It did sound like Noni. He looked again at Winnie’s papers. No red flags. “Why don’t I hire you for a trial period? Three months, and if you last that long, we can renegotiate.”
“Sounds good.”
That was it? No talk of pay, or time off, or benefits? “Do you have any questions?”
“I don’t. Do you?”
Why would he? “No. I’ll email you a list of your duties and my schedule. For now, you’ll start in Chatham, so plan on being there tomorrow by 8:30 a.m.”
“Will do. Thank you,” she said. She offered her hand, and he was pleased that she had a firm grip. Then she was gone, as matter-of-fact as he could have asked for.
Still…she barely remembered him? That wasn’t something he heard often. Ever, now that he thought of it.
Well. He’d make a list of things he wanted her to handle, and just the thought of not having to buy kale or call a hotel for an upgrade made his shoulders drop a centimeter or two.
THREE
WINNIE
Somebody thinks very highly of himself, doesn’t he? Winnie thought as she drove back to the Cape after the interview. Plus, could they not have done this on Zoom? Instead, she’d had to drive two hours there and three hours back, thanks to the traffic at the Cape Cod Canal. When Lark started fake-dating him, she said that his nickname was Dr. Satan. Dr. Dull was more like it.
This was Winnie’s third encounter with Lorenzo Santini. He had not improved with time.
The first time was when Lark was fake-dating him because he wanted his rude and ancient grandmother to think he was with someone before she died. Which would’ve been sweet…if Lark hadn’t been a doctor down on her luck and Lorenzo someone who could influence her career. Sounded like a power imbalance to Winnie, and she’d said so. But Lark hadn’t actually minded—said it had been kind of fun, really. But Lark was a lot nicer than Winnie.
The second time they’d met him was at Lark and Dante’s wedding, which Winnie had helped plan. Lorenzo had been best man, and Winnie had asked him if he needed anything. He’d said no. His speech had been adequate. Otherwise, they hadn’t interacted.
Today, the third time, cemented her impression that Lorenzo was arrogant, condescending, and as charismatic as a box of old dirt. Yes, yes, he was a brilliant surgeon, but Winnie didn’t need surgery, so she was free to dislike him.
But she did need a job.
When she got back to the little house she was renting from her cousin, she tossed her bag on the counter, changed out of her suit and into shorts and a T-shirt. It was mid-September, the bulk of the tourists gone, the days still warm. She was starving, having ignored the siren song and salty scent of Burger King in Hyannis, The Knack in Orleans, Mac’s Seafood in Eastham and PJ’s in Wellfleet. She was on a tight budget. She also hadn’t been grocery shopping since Fallyn Doane had called her a slut in Stop & Shop last week. For one, slut-shaming was so Boomer. For two, did any of Blakelee’s friends have normal names? (Then again, she was named Windsor, since her mother had been obsessed with Queen Elizabeth.) There in the dairy section, Winnie had stopped cold, turned and stared at Fallyn until the other woman wheeled her cart in the other direction.
But still. It wasn’t fun.
Her cupboards showed cereal and peanut butter. The fridge held a nearly empty bottle of white wine and a stick of butter. A reflection of her soul these days, this empty kitchen. Until two years ago, she’d lived with her parents—not a life goal, but such were the real estate facts of today. The Cape was an expensive market, and rentals were sky-high because of the tourist season. But then Cynthia, their cranky, sixty-something cousin, had gotten married. Winnie asked if she could rent the place from her, and Cynthia, less cranky thanks to her husband, said yes. The house was small and plain—a square, unimaginative cinder-block house, no basement, tiny yard, unrenovated since its construction in the fifties. But it was across the street from Mayo Beach, and Winnie could sit on the lawn chair and stare out into Massachusetts Bay in the crook of the arm-shaped Cape.
If she could afford it, Winnie would buy it, but Cynthia’s little place, once considered a step above a shed, would now be worth close to a million dollars. Maybe more.
Until it had imploded, Simple Celebrations, her event planning business, had been doing well. Not as profitable as it had been when it had been owned by her former boss, Hannah Chapman, who had focused on very high-end weddings. But Winnie had wanted something more down to earth, more homespun, and less luxurious. Events geared to the year-rounders, not the bazillionaires who came to their huge houses for a month a year, or the brides and grooms who came here for their seven-figure weddings. Her business plan was to do more events on lower budgets. It had filled a niche in the market, and Winnie had hit the ground running—a good word from Hannah before she moved to France, the solid Smith family name and her own steady hand, determination and strong work ethic.
And then came Mitchell. Or rather, Tanner.
Winnie was not a romantic at heart. She bore witness to her parents’ enduring love story, saw the solid marriage of Addison and Nicole, was thrilled that Harlow had married the nicest guy in town. She had watched Lark fall for Lorenzo’s much more charming brother, then marveled when Robbie and Rosie got engaged.
All that being said, she held no hopes for herself. She wasn’t the type. She was too practical, too steady, too smart to believe that romance would hit her. She had never swooned. Never really even felt lust, to be honest. Online dating, while still the best way to find a partner, felt about as fun as prison, and the stories she heard were sometimes hilariously awful, sometimes downright scary. So she’d pass. She understood that some people wanted all the feels, the drama and romance. She had never been one of them.
Until Mitchell had placed the appetizers down and smiled at her. They chatted, Winnie not giving out too many details, being addicted to Dateline in both podcast and television forms. When Chef Mitchell Preston returned to the kitchen, she was more interested in his food than in him.
Two minutes later, he was back. “I know I just met you,” he said, “but would you possibly want to, uh…um…meet sometime? You…I…” He blushed. He blushed. “I’d like to get to know you a little more. I…well. This is stupid, but I feel…Jesus, Mitchell, stop talking.” He rolled his eyes at himself, shook his head and said, “Would you like to go out sometime?”
Windsor Smith did not have that effect on men. Ever, and yet this guy was babbling around her. Huh.
“Sure,” she said, more curious than anything. She pulled out her phone, asked for his number, and then sent him a text.
Hi from Winnie.
His face lit up like the sunrise.
