“Prep for surgery, Dr. Cabrera. You’ll be assisting me.” In the OR, she had asked intelligent questions, stood out of the way when appropriate, and adjusted her technique as instructed. And look at her now.
The Dr. Satan approach worked. Forged in the fires of hell, one of his residents had said. Damn right.
Outside of the hospital, he tried (and failed) to avoid thoughts of Winnie. He was unutterably grateful she agreed that it had been a mistake. A mistake that had felt really, really good. That honeyed skin under his mouth, the warm, soft weight of her breast in his hand, the soft, sweet noise she made when he?—
Mistake! It had been a mistake. Period. Luckily, it had happened with the world’s most pragmatic woman.
Nine days after they’d returned from San Francisco, Lorenzo texted Winnie to say he’d be coming to Chatham for the weekend and asked if they could have a meeting when he arrived.
If you’re firing me, just say so now.
I’m not firing you. Why would you think that?
You haven’t communicated with me since we landed.
Because I didn’t need anything other than what you’ve been doing.
He hesitated, then added,
Are you quitting?
No.
Oh, thank God.
Good. I’ll be there around 7, depending on traffic.
See you tomorrow, then. The fridge will be stocked per usual. Text me anything else you might need before then.
A second later, she texted him a picture of his open refrigerator, another of his freezer. It had all the items he usually wanted. He knew also there would be clean linens and towels and the house would be immaculate. Flowers in vases here and there, sometimes in an unexpected place, like his bedside table or on the bathroom vanity.
It was a little hard to remember how he’d operated before Winnie worked for him.
He thought of her smile, how she laughed at something he’d said over that dinner in the little Italian restaurant, even of the lasagna that had been so damn good. He thought of the devil emoji he’d sent. The first time he’d ever sent an emoji, come to think of it. Her silky hair, sliding from her ponytail like a whisper.
Good thing he had a liver transplant in half an hour, so his mind went to easier subjects.
When he pulled into his driveway at 7:14 the following night, it was already dark. He could hear the gentle rush of the waves and inhaled the salty air. The house glowed with light, and an assortment of pumpkins and gourds was artfully arranged on the granite entryway, spilling down the two steps. A wreath made of dried flowers, vines, eucalyptus branches, and seed pods hung on the door. Very tasteful, he thought, though he didn’t usually acknowledge the holidays, other than having a Christmas tree (Douglas fir, white lights only, no decorations).
He paused, considered knocking, reminded himself that it was his house, and went inside. There was a cluster of white candles on the coffee table (in hurricane vases, he was glad to see). The dining room table held three small flower arrangements in a row, brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow. A larger arrangement of the same flowers sat on the marble counter. The bowl that usually held lemons now held red and gold apples.
He opened the freezer. There was a martini glass, chilling. He was tempted to smile.
“Hi.”
He turned, and there she was, wearing jeans and a green sweater, hair in her usual ponytail falling neatly down her back.
“Hello. Would you like a drink?”
“I’m actually planning to go home tonight, so no, thank you.”
He poured himself some Brennevin, then gestured to the living room. “Please have a seat.”
She did. So did he.
He had missed her, he realized.
“The flower arrangements are very seasonal,” he said, feeling an unusual sense of awkwardness. “Which florist did you use?”
