Chapter 20
TWENTY
LORENZO
Thankfully, the millennial at the dock was the only one who appeared to have been filming Elliott’s rescue, because no one said anything to Lorenzo about his adventure in the river.
He texted Dante to ask if he’d heard about a child rescue on the Charles, and Dante had said yes, a little kid had gone adrift, but a good Samaritan had saved him.
Why?
his brother asked.
Did you treat anyone at the hospital? I heard there were no injuries.
One of my coworkers witnessed it.
I was just curious.
Winnie had checked in after her grandfather’s birthday party. Asked if he needed anything from her. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything, professionally speaking. Plus, his calendar was booked solid with surgeries and grand rounds.
What to do about Winnie. The thought was keeping him up at night, literally, and he hated that.
If he wanted to date her, he should fire her, which didn’t seem very fair.
Then, if he did fire her, was it ethical of him to say, “By the way, any interest in dating me?” Probably not.
And even if it was, what if she said, “Didn’t we cover this already?
That was a mistake, Lorenzo. Thanks, anyway.
” She may well have started dating someone on the Cape.
So if he kept her as his assistant, he’d get to see her. At least there was that.
He finally found a gap in his schedule to go to Chatham for the weekend. Surely he could find a reason to get Winnie to come to his place, though she was far too efficient these days. Could he ask her to paint a few rooms? That would take some time, wouldn’t it? Or would she just hire that out?
“You’re coming down?” his mother exclaimed when he called her. “Wonderful. Come on Thursday. Family dinner here, Friday at six. Bring wine.” Then she’d ended the call before he could object.
He loved his family. But God, he was tired.
He texted to ask her to move it to Sunday so at least he could have a couple of days of down time…
well, time to work on that suture he wanted to finish.
But she ignored his messages, as did mothers everywhere when they didn’t want their children to dodge their plans.
When he drove home on Thursday, it was a physical relief to walk into his house.
He loved his Boston apartment, but this…
this was home. Winnie had been there—the thermostats were set at the exact temperature he liked.
A few vases of white roses and eucalyptus leaves cheered the place up.
In the kitchen, on a cake platter covered by a glass dome, were a dozen chocolate chip cookies with a note: Live a little, Satan.
He was running out of things for Winnie to do.
The dinner cruise was all set, and it seemed that people were looking forward to it.
The holidays were around the corner—his least favorite time of year, with all the tacky décor in the hospital, the constant bleating of Christmas carols sung by pop stars of varying talent, the pressure to have fun and accept invitations.
He could probably foist off some gift-buying and check-writing duties on her—he had to give gifts to his surgical team, the med/surg nurses, his family.
Come January, though, he wondered if she’d want to move on.
She was the type to want a purpose, a project.
But for now, she was still his personal assistant.
Hm. Maybe she could assist him tomorrow night at his family dinner. In a rare move, he called her number, rather than send a text.
“Hello?” she said.
“I need some help at an event tomorrow night. A dinner.”
“Hello to you, too, and where is this dinner? Boston or Chatham?” she asked.
“Chatham. Can you be here by five?”
“I can, Dr. Santini, in that I have the ability to drive there by the appointed hour. Shall I make that commitment?”
He felt himself smile. “Are you making fun of my grammar?”
“I am.”
He was a little surprised by the burst of warmth in his chest. “Yes, please make that commitment, Ms. Smith.” He hesitated, not quite wanting to hang up. “The cookies were unnecessary. I’ll probably throw them out.”
“How dare you? Have you had one? To taste one is to know God.”
“I’m an atheist.” That warmth increased pleasantly.
“I don’t believe that for one second. Is there a dress code for dinner?”
“Yes. Look nice.”
“I always look nice. You, on the other hand, have resting bitch face. Have a great night.” She ended the call.
Yes. He was definitely smiling. He looked at the cookies again.
There was absolutely nothing that was good for a human in those ingredients.
He took the lid off, picked one up and inhaled the scent of chocolate and butter and some kind of nut.
Peanut butter, maybe? That would explain the lighter-colored chips.
One bite wouldn’t kill him. He closed his eyes as the flavors flooded his mouth. Maybe he didn’t know God, but damn. That was a good cookie. Gone before he knew it.
Another one wouldn’t kill him.
