Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
LORENZO
He’d asked Winnie to come to Boston to arrange a party for the surgical residents and other staff he worked with.
He was chief of special surgeries, after all, and other department heads did this kind of thing around the holidays.
Why, he wasn’t sure. The staff would all surely rather have a raise, or extra time off, than dinner with their work colleagues.
He’d requested pay increases in the budget, but those things were decided later.
Verline, the best charge nurse on Surgical, had strongly suggested the party, so a party would be thrown.
And who better to arrange it than Winnie?
Also, it was a good excuse to see her. He hadn’t been down to the Cape since her brother’s bachelor party, and he’d been jammed with surgeries. This party gave him a great reason to get her here.
She emailed a list of questions—how many people would be invited, what kind of venue he wanted, what kind of food, all that—and he told her to make it nice enough so people would be glad they came. Honestly, he had no idea what would constitute a good party, but Winnie would.
I have surgery until about four. Let’s meet at the apartment after that.
Sounds good.
Maybe they could get dinner together. Maybe it would be dark and late enough that she’d want to spend the night in Boston.
Not in his bed, but just…well, in his bed would’ve been fine, if the situation had been different.
But it wasn’t, and he should get over it.
Sex was one thing. A relationship was another.
He didn’t know how to do relationships. He’d tried twice, and both times the women had broken up with him in under a month.
He hadn’t felt it was worth pursuing, because each woman, while intelligent and attractive, hadn’t affected him enough to think more on it.
But the thought of a night talking to Winnie was different.
Calming. Relaxing. Energizing, too. Her smile.
Her sass. Her complete lack of fawning. Her ability to take him at his word, not try to read into things or dissect his thoughts.
The way she seemed to like him just as he was.
Her fascinating eye color. The slight dimple that occasionally appeared when she smiled.
On the appointed day, he texted her when he left the hospital ninety-seven minutes later than he’d hoped.
Meet me at the Hatch. Dropping you a pin now.
He left the hospital, pulling his wool coat over his scrubs.
Usually, he showered and dressed in his street clothes, not wanting to be one of the masses who wore scrubs outside the hospital, but the surgery had run long, and he didn’t want to waste time.
It was already growing dark as he headed to the iconic shell, home of the Boston Pops July 4th concert, among others.
There she was, dressed in a parka and winter hat. She waved, and he felt his whole being lighten.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, Satan,” she said. “How was your day?”
Was it weird that he really liked her calling him Satan? “Good. How was yours?”
“Excellent. Let’s walk and talk, since it’s so nice out.”
It was cold and getting darker, but he wasn’t about to argue.
“So there’s good news and bad news,” she said. “Since you’ve left this to the very last minute, we’re kind of limited in venues. Most places are booked, so next year we should start planning this in about August.”
It was nice to think they’d be doing something together next year.
“But for this year, we can either do something at your place—”
“No,” he said.
“—but I figured you’d hate that, so I looked into Sunday brunch—”
“Who would want to take time out of their weekend for a work event, even one with food?”
“—but I assumed no one would want to take time out of their weekend for a work event, and please stop interrupting, Lorenzo.”
“Sorry.” He almost smiled, though he wasn’t sure why.
She narrowed her eyes at him, though she didn’t seem irritated. “Which left me with the idea of a dinner cruise on the Charles.” She headed into Fiedler Field, veering past the playground toward the dock.
“A dinner cruise sounds a little…cheesy.”
“It does,” she said. “But I’m about to blow your mind, so be patient.” She went out on the dock. “For one, a dinner cruise has a two-hour time limit on it. Everyone has to disembark at the end, so there would be no lingering.”
“I like that aspect,” he said. The wind gusted off the river. “Won’t it be too cold, though?”
“For two, it’ll probably be wicked cold, which will keep people inside the boat. Huge windows, nice and toasty, and no one gets drunk and falls overboard.”
“Another plus,” he said.
“For three, look at that skyline. I mean, it’s not Manhattan, but it’s not ugly, either.” She indicated Boston, and he had to agree. It was no Manhattan. “The food on the ship is supposedly five-star, and there’s a really nice bar area. It won’t be horrible.”
“No,” he said, looking down at her. “I’m sure it won’t. Book it.”
“I already did.” She smiled at him, and he was fairly sure he was about to smile back. And maybe kiss her. Or fire her and then kiss her. Or give her a raise and then kiss her.
Thoughts of kissing were abruptly aborted, however.
“Mommy! Mommy, Mommy!”
Children. Maybe Winnie was right, and they did terrify him. This one’s screams certainly did.
“Elliott!” came a woman’s cry. “Oh, my God, Elliott, what are you doing? Sit down! How did you get—sit down, I said!”
“Well, shit,” Lorenzo said. Because his surgeon’s brain had already computed what was happening, and what would happen next, and it involved him and hypothermia, and even as he was shrugging out of his coat, he knew what had happened.
The child had been at the playground, no doubt, and had wandered out onto the wide Fiedler dock.
Some idiot had left a kayak tied there. The child, approximate four years old based on size and pitch of voice, had climbed in, and either the rope was insufficiently knotted, or the child had untied it, but that didn’t really matter, because the kayak was now about ten yards off the dock, and Lorenzo was already running so that when he dove in the river, he’d be as close to the boat as possible.
“Call 911,” he ordered, and he imagined Winnie was already doing just that.
There was the end of the dock, and then he was in the air, and then the achingly cold water swallowed him.
He heard the rush of water, surfaced, his head already in a vice of cold. He checked his distance to the child, heard the screams of the mother, and, though it might have been wishful thinking, caught the sound of Windsor Smith’s calm, authoritative voice.
