“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Not carved in granite. But probably carved in something else very hard.”
“Marble? Soapstone? Alabaster?”
“This is why you’re the queen of trivia,” Winnie said.
Harlow smiled, then reached out and touched Winnie’s nose with her index finger. “Boop,” she said.
Winnie smiled. Her oldest sister was magical as far as she was concerned. “Okay. Thanks for the talk. Love you.”
“Love you too, honey.”
With that, Winnie left the store, calling goodbye to Destiny. She texted Lark and Addison?—
Harlow said I’m her favorite sister, so suck on that, losers
then resumed her run in the chilly air. Tonight was the Santos anniversary party—the surprise sixty-fifth sweet Mr. Santos was throwing for his wife—and she had to get ready.
The event was at Preservation Hall, the lovely converted church that hosted events, weddings, and classes throughout the year. The guest list was relatively small—the Santos children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and a few longtime friends and neighbors. About thirty people. Mr. Santos had been the only person who hadn’t canceled after she was declared the Outer Cape’s scarlet woman. The only one. And since she’d been making bank as Lorenzo’s assistant, she’d upped the budget for this little party. Better wine, food and flowers, nicer glasses and plates. She’d made a gorgeous bouquet for Mr. Santos to give his bride.
She showered, changed and loaded up her car with the flower arrangements she’d made last night, tablecloths and candles, wine and beer. The caterer was dropping off the food, one of Robbie’s friends would be shucking oysters pulled fresh from the Atlantic this very day.
She didn’t mind working alone. She liked it, even. But she did have to figure out a career. Lorenzo didn’t really need a full-time assistant now that she’d found a house-cleaning service, scheduled window cleaners, rug and furniture steamers, the landscaping service, and a handyman service. Driving into Boston or Chatham to stock his fridge once a week was a bit silly. She could find someone local to do that.
As far as his calendar and travel management and the professional things he covered, she could do that remotely, and it would take a few hours a week at most. She could come to a conference again if he wanted, but after San Francisco, she doubted he would. Not just the sex-with-the-boss stuff. The telling-off-the-other-doctor stuff. The making-a-scene stuff. The trying-to-get-him-to-lighten-up stuff. Had she mentioned the sex-with-the-boss stuff?
Going back to event planning was out, courtesy of her Ice House speech. Florist? She’d have to take some serious classes for that. Maybe down the road, but it wasn’t something she could just waltz into, and it would be very seasonal, as the bulk of Cape Cod weddings happened in the late spring and summer.
She liked being Lorenzo’s PA. Liked his rigorous standards and love of detail. She liked trying to bring a little unexpected warmth into his magazine-worthy home. Seeing his surprise and pleasure at, say, that bottle of Icelandic liquor or the arrangement of gourds had made her heart feel very squishy.
She liked him. Of course she did. He was emotionally unavailable, decidedly single, married to his work, and uncomfortable with people on a personal level. What better choice? At least she’d stopped any fledgling flutterings in their itty bitty tracks. She was too sensible to fall in love with Dr. Satan, even if he was interested. And he had made it clear he was not.
Two hours later, Mrs. Santos was crying happy tears as she danced with her creaky little husband, who stared at her as if it were their wedding day, dazed by his luck. Their kids were taking pictures, grandkids were smiling, the little great-grands dancing, too, yipping like happy puppies.
This would never be her, Winnie thought as she stood in the doorway. She was on track to have many nieces and nephews. She’d never longed to be a mother like Lark and Addie. She’d be the auntie, the childless one, available for babysitting and two desserts. Hopefully, Cynthia would let her rent the house forever, or maybe even leave it to her in her will (dubious, but one could hope). And somehow, she’d find a career that she loved. Maybe she’d move off Cape and wander through the country a bit, hitting all the cities she’d never seen, feeling that thrilling sense of potential.
Except she loved it here. If the current Baby Boomers were any example, her parents would live to be a hundred, and she could picture herself living with them, fixing their soup and taking them to various doctor appointments until she herself was an old woman, at which point her nieces and nephews would have to step up and at least visit her and arrange for her chin to be plucked. She’d have a series of increasingly smelly dogs. It didn’t sound awful.
Speaking of dogs, poor Fluffina had appeared on the beach in Chatham the other day, her soft white fur dull and full of tiny burrs. Without a person to call, Winnie decided to take her into Lorenzo’s house (what he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him). She washed and brushed the dog, blew her dry then spent another hour cleaning the bathroom (how much fur could a dog have? Good lord!). She called the town and left a message with Animal Control, asking if they might know who the owner was. Finally, she let Fluffina out, followed her down the beach until the dog had dashed off to her home. Winnie just wished they didn’t leave her alone outside for so long.
“Winnie? What are you doing here?”
The voice startled her out of her grim reverie. It was Blakelee Johnson, dressed to kill in a velvet, tightfitting dress, a single and very chunky diamond pendant hitting the space between her collarbones. Was Mitchell-Tanner here? If Winnie saw him, would she be able to stop herself from punching him in the face? Dubious.
“I’m here with the kids,” Blakelee said, correctly interpreting Winnie’s face. “Why are you here?”
“I’m the party planner,” Winnie said.
“I’m surprised they hired you.”
“Well, they hired me before you—before Nycholiss’s birthday.” She eyed Blakelee warily. “I take it you’re related to the Santoses?”
“The groom, so to speak, is my great-uncle,” Blakelee said.
“A very sweet man.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Blakelee scowled. “Look, Winnie. Uncle Tomas told me you charged them a hundred bucks for this. Is that true?”
“That’s right,” she said.
