“Yes, Sorrentino. That’s right. My family runs Sorrentino’s Restaurant in Reno.” A pause. “I agree. My father does make the best stuffed shells. Then again, you guys provide the milk for the homemade ricotta. Papa always says that the best chef in the world can’t make a five-star meal with poor ingredients.” She speaks with a trill.
Laughter echoes through the phone.
“Oh, well, I guess I could.” She switches to what must be Italian. Rapid, flowing Italian that sounds like music.
Leaning in, I just stare, having no idea what is going on. Winnie laughs as she nudges me out of the way, sits down in my office chair, pulls up the wholesale supplier spreadsheet on my computer, and starts what sounds like negotiating.
In Italian.
The knot in my gut slowly unravels and I drop into the chair opposite my desk.
Five minutes later, she hands me the phone with a triumphant smile.
“What just happened?”
“You now have a twenty percent discount, better payment terms, and they’re throwing in free delivery for the first three months.”
“How?”
“Sorrentino family connections. We’ve used them for years. The woman on the phone is a tough cookie, but the owner is from northern Italy—he and my father once got together and made fresh mozzarella, burrata, and other soft cheeses. They made a weekend of it. Small town. Small world. She put him on the phone and we caught up.” She shrugs.
“Why would you do this?”
Her hand flies to her hip as if I’m about to argue with her about helping me. To be fair, I was. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Reluctantly holding my hands up in surrender because I’m thankful even though my pride suffered a first-degree burn, I say, “I’m impressed.”
“My mom always said you catch more flies with honey.”
“Italian honey?”
“Everyone speaks Italian when it comes to good food.” She’s looking at my screen now. “Let me see your whole supplier list. I probably know half these people.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Too late. I’m already invested.” She scrolls. “Don’t go with these guys for linens. With the amount you’ll use, just buy a new washer and dryer for the old fire house. Also, Hamler’s products are reliably fresher than Millen’s from Carson City. Trust me. And—wait, you’re paying retail for an espresso machine?”
“Is that bad?”
She looks at me like I’ve personally offended her ancestors. “Patton. Sweet, naïve Patton. You can’t pay retail, well, except for the washer and dryer. That’s fair.”
“I’ve never been called sweet or naïve before.”
“First time for everything. Give me twenty minutes.”
She makes calls. She charms people in English and Italian. She name-drops her family, mentions the restaurant, and laughs at jokes I can’t hear.
She’s not the bubbly activities coordinator I dismissed. She’s a competent businesswoman who knows her way around salespeople and negotiations.
I grow increasingly impressed and increasingly aware that I was very, very wrong about her.
An hour later, I review the spreadsheet and ask, “You just saved me three grand.”
“Plus, five hundred a month if you continue past the initial agreement periods.”
I swipe my hand across my forehead. “I still don’t understand why you went through the trouble?—”
She lifts one shoulder and lowers it. “Because you need help and I like the vision you have for the bakery. This town will benefit from it.”
