The bartender started to comment, and Lorenzo shifted to block him a little more. This was not dinner for three. It was for two. “Have you ever lived anywhere other than Cape Cod?” he asked. The bartender got the hint and drifted to the other end of the counter.
Winnie shook her head. “No. I’m not very well-traveled, unfortunately.”
“No semester abroad?”
“No. I only went to community college for a couple of semesters. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, so I stopped going. Seemed like a waste of money, honestly.”
“Most kids in college are absolutely wasting money. Or their parents’ money, at least.”
“Right? Harlow did undergrad and law school, and now she runs a bookstore. At least she had scholarships.” Her face flickered. “But it was still time well spent. I mean, she had my nephew in that time period. And met Rosie.”
“Mm.” Seven years of higher education to run a bookstore? It was a good thing she’d gone on scholarship, or her debt would be staggering. He sipped his drink. He rarely ordered a cocktail, but he supposed the practice wouldn’t hurt. Most doctors he knew drank at least once in a while, given the state of healthcare these days—being threatened and heckled by ignorant mobs during the pandemic who then came mewling back for medical advice when they got sick. Having insurance companies dictate which tests were necessary, which medications were needed, how long a patient should stay in the hospital. The high cost of medical school and medical malpractice insurance. There was reason to drink. It made him glad to be a surgeon, not the poor beleaguered general practitioners or ER doctors like Lark.
“Would you guys like a table, or would you like to stay right here?” asked the bartender, his eyes on Winnie. “I mean, I have to say I’d miss you if you left.”
“What do you think, Satan? Stay here? It’s pretty cozy.”
He had been about to ask for a table, but he paused when she called him Satan. It was growing on him. “Whatever the lady wants,” he said, wondering if he sounded stupid.
“We’ll stay,” she said to the bartender. The bartender handed them dinner menus, winked at Winnie—inappropriate—and left again.
“Did you ever live abroad?” Winnie asked.
“I did a six-month fellowship in Denmark, and two stints with Doctors Without Borders. One in Haiti about five years ago, one in Palestine six months ago.”
“Wow. How long were those?”
“Because I’m a surgeon, the time periods were shorter. Nine weeks in Haiti, seven in Gaza.”
She nodded, looking at him, toying with the toothpick that had held the olives in her martini glass. “Good for you, Lorenzo. I bet you did some great work there. They must’ve peed themselves when you showed up.”
He smiled a little. “Hopefully not.”
“Well, as you like to tell me, you are the shit.”
“I’m quite sure I’ve never used those words.”
“Semantics. Let’s order. If I order spaghetti and meatballs, will you think I’m a peasant? Or, rather, will that reinforce your view of me as a peasant?”
He started to answer, to tell her that her services were quite helpful, he did not regard her as a peasant at all when he realized she was making a joke. “Get whatever you want.”
“Only if you do, too. And I’m not talking about which meal has the highest nutrient count or whatever. Get something you really want. Something that makes your mouth water. I mean, if you can stand to bend the rules for one night, Dr. Santini. You’re already doing so well by ordering a martini.”
She smiled at him, and suddenly, his brain locked. Not because of anything…romantic. Just because Winnie Smith’s smile made her face something he wanted to study. To memorize. She had gone from a somewhat plain-faced woman to utterly…intriguing. Which came as quite a surprise, to say the least.
Chi studia un bel sorriso, dimentica la strada di casa, Noni used to say. He who studies a beautiful smile forgets the way home. A warning. Winnie seemed to be waiting.
What was the question? Ah. Dinner. “I’ll have the lasagna, in that case. I’ll have to run twelve miles tomorrow to pay for it.”
“Or not. You could get a salad, too, which would erase all that delicious cheese and meat.”
“It wouldn’t,” he said.
“No! Really? Then I’ve been lied to my whole life,” she said, smiling again.
Maybe it was the warm and cozy restaurant, or the rain that had started outside, or the gin in his admittedly excellent dirty martini. Maybe it was because the bartender had finally gotten busy enough to leave them alone. Maybe because Winnie Smith was being friendly and cheerful, but Lorenzo was having…a very nice time. A relaxed time in which he was smiling occasionally and asking an attractive woman questions about her life and listening to the answers, mostly interested to hear what she had to say.
And luckily, he told himself, there was no chemistry between them, which would’ve made things complicated and difficult. No, he hadn’t touched her. Unless you counted on the airplane, but he thought he could be excused for that. She’d been in crisis. He had intervened.
