Winnie stood in the back, near the exit, and she was looking at him. She pointed to her mouth and smiled, wordlessly instructing him to do the same.
A mild panic wrapped in coldness gripped his chest. A cartoon? Humor? In his presentation? It was so unprofessional. The laughter was confusing, so out of context during one of his lectures. Winnie pointed more vigorously to her bared teeth.
Di’ qualcosa, idiota, he heard his grandmother’s voice saying. Not that she ever called him idiot, but yes, he should speak.
“Just one more reason to leave your phones in your lockers,” he said, his voice neutral. Another laugh rippled through the crowd. “Moving on to metabolic failure.”
FOURTEEN
WINNIE
Winnie was pumped. Talk about the perfect icebreaker for Dr. Satan, especially after he’d burned Dr. Jackson so spectacularly. The cartoon had done its job—made Lorenzo seem like he didn’t take himself too seriously every second of every day.
Since he didn’t have anything else on his schedule for the rest of the day and had responded “no” when she texted to see if he’d need anything from her this afternoon, Winnie decided to see a little more of San Francisco. She let Lorenzo know, then changed into the jeans she’d bought yesterday and a sweater. She found a bike at one of those city-wide rental stands and set off for Golden Gate Park. The botanical gardens were beautiful, and she stopped often to wander down a path. The bridge sprawled across the bay, the sky so blue against the soaring, orange beauty. She got a hot dog, then decided to ride across the bridge, the cars whizzing past, pedestrians stopping for selfies so often she nearly hit them (and occasionally regretted missing them).
On the other side, she rode up to the Marin Headlands and sat, the sun warm. It was beautiful, so…ethereal, almost. In another life, Winnie could picture herself living here. Or maybe even in this life. Her gig with Lorenzo was temporary, after all. She’d never imagined leaving the Cape, but that was probably because she’d never really left the Cape. In fact, this trip was the furthest she’d ever been from home.
Note to self: travel more. With what Lorenzo was paying her, maybe she could sock away some money for a trip.
She saw a low cloud coming in off the sea—the legendary fog! It rolled and tumbled, and the blue sky was abruptly blotted out, the temperature dropping ten degrees. Carefully, she rode back to the bridge and across, the fog so thick now she couldn’t see the northbound traffic. She went to Ghirardelli Square, opted against chocolate and bought an ice cream sundae instead, as well as a sweatshirt, since she was now officially cold.
She texted some pictures to the family chat, then called Grandpop, who was delighted to hear from her, and Mom and Dad, too, because she was feeling beneficent and maybe wanted to let them know how cool she, the unremarkable daughter, was. On a business trip to San Fran, yes. Very busy and important. Not that they’d ever voiced any disappointment in her, but it was still fun to show off a little bit.
Nothing from Lorenzo. For some reason, a small quiver of unease shot through her. But no, it was good that he didn’t need anything. He’d smashed it today, in both his panel discussion and his solo presentation. And he had colleagues to meet and other talks to attend and all that. Probably a lunch or dinner. Tomorrow was more of the same, though Lorenzo had no speaking obligations, and they’d head home the day after that.
The fog rolled back out, and the sun set gently, the sky pale gold before fading to violet. She pulled off her new sweatshirt, tucked it in the bike’s basket, and rode down Lombard Street, as one does in the City by the Bay. All around her, lights went on, and it was the most extraordinary feeling—she, Winnie Smith, comfortably wandering through a strange city.
Life was full of surprises. And life could unfold in all sorts of unfamiliar ways. Like so many people her age, she had never assumed she’d find a solid job, stay there for a couple of decades, earn enough to buy a house and go on vacations. Getting by would be a great accomplishment. But leaning into the unexpected, taking a swerve off a path…for whatever reason, she had never thought of herself as one of those people.
But here she was, with her highly respected boss in a city she’d only seen in movies, wandering through the unfamiliar streets and reveling in the newness of it all.
She had never thought of herself as someone who would be dressed in a starkly beautiful outfit, wearing red lipstick. Someone who might bike through one of the most beautiful cities in the world, let alone someone who was staying at an iconic hotel in a room that had a view of the famous bridge. Someone who’d had dinner at a cute Italian restaurant, who was good at her job…not just good. Maybe great, she thought, thinking of Lorenzo’s hangover this morning, the laughter over the cartoon during his presentation.
Eventually, she returned her bike to a BayWheels station. Grace Cathedral was closed, but the outdoor labyrinth was open to the public, and she walked it, hoping she was being contemplative enough. Then she headed back to the hotel. As she walked down California Street, a young man flew past on a skateboard. “Hey, mamí,” he said. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” He made a kissing noise as he whizzed past her. He was maybe sixteen years old.
“Thank you, papí,” she called, grinning. She actually felt rather beautiful today.
Well. It was seven-thirty, and she wasn’t exactly hungry, but she wanted to wear that little black dress. Up to her room she went, took a quick shower, and got dressed.
Damn. The dress was killer. Maybe that kid on the skateboard was right. With her red lipstick and lovely high-heeled shoes (high for her, at least), she felt…confident. Pleased. Pulled together and sophisticated. Having three gorgeous older sisters, she’d always felt that “clean” was about as much as she could pull off.
Tonight, she felt…well…different.
She pulled her hair back into its neat, tight ponytail, looked at herself for another second in the mirror. Yep. Butter on bacon, as Grandpop would say. Then she slid her credit card and room key into her pocket (because the dress had pockets!) and went down to the lobby. No one was there, and the terrace room that had served as the bar was now mostly empty.
“Looking for the other surgeons?” asked a staff member.
“I guess so, yes,” she said.
“They’re upstairs.”
“What’s upstairs?”
The man smiled. “The Top of the Mark. One of the most famous bars in America. Best views of the city in all of San Francisco.”
“Okay, then. Thank you.”
“Enjoy your evening, Doctor,” the man said.
