He loved his family. But God, he was tired. He texted to ask her to move it to Sunday so at least he could have a couple of days of down time…well, time to work on that suture he wanted to finish. But she ignored his messages, as did mothers everywhere when they didn’t want their children to dodge their plans.
When he drove home on Thursday, it was a physical relief to walk into his house. He loved his Boston apartment, but this…this was home. Winnie had been there—the thermostats were set at the exact temperature he liked. A few vases of white roses and eucalyptus leaves cheered the place up. In the kitchen, on a cake platter covered by a glass dome, were a dozen chocolate chip cookies with a note: Live a little, Satan.
He was running out of things for Winnie to do. The dinner cruise was all set, and it seemed that people were looking forward to it. The holidays were around the corner—his least favorite time of year, with all the tacky décor in the hospital, the constant bleating of Christmas carols sung by pop stars of varying talent, the pressure to have fun and accept invitations. He could probably foist off some gift-buying and check-writing duties on her—he had to give gifts to his surgical team, the med/surg nurses, his family. Come January, though, he wondered if she’d want to move on. She was the type to want a purpose, a project.
But for now, she was still his personal assistant.
Hm. Maybe she could assist him tomorrow night at his family dinner. In a rare move, he called her number, rather than send a text.
“Hello?” she said.
“I need some help at an event tomorrow night. A dinner.”
“Hello to you, too, and where is this dinner? Boston or Chatham?” she asked.
“Chatham. Can you be here by five?”
“I can, Dr. Santini, in that I have the ability to drive there by the appointed hour. Shall I make that commitment?”
He felt himself smile. “Are you making fun of my grammar?”
“I am.”
He was a little surprised by the burst of warmth in his chest. “Yes, please make that commitment, Ms. Smith.” He hesitated, not quite wanting to hang up. “The cookies were unnecessary. I’ll probably throw them out.”
“How dare you? Have you had one? To taste one is to know God.”
“I’m an atheist.” That warmth increased pleasantly.
“I don’t believe that for one second. Is there a dress code for dinner?”
“Yes. Look nice.”
“I always look nice. You, on the other hand, have resting bitch face. Have a great night.” She ended the call.
Yes. He was definitely smiling. He looked at the cookies again. There was absolutely nothing that was good for a human in those ingredients. He took the lid off, picked one up and inhaled the scent of chocolate and butter and some kind of nut. Peanut butter, maybe? That would explain the lighter-colored chips.
One bite wouldn’t kill him. He closed his eyes as the flavors flooded his mouth. Maybe he didn’t know God, but damn. That was a good cookie. Gone before he knew it.
Another one wouldn’t kill him.
The next evening, Winnie arrived at the requested time, an hour before his mother had ordered him to come. “Hi! How are you?” For a second, he thought they might hug. They’d saved a child’s life together, after all. They’d hugged that night.
But the moment passed. Her hair was in its usual smooth ponytail, and for a second, he remembered how it had felt to tug her hair free and slide his hands through it. How it fell like water down her back, how it smelled like flowers and rosemary, how it had felt brushing against his face when she’d rolled on top of him?—
“What?” he asked.
“How are you, Lorenzo?” she repeated patiently, tilting her head.
“Fine.” She wore a sack-like brown knit dress with darker brown boots. A sloppily tangled necklace of pearls and gold strands looked like a child had made it. She wore pearl earrings and a gold ring on her index finger. When had she started dressing with such…flair? “You look…”
“Great?” she suggested. “Lovely? Warm?”
“I didn’t buy that for you,” he said.
“You want to hear something crazy? I owned clothes before I met you. I also shop for myself occasionally.”
“I know that. Obviously. You just look…different.” He should stop talking now.
