Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
WINNIE
On the morning of December twelfth, Winnie woke up to a snowstorm, crashing waves, and a cold nose in her ear.
“You want to go out?” she asked Fluffina.
Fluffina did. She always did. After a romp on the beach, many sticks fetched, a brisk toweling off, brushing and breakfast, Winnie told Fluffina to be a good girl for Destiny, who would come over later to walk her.
“I love you,” she said, kissing the dog on the head.
“See you tonight.” Then she drove down to the Chatham Bars Inn to do her thing and marry off her brother.
Rosie declared the weather “magical.” She and the Smith family females were in a cottage getting hair and makeup done. Rosie was relaxed and happy, and literally glowing. “You go hang with the boys,” she told Winnie. “I’ll give you a shout if I need anything, but I think we’re all set.”
“I’m proud to have you as a sister,” Winnie said, giving her a hug. “Don’t tell the others, but you’re already my favorite.”
“I heard that,” Lark and Addie said in unison, and Harlow laughed.
Outside, the wind howled, and Winnie bent her head as she walked to the hotel proper.
Robbie and the other guys were in the presidential suite, all looking very handsome.
The ocean roared its wintry howl, and the wind bent the pine trees.
“Lucky weather,” Winnie said. “It’s so you, Robbie.
” And it was. Attention grabbing and romantic, just like Robbie.
“Winnie! You look beautiful! What a happy day!” Grandpop said, adjusting his bowtie. “You’ll be glad to know I’ve whittled my speech down to twenty-two minutes.”
“Hey, Aunt Winnie. Heard you got a dog. Is she here?” Matthew asked. Winnie swore he’d gotten taller since the summer.
“You’ll have to visit me tomorrow to meet her,” Winnie said. “You look wicked handsome, honey.” He was a groomsman, too. The men wore tuxedos, and Winnie wore a long black dress with a boat neckline and low back, scored with Destiny’s help from ThredUp.
“Austin, no shots,” Winnie said. Then her parents came in, and Mom started crying at the sight (and relief, no doubt) of her baby in a tux.
Winnie instructed the photographer to get the right pictures—Mom pinning on Robbie’s boutonniere; Dad, Grandpop, Robbie and Matthew, the four generations; her and Robbie together, just the two of them.
“In honor of us sharing a room for eight years and not killing each other,” she said.
“You clean up nice, Windmill,” Robbie said. “Some people might even say you’re pretty, but I’m not one of them.”
“Some people are saying you’re totally out of your league with Rosie,” Winnie said. “Which we all know is true.”
“Amen to that,” Robbie said. “Matthew, get in here, buddy. I want a picture of just the two of us. Damn, we look like twins.”
“Twins if Matthew had spent too many years drinking too many beers, smoking too much weed and not believing in sunscreen,” Winnie said. But yes. Their nephew looked so much like Robbie they could be brothers.
“You’re my cautionary tale,” Matthew said, grinning. “Fifty-factor for life.”
Winnie looked at her phone. “Time to get you married off before Rosie wakes up from her fever dream,” she said.
The inn sparkled with fairy lights, and dozens of white and velvety red wedding flower arrangements added luscious pops of color.
Rosie’s dress was all lace, making her look like a frost princess, and her attendants—Harlow as woman of honor, Lark and Addie and Lorelei, a more recent friend—wore crimson.
Esme, Imogen and Luna all wore white tulle dresses with crimson satin bows, and Mr. Wolfe cried as he walked his only child down the aisle.
Robbie wiped his eyes, hugged Victor and told Rosie she was beautiful, his voice breaking.
Like most weddings, it was happy and meaningful, Winnie thought.
Personally, she’d elope if the day ever came, then let her family know a month or so later.
But her eyes were wet as her brother read the surprisingly lovely and solemn vows he had written himself.
In the front row, her mom wiped her eyes, and Dad put his arm around her, while Esme and Imogen wrestled off to one side.
Rosie cried through her own vows, and as Grandpop handed them their rings, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Then Robbie was told to kiss his bride, which he did with great enthusiasm, and everyone cheered. Winnie took Grandpop’s arm and they followed the couple down the aisle toward the cocktail and mocktail hour.
“I hope to see you get married, too, someday,” Grandpop said, squeezing her a little closer.
“I like being a spinster,” she said. “It suits me.”
“Well, then. If you’re happy, your ancient grandfather is happy. And I’m excited to be your first official client! Perhaps we’ll finally find my phone.”
“Which one?” Somewhere in Grandpop’s rambling, charming house behind the bookstore lived at least five missing iPhones.
Winnie was once again starting her own business—Scarlet Woman Home and Office Organization.
After an evening spent with her sisters, mom and Rosie brainstorming names, she decided that Winnie Smith was just not punchy enough for a business name.
This one, they all agreed, would get people’s attention.
After helping Lorenzo, then his neighbor Joyce in Boston, Winnie felt like she’d finally found the career she was born to do.
She was already enrolled in an online class for professional organizers and had joined the national association.
Her parents had also lined her up for the new year, since they were selling the family home and downsizing.
Blakelee Johnson, mother of Nycholiss, Kaedeigh and elynne, had also hired her, about an hour after Winnie had posted her new business venture on the Wellfleet Facebook page.
Blakelee was getting a divorce, finally, and Winnie gave her a 25% discount.
She thought she’d make it a policy—if your partner’s infidelity was the cause of your need for professional organizing, you deserved a break.
At the reception, drinks were had, food was eaten, and the band welcomed everyone. Grandpop’s speech, which Winnie had punctuated with a slideshow of Robbie and Rosie as children, then as a couple, was a roaring success.
Now that the dancing was in full swing, Winnie watched in her role as both sister and event planner.
Honestly, the hotel staff was more than competent.
It was nice to just step back and observe, a faint smile on her face, a bigger one in her heart, sipping a glass of excellent wine, waving to a sibling or guest (God, Jeff Bridges looked good!).
The inn was stunning, the wild wind and weather making it feel as if they were in a particularly beautiful snow globe.
Most people were staying at the inn, so driving home was not a consideration.
“I heard you don’t have a date for this event,” said a voice just behind her.
The voice caused her to freeze for a second. She turned. “Satan. How are you?”