Winnie stands in the doorway, backlit by the late-day sun, holding a container that I’d bet money contains brownies.
“Hi,” she says, slightly breathless, like she walked fast. “Sorry to just show up. My grandmother insisted I bring you brownies. She said, and I quote, ‘I know Patton liked them better than Judy’s, and he’s working too hard.’”
I wipe my hands on my jeans, aware that I’m covered in sawdust and probably look like I’ve been rolling around in a lumber yard. “Or she wants my vote at the next Summer Street Fair baking contest.”
“That too.” Winnie steps inside, looking around. “Wow. This place has really transformed since yesterday.”
“Austin has been banned from all door-related tasks, so progress has accelerated.”
She laughs, and the sound echoes in the relatively empty space, warming it—and me—up.
I take the container she offers. “Thanks. Tell Joyce I appreciate it.”
“I will.”
Winnie doesn’t leave, though. Instead, she wanders toward my makeshift desk area, where vendor paperwork is spread out. After getting locked in the office, I moved operations down here for now. Also, it saves me from hoofing it up and down the stairs fifty times a day.
“Looks like you’re drowning in administrative work.”
“You’re not wrong.”
She picks up a form and scans it with sharp brown eyes. “Patton.” She turns to face me fully, and my attention snags on the beauty mark above her lip, the one I definitely don’t notice every time I see her.
“Let me help. It’s the least I can do after you fixed my grandmother’s light yesterday.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” I heft the container. “Plus, brownies.”
She rolls her eyes. “I want to help.”
I hedge, but if I know Winnie at all, it’s that she’s stubbornand won’t move now that she’s planted herself on the stool by my makeshift workspace.
“The office is quieter.” I point toward the second floor.
“I don’t hear any jackhammers and I’m happy to work down here in case I have questions.”
“Don’t want to take any chances with the door situation?”
But what about taking a chance on me, on us? My pulse stutters. I ought to send that thought back to wherever it came from. I give my head a hard shake.
Thankfully, she doesn’t know about the detour my brain just took as she reviews all the papers, quotes, invoices, and who knows what that’s been building up.
I should argue. I should tell her I don’t need help, that I can handle this alone like I do everything else.
However, the paperwork is endless, and she’s already calling a supplier. I realize I don’t want to argue. And not just to win the bet so I can avoid a year of holiday shifts. I want her here.
“Fine. But don’t blame me if you want to pull your hair out.” Her hair is so silky, so shiny. Or I’ve inhaled too much polyurethane. I return to applying the protective finish to the wood.
We work in comfortable silence for a while, broken only by her occasional phone calls and my sandpaper against wood.
She asks me a few questions about flour weights and when I shrug, clueless, she explains the different types used for baking and pasta.
I worry that I’m burdening her and as if reading my mind, she says, “I grew up in the kitchen of a restaurant. Vendor paperwork is basically my second language.”
“I thought that was Italian?”
“Sì. But I started working at the restaurant when I was around eight years old. Dad put me on a step stool to roll meatballs. I thought I was so important.”
I recall her sitting alone in her car and working late. Wonder if there is a man who sees how important she is. How special. If he appreciates her. However, this town has one big collective fat mouth, and I happen to officially know that Winnie is single. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have brought her a Valentine’s Day treat.
