He paused. “I thought you’d be staying here. Aren’t contractors coming over tomorrow?”
“You can’t handle that yourself?”
“Winnie, the entire point of your employment is so I don’t have to handle those things myself. You can go back to Wellfleet if you want, but it’ll be a forty-five-minute drive each way. What time are the contractors coming?”
She paused. “Eight-thirty and nine.”
“And were you planning to stay here if I was still in Boston?”
“Yes.”
“Then stay. You have your own quarters, don’t you? Have you chosen a bedroom yet?” She’d slept here for the past two nights, according to her notes.
“The smaller one downstairs,” she said. “Overlooking the beach.”
“Well. Do what you want. It doesn’t matter to me, as long as you’re back here before the contractors come.”
She got up, then sat back down. “Fine. I’ll stay. My car is electric, so I have to pop into town and charge it, anyway.”
“Your car is also rather ugly. Would you mind parking in the garage?”
She gave him that look again, irritated and falsely patient. “Sure. I’ll leave you to your evening, then, and I’ll come back around…” She glanced at her watch, an inexpensive, Luddite kind, with hands and no access to the internet. “Around seven. Text if you need me.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”
SIX
WINNIE
She was not enjoying her evening.
She’d gone into town, plugged in Chief Brody, her beloved electric car, and killed some time walking down Main Street as it charged. She’d just been in town this morning, so she didn’t need anything, though the smells of garlic and seafood were wicked hard to resist. But good food in a nice restaurant reminded her of Mitchell. Her steps slowed as she passed a restaurant. There, seated at a window, was a couple about her age, smiling, talking. The woman reached out to touch the back of the man’s hand, and they laughed about something.
She’d been like that. It was as alien as picturing herself living on Mars.
Just a couple of weeks ago, she’d pictured asking Mitchell to come as her date to Robbie and Rosie’s wedding. She’d gone solo to her three sisters’ weddings, happily so. But in this case, she’d imagined telling her family that yes, she’d been seeing someone, maybe it was getting serious, then fending off the barrage of questions that would follow. He’d come to dinner at Addie and Nicole’s to meet everyone a few weeks before the big day, and his warm brown eyes would meet hers across the table. He’d see her as special, even in that happy, unruly mob.
One night about two months ago, he’d made her a late dinner at his barren condo, and he’d dropped a kiss on her shoulder as he passed by on his way to the stove. So much feeling—warm, gooey, hot-chocolatey love—bubbled up in her chest, and she took a breath, then hesitated. Do it, Winnie, she told herself. He’s special. Don’t be so wary all the time. Don’t blow it.
“I never believed all this really happened,” she said.
“Believed all what happened, honey?” Mitchell asked.
Honey. Her blood slowed and thickened to that same substance, thick and golden and sweet.
“Love,” she said, blushing. Yes. She, Windsor Eleanora Smith, had brought up the subject of love. Had implied that she loved Mitchell Prescott before he had implied he loved her.
“It’s definitely happening with me,” he said, and then clothes were basically flying through the air, and they were laughing, and one of them was lying and the other was an idiot.
How long would it take for these memories to stop mugging her? She gave herself a mental shake and kept walking, past the great smells, the little bookstore, the churchyard with the darkest blue hydrangeas she’d ever seen, then made her way back to Chief Brody, who was now sufficiently charged at 62%, more than enough to get her back to Wellfleet tomorrow.
When she returned to Lorenzo’s, she pulled her completely acceptable-looking-if-not-adorable car into his garage, eyed the Lamborghini with disdain and then walked across the yard to the back entrance to her quarters, as Lorenzo had called them. The nicest servants’ quarters in history, probably. Lorenzo clearly didn’t come down here to watch TV, since there was no place to sit. What a waste. It would be amazing to watch a Patriots game down here.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Robbie.
Hey, winona, what r u doing? want company?
Her mouth tugged. Robbie liked to pretend he was as deep as a piece of paper, but she knew better. She remembered how he cried when their oldest sister went to college, how he’d confided his adolescent love for Rosie to her (and only her, a secret she’d kept until two years ago). He’d bonded so easily with Matthew, the son Harlow had put up for adoption, and his deep friendship and love for Grandpop were totally pure. Granted, they all worshipped Grandpop, but he and Robbie were a fixture. Who else asked their grandfather to be best man?
