There it was. She should’ve dug deeper back then, because she would have googled Tanner Johnson, Cape Cod, chef, and found out exactly who he was, and she would’ve blocked his number and not given him another thought.
The liar. The lying liar of Lie-Land had made her, the straightforward and unremarkable, unemotional and logical Smith child, a messy queen homewrecker baddie.
The remembered quiet of her single life—the time before Mitchell-Tanner—flooded back hard. For six months, her world had been filled with buzzes on her phone from his texts, his warm voice when he called her (so old-school). She hated that she missed the anticipation of having somewhere to go, someone to wait for. That weird, new happiness brought on by stopping by Nuage Bleu an hour before closing, sitting at the bar and catching glimpses of him, waiting for him to finish the night and take her back to his place.
She missed a man who didn’t exist in real life. She missed the woman she’d been in that fiction.
“Knock it off, Windsor,” she said to herself, her voice flat and stern. “Live and learn.”
She unpacked her clothes—just shorts, shirts, jeans and a sweater, plus two bathing suits, because she wasn’t going to let that beach go to waste. Then she got out her list, found the credit card Lorenzo had left for her in the kitchen, and drove into town to buy groceries.
FIVE
LORENZO
Winnie Smith’s very plain electric car was in the driveway when Lorenzo pulled his Lamborghini next to it Thursday evening. He’d have to ask her to park in the garage, because a gray hatchback with a few dings and four shark-positive bumper stickers did not fit his home’s aesthetic. He could’ve alerted her that he was coming home a day early and sent her home, but he wanted to surprise her in case she was sprawled on his couch, eating potato chips and scrolling through her phone. He could send her home after he assessed her work.
She didn’t seem to be there, however.
“Ms. Smith?” he called. No answer. He supposed he should call her by her first name, ridiculous though it was. Who named their child after a fictional bear?
He opened the door. The house smelled…different. Pleasant. Lemony, perhaps, with a hint of yeast. It was immaculate. Well, it was always immaculate, but Lorenzo appreciated the fresh cleanliness. Often, the air felt stale, since the house could go unoccupied for two or three weeks. But today, the windows were open to let in the salty, fresh September air. Also, she’d opened each window six inches exactly, he judged (and he was a surgeon, so he could guess distance to within a half millimeter). The symmetry was pleasing.
The maple end tables, bookcase, and coffee table gleamed in the golden light of the late afternoon. There was a vase of red dahlias on the dining room table (on a coaster, he was glad to note, because that table was an original Mies Van Der Rohe, and if she left a water stain, he’d have to fire her). Another vase sat in the middle of the kitchen island, the blood-red color pleasing against the black and white of the kitchen. On the counter was a glass bowl of lemons and, on the other side of the sink, a narrow wooden tray with four orangey-red tomatoes in a line, stems down, and a round loaf of bread under a cake dome.
It looked almost like someone lived here. Hm.
He opened the fridge and saw that it was stocked with the items he’d requested. The asparagus was sitting in a wide-mouthed mason jar, the ends in water, as appropriate. Same with a healthy bunch of parsley. Bottles of mineral water were lined up precisely. A dozen brown eggs sat piled gently in a green ceramic bowl, more pleasing than seeing them in an egg carton. A glass bottle held what appeared to be skim milk. There was chicken, carrots, kale, radishes, plain yogurt, everything neatly arranged. Though he hadn’t asked for it, there was also a glass pitcher of water with cucumber slices. He’d never had cucumbers in water. It might be refreshing. In the cheese drawer, there was a selection of cheeses, though he didn’t often eat cheese.
The pantry was also stocked with his requested items. In addition, there was a bottle of Brennevin, the Icelandic liquor he enjoyed, though he didn’t drink often. He frowned. He hadn’t put that on the list, and it was not an obvious choice of alcohol. There were also three bars of Tony’s Chocolonely 70% dark chocolate, the wrappers tawdry and bright.
“Hello,” came her voice.
Lorenzo turned. Winnie Smith stood in his kitchen, her straight hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Though she stood a good five feet away, he caught a hint of her soap—clean, sharp, and simple. It triggered a memory of his childhood. Ivory soap, that was it. Noni had kept bricks of it in the linen closet to discourage moths. When he’d first come to live with his grandmother, he’d hidden in that closet so she wouldn’t see him cry. Not a pleasant memory, so he dismissed it and continued to look at his new assistant. Her face was devoid of makeup, and she wore a white shirt and jeans that stopped above her ankles. On her feet were sandals.
“Please don’t wear shoes in the house,” he said.
She bent down and slid off her shoes, then straightened, holding them in her hands. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes. A surgery was canceled.” Irritating, really…the patient had come down with a fever, and the surgery was a McKeown esophagogastrostomy, which Lorenzo always enjoyed, since he got to open the neck, chest and abdomen in one procedure. Plus, complications were common—a leak at the anastomosis or pulmonary issues. Lorenzo had yet to have a patient suffer any, which was always a point of pride.
“You have a long weekend, then,” Winnie said. “Would you like me to go?”
“Don’t you work for me now?” he asked. Surely there were things to be reported. He wasn’t used to having a personal assistant. It seemed that she should, oh, have something to do here.
“Yes. But if you want to be alone, I can go?—”
“How do you know I drink Brennevin?” he asked.
“—back to Wellfleet and work from home.” She scowled as she talked through his interruption. “In answer to your question, I asked your brother what kind of things you liked, and he said Brennevin, so I got some. You had nothing fun to eat or drink on your list, so I thought I’d add a few things.”
“Chocolate?”
“Dark chocolate. It’s good for you.”
The sun on her hair made it look reddish-gold, and her skin was lightly tanned, her cheeks looked freshly pink. He should warn her about sunscreen. Then again, she should already know. The whole world knew. “Dark chocolate is not good for you,” he said.
“It lowers your blood pressure and helps with brain function.” She folded her arms across her chest.