He swam—memories of him and Obasi laughing and clinging to the edge of their two-person scull, a mandatory drill for Harvard’s rowing team. Then again, that had been in September, not late November. He was losing feeling in his legs.
His hand gripped the edge of the kayak. Elliott saw him and screamed. “Mommy! Help!”
“I’m helping,” Lorenzo said, even as his teeth started chattering. “Sit down, please. I don’t want you to fall in.”
But the kid looked terrified and leaned further away, causing the kayak to tip.
“Grab on to the nice man!” his mother screamed from the dock.
“He’s a nice, nice man! He’s not a stranger-danger man, Elliott!
Hold on to him, honey. I know you’re scared and your emotions are valid, but Mommy will be so proud if you hold on to him!
You can have extra dessert if you sit down and hold on to the nice man! ”
Parents today. So ineffective. Lorenzo heard a siren in the distance and idly wondered if his brother might be working today, or if Boston Fire did water rescues, or if that would be the Coast Guard.
Hypothermia tended to slow brain function.
“Sit down, Elliott,” he said. But Elliott did not, just leaned out further, defying physics.
Lorenzo pulled down on his side of the kayak to counterbalance it.
He tried to boost himself in, but the angle and the cold prevented that.
If the kid went into the river, Lorenzo was not sure he could save him.
So he lunged up as best he could, grabbed the kid’s ankle and held fast.
“He’s getting me!” Elliott screamed. “Help me, Mommy!”
“I’m actually helping you right now,” Lorenzo said. His whole body was shaking. The kid started kicking him. Really, the lack of gratitude. “Stop, Elliott,” he said, but his voice was hard even for him to understand, given the chattering teeth.
“Elliott. Sit down,” came a voice. A voice that took no shit. “Right now.”
Elliott sat, whimpering
“Good boy,” Lorenzo said. Otherwise, he had no plan. Freeze to death while waiting for help appeared to be the best he could do.
Something hit him on the head. “Sorry,” said Winnie. Somehow, she also had a kayak, but cleverly was in hers, not clinging to it. “Can you hang onto the rope? I’ll paddle us back to the dock.” She indicated the line tied to the stern, which had just bumped into his head.
“I’m afraid to let go,” he said. Elliot made another lunge, trying to get away from Lorenzo.
“Elliott, if you don’t stay right there, Santa Claus will not come to your house this year. You understand me?”
“Yes,” came the little voice. He settled back onto the seat.
Winnie maneuvered the kayak around Lorenzo, looped the rope under one of the bungee cords that crisscrossed the top, and tied it. Lorenzo saw flashing red lights—a fireboat approaching. His odds of not dying had just risen.
“Hey, there. How you doin’?” said a firefighter.
How were they doing? Not well.
“The kid is fine,” Winnie called. “This guy probably has hypothermia. Probably faster if I just paddle them back to the dock.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said the firefighter. “Love me a logical woman.”
Three minutes later, two of Boston’s bravest were hauling Lorenzo onto the dock.
An EMT wrapped him in a silver foil blanket, Elliott was sobbing in his sobbing mother’s arms, and Winnie was being asked out for a beer.
“You know what they say about firemen,” the guy was saying. “We know how to use a hose.”
“I know exactly what they say about firemen. You’re either husbands or whores. I’m guessing you’re the latter.”
“It’s like we met before,” the guy said, his voice admiring.
“You wanna give a statement?” another firefighter asked, the one who was actually doing something helpful. “Actually, do I know you? You look familiar.”
“We’ve never met,” Lorenzo said. “And no. I live close by. I’d like to go home.”
Winnie came over, helped him on with his coat, since he was shuddering too hard to do it alone. “My hero,” she said.
“Actually, you’re mine. Thank you for saving my life.”
“Guys, I recorded the whole thing,” said a kid about twenty. “Uploading it to TikTok right now!”
“You were recording?” Winnie asked, whipping around. “While he was freezing to death trying to save a kid? Did you think about helping, you little shit, or was going viral more important?” She grabbed his phone and threw it in the Charles. “Oops.”
Well, if Lorenzo hadn’t loved her already, he sure loved her now. He was too tired to argue with that fact.
A police officer, also on the scene, obligingly dropped them off at his apartment, and Lorenzo got in the shower, the hot water like needles at first. He stood there until feeling returned to his fingers and toes, then washed off whatever bacteria the Charles had gifted him.
He pulled on a cashmere jogging set he’d bought in Italy the year before and walked down the hall.
Winnie was in the kitchen, cooking something that smelled fantastic. He looked at her for a long minute. Maybe he could claim the need for skin-to-skin warming.
Then his phone buzzed. A text from Verline.
Dr. Santini, we have a mass casualty here, city bus vs. dump truck, rolled down an embankment. Cabrera, Hussein and Brooks are all here, but we need you, too.
No cozy night in, then.
On my way.
“Looks like I have to go,” he said. “Big accident.”
“Seriously? You should let someone else handle it, Lorenzo. You must be exhausted.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not God, Satan. Sorry to tell you, you’re a mere mortal.”
He smiled. “God-like, anyway, at least in the OR. I’m not sure how long I’ll be. I might sleep at the hospital.”
She paused. “Okay. I get it. They’ll be lucky to have you.”
“See you in the morning?” he asked, pulling on his coat once more.
“It’s my grandfather’s birthday tomorrow,” she said.
So no, in that case.
He went over to her, wrapped her in his arms, and kissed the top of her head. “Great work today. And I’m not talking about the dinner cruise.”
She hugged him back. Hard. For a second, he just held onto her, wishing he could stay exactly where he was. Then, reluctantly, he pulled back and headed back out into the cold New England night.