* * *
The next evening, Winnie arrived at the requested time, an hour before his mother had ordered him to come. “Hi! How are you?” For a second, he thought they might hug. They’d saved a child’s life together, after all. They’d hugged that night.
But the moment passed. Her hair was in its usual smooth ponytail, and for a second, he remembered how it had felt to tug her hair free and slide his hands through it.
How it fell like water down her back, how it smelled like flowers and rosemary, how it had felt brushing against his face when she’d rolled on top of him—
“What?” he asked.
“How are you, Lorenzo?” she repeated patiently, tilting her head.
“Fine.” She wore a sack-like brown knit dress with darker brown boots. A sloppily tangled necklace of pearls and gold strands looked like a child had made it. She wore pearl earrings and a gold ring on her index finger. When had she started dressing with such…flair? “You look…”
“Great?” she suggested. “Lovely? Warm?”
“I didn’t buy that for you,” he said.
“You want to hear something crazy? I owned clothes before I met you. I also shop for myself occasionally.”
“I know that. Obviously. You just look…different.” He should stop talking now.
“I look perfectly presentable. Even lovely.” Her voice was a command. “Is this not appropriate for the dinner?”
“It’s fine. I just assumed you’d wear one of the outfits I bought for you.”
“If you want something to dress up, buy a Barbie doll.”
“I just asked you to look nice.” Super. That did not come out the way he intended.
“I do look nice, Lorenzo,” she growled. “You have one second to switch your tone and drop the topic, or I’m going to leave, or kick you.”
“You look nice,” he said. “Don’t go. Sorry.”
“Apology accepted. What is this dinner, anyway?” she said, fishing her iPad from her bag. “Do you want me to take notes? I gather it’s a doctor thing?”
“It’s a family thing.”
She looked up. “Oh.”
Right behind her were four of the remaining cookies. He wished he’d thrown them out so she couldn’t see he’d eaten eight.
“Um…why do you want me at a family dinner?” she asked.
“Because I hate them. Family dinners, not the humans involved.”
“You don’t hate family dinners.”
“Actually, I do, Winnie, and who would know better? You or me?”
“I would,” she said. “Lorenzo. I know you feel like you don’t fit in. But you do. Or you could. You’re a truly good person. You should tell them about rescuing that little boy."
“Absolutely not.”
“Why? They deserve to know that version of you. You’re the one uncomfortable with it. It’s easier for you to be distant than to be…vulnerable.”
He remembered when, two summers ago, he’d seen Dante’s smashed-up truck during a pileup on Route 6, the panic that had shot through him at the thought of his little brother, hurt. His brother had been fine, but for those few seconds…
“I’m fairly sure I didn’t hire you for a personality analysis,” he said to cover the fact that she was absolutely right.
“Yet you get it for free. Maybe I should ask for a raise,” she said, and there was a flash of her smile, that mysterious dimple.
He sighed. “You’re not completely wrong. I do feel uncomfortable with them, and I wanted you to come tonight so you can be a buffer. You can talk to me so I don’t have to engage.”
“No, thank you.”
“You work for me, Winnie.”
“Yes, but I’m not a wind-up toy who does everything you command. This is your family. I’m your personal assistant, not your bodyguard. What’s the worst that could happen? Your sisters will hug you? You might have to hold a baby?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I just…” He stopped because he didn’t know how to explain. He hated that, not knowing.
“Just what, Lorenzo?” she asked, and her voice was a little gentler. She sat at the counter and gestured for him to do the same. He did.
“I…don’t disagree with your assessment. I’m uncomfortable with them. I’m not—” he made air quotes— “one of them.”
“Because you grew up with your grandmother, not them.”
“Yes. And because I’m far more intelligent—”
“No, no. Shut that right down. You’re not.
You’re just differently intelligent, okay?
When we talk about emotional intelligence, you’re a three, and they’re all tens.
” She looked at him another long minute, and he shifted.
“Why don’t you tell them how you feel? At least get a little closure on that front. ”
“Closure is a myth,” he said. After a beat, he added, “How would I do that?”
“Most of us use words, Satan. You could just say you wish you could be closer. That you don’t know how to get past feeling like that lonely little boy who was sent off to school.
You could tell them that you missed them.
That you wished you had more chances to connect with them.
That you’ve been overcompensating by throwing money around and staying one step removed because you’re scared they’ll—”