skin smelled like honey. She was strong and soft and (God forgive him) limber, and he—
“Stop thinking about it, idiot,” he said out loud. Unfortunately, he was in the hospital elevator, and a resident thought he was speaking to her.
“Sorry, Dr. Santini,” she’d whispered. Later, he’d heard her say to a nurse, “It was like he knew I wanted to drop out.” So now he was psychic as well as terrifying.
In the hospital, he was in a familiar, comfortable zone, the OR running like a Ferrari under his command. He resumed his exacting demands on his residents, though it didn’t feel as automatic as usual. Almost like he had to work at putting the fear of God into them. Or fear of him, rather.
But it was necessary. Things went wrong when you were up to your elbows in someone’s abdomen.
Keeping calm as blood spurted and dripped and the smell of a ruptured bowel cut through your mask and the words of the surgical nurse and anesthesiologist were coming fast and furious and you had to absorb everything and make a decision in nano-seconds… that was what he taught.
Once his residents got past a certain stage, Lorenzo did lean into the mentoring aspect of teaching.
But first, one had to fare pulizia, as his grandmother would have said.
Clean out. Chi è forte resiste, chi è debole cade.
The strong survive, the weak fall. Take Inez Cabrera, whom he’d be appointing chief resident soon.
He’d called her out on an incorrect answer two years before.
“The patient is alert and oriented, intermittent generalized pain, constipation for three days, stable vital signs. Her CT shows a closed-loop bowel obstruction. What course of action would you take, Dr. Cabrera?”
Her answer had been observation, no food, IV hydration.
Wrong.
“Did you miss the words closed-loop, Dr. Cabrera? Her symptoms are likely to intensify rapidly. Would you like to observe her blood pressure crash and fever spike? Shall we observe her bowel dying, Dr. Cabrera? Shall we observe the patient herself die, Dr. Cabrera?”
“No, Dr. Santini, and thank you for correcting me. I won’t get it wrong again.”
She had returned his gaze calmly. No crying, blushing or stammering, no making excuses or cursing him under her breath.
“Prep for surgery, Dr. Cabrera. You’ll be assisting me.” In the OR, she had asked intelligent questions, stood out of the way when appropriate, and adjusted her technique as instructed. And look at her now.
The Dr. Satan approach worked. Forged in the fires of hell, one of his residents had said. Damn right.
Outside of the hospital, he tried (and failed) to avoid thoughts of Winnie.
He was unutterably grateful she agreed that it had been a mistake.
A mistake that had felt really, really good.
That honeyed skin under his mouth, the warm, soft weight of her breast in his hand, the soft, sweet noise she made when he—
Mistake! It had been a mistake. Period. Luckily, it had happened with the world’s most pragmatic woman.
* * *
Nine days after they’d returned from San Francisco, Lorenzo texted Winnie to say he’d be coming to Chatham for the weekend and asked if they could have a meeting when he arrived.
If you’re firing me, just say so now.
I’m not firing you. Why would you think that?
You haven’t communicated with me since we landed.
Because I didn’t need anything other than what you’ve been doing.
He hesitated, then added,
Are you quitting?
No.
Oh, thank God.
Good. I’ll be there around 7, depending on traffic.
See you tomorrow, then. The fridge will be stocked per usual. Text me anything else you might need before then.
A second later, she texted him a picture of his open refrigerator, another of his freezer.
It had all the items he usually wanted. He knew also there would be clean linens and towels and the house would be immaculate.
Flowers in vases here and there, sometimes in an unexpected place, like his bedside table or on the bathroom vanity.
It was a little hard to remember how he’d operated before Winnie worked for him.
He thought of her smile, how she laughed at something he’d said over that dinner in the little Italian restaurant, even of the lasagna that had been so damn good.
He thought of the devil emoji he’d sent.
The first time he’d ever sent an emoji, come to think of it.
Her silky hair, sliding from her ponytail like a whisper.
Good thing he had a liver transplant in half an hour, so his mind went to easier subjects.
* * *
When he pulled into his driveway at 7:14 the following night, it was already dark.
He could hear the gentle rush of the waves and inhaled the salty air.
The house glowed with light, and an assortment of pumpkins and gourds was artfully arranged on the granite entryway, spilling down the two steps.
A wreath made of dried flowers, vines, eucalyptus branches, and seed pods hung on the door.
Very tasteful, he thought, though he didn’t usually acknowledge the holidays, other than having a Christmas tree (Douglas fir, white lights only, no decorations).
He paused, considered knocking, reminded himself that it was his house, and went inside.
There was a cluster of white candles on the coffee table (in hurricane vases, he was glad to see).
The dining room table held three small flower arrangements in a row, brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow.
A larger arrangement of the same flowers sat on the marble counter.
The bowl that usually held lemons now held red and gold apples.
He opened the freezer. There was a martini glass, chilling. He was tempted to smile.
“Hi.”
He turned, and there she was, wearing jeans and a green sweater, hair in her usual ponytail falling neatly down her back.
“Hello. Would you like a drink?”
“I’m actually planning to go home tonight, so no, thank you.”
He poured himself some Brennevin, then gestured to the living room. “Please have a seat.”
She did. So did he.
He had missed her, he realized.
“The flower arrangements are very seasonal,” he said, feeling an unusual sense of awkwardness. “Which florist did you use?”
“Oh, I do them myself. Trader Joe’s sells flowers.”
“I see.” He took a sip of his drink. “Winnie. I would really like to keep you as my assistant.”
Something in her face relaxed. “Good. I like the work.”
“And about the…San Francisco…”
“About the fact that we slept together,” she prompted.
“Yes. That. I apologize. It was inappropriate.”
“It’s okay. It was consensual. And it’s done, so…”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to sign something? A statement or waiver or whatever?”
“Do you think you should?”
She tilted her head. “You mean, will I sue you for sexual harassment or something like that? No. I won’t. But if it would make you more comfortable, I’ll sign whatever it is. I basically want to put it behind us.”
That was…well, he wasn’t quite sure how to take that sentiment. “Good. Fine. I’ll take your word for it. No papers needed.”
“Great.”
“The house looks very nice, by the way.” Homey. Welcoming. It hadn’t felt that way, before he had her. It had been dark and cold, and it took several hours to warm up if the furnace had been turned down.
“Glad you like it.”
“The gourds are unusual.”
“There are ten of them. One for each member of your family.”
He mentally counted. His parents, himself, siblings, siblings-in-law, niece, nephew. She was correct. “That was very thoughtful.”
She smiled. “Do you need my services this weekend?”
“I don’t.” He didn’t think he did. She would know better than he would at this point, he’d turned so much over to him.
“Great. I printed out letters from patients and their families, by the way. They’re on your desk in the study.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, one more thing,” she said. “You know your neighbor, Joyce? In Boston?”
Lorenzo was unaware of a person named Joyce in his building.
“She lives in 3B? Anyway, she and I met when I first started working for you. She asked if I might have some time to help her organize her place. Would that be all right with you?